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I wonder if you could talk Matt Murdock into training his focus by letting you take him into your mouth while he tries to work out.
I think he'd let you.
He'd try to count at first, choking out numbers from between grit teeth, his skin soaked in sweat, as you purr and suck at his cock like the best type of candy.
He'd manage pretty well, until you took him deeper. Then he'd lose track of his count entirely, eyes gone glassy and dark, his mouth hanging slack.
There'd be chips in the floor afterwards, a result of dropped weights.
But it wouldn't stop then, either. Nor would it stop when he comes with a sharp, stuttered moan, the result of a little flick of your tongue under the head.
It would only end when he finished his workout, because you care about his fitness of course.
"Fuck, sweetheart, I-I'm—"
"What's the count, Matty?"
"I..."
"Aw, did you forget? Guess we'll have to start again..."
The Library of Pastaxandria has recorded for its archives: Chapter 164 of The Red Thread.
Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Chapter Summary:
"I mean, you can tell them who you are if you want everyone in a five-block radius to mob you for photos like a flock of seagulls going for a toddler's french fries." You peered at him over the top of your sunglasses. "And then I'd have to try to run away to avoid said photographers."
"With how you've been moving all morning, I'm not even sure you can run." He arched a brow. "You look more like someone I should carry off the battlefield while calling for a medic."
"Are you mocking me, flag man?"
"Only a little."
Or: In which you and Steve Rogers discuss a few things, and a deal is made that absolutely won't come up later.
Wordcount: 5.1k
Warnings for this chapter: Lack of Matt in this chapter, so sorry! But he'll be back in the next one!
Read me on AO3 where Steve is at the beach and wondering when corndogs became so expensive
Tunatober Day 3: "Deep Beneath The Water" (Matt Murdock x GN!Reader)
Based on my Tunatober Day 3 Angst prompt: kissing old scars + therapy with Matt Murdock. This one deals with Matt's depression so it's a bit dark, and I used a lot of my own recent experiences with how it feels for inspo, but there is comfort there too.
Ship: Matt Murdock x GN!Reader
Wordcount: 2.2k
Warnings for this fic: Matt's dealing with a bout of his depression here so depression warning obviously, thoughts of hopelessness, hurt/comfort, discussions of medication and therapy, drowning imagery, references to some of the horrible shit Matt stops at night (arson, attempted murder of a family), scars and injuries
Fic Summary: When that dark wave comes to pull him under, all he can do is cling to you like a life ring.
He was always fine, right up until the wave took him under.
That was the way it usually went for him, though, wasn't it?
A breath of air for a day, a week, a few months, a year if he was lucky. And then—
Crash.
Under he went.
In the way that dusk so inevitably followed dawn, so too were the brief moments of peace in Matt's life followed by a sense of despondency, by a hopeless, inescapable void of dark water that pulled him beneath the surface. He'd managed over the years to find at least some of the triggers, able to spot the earthquakes that set the waters in motion. But some months, some days, they just… came from nowhere, came despite a calm, placid sea, these rogue waves that roared over him before he had a chance to take so much as a gulp of air.
There was no predicting them fully. All he knew was that, eventually, no matter how long it had been since the last time, the wave came again.
And again.
And again.
Always.
He wasn't stupid, or as clueless about this as Foggy and Karen probably thought. He'd done his reading, had done the research, had listened to the doctors and the nuns as a teenager. "Likely genetic, when looking at your family history." He knew what this was. In a better life there'd be medication that didn't send his hypersensitive body into a tailspin, and therapists he could pour himself out to without any risk of getting them killed.
But that wasn't his life.
There was only this one, and the crashing waves that came and went without rhythm, driven by winds and God and a butterfly's wings on the other side of the world.
He'd gotten good at hiding when he was in the middle of it, at least—hiding when the cold waters had risen again to choke him on bitter hopelessness and thick, black silt that filled his lungs and numbed his mind. He took on every case that stumbled into Nelson and Murdock's doorstep; laughed and drank at Josie's with Foggy and Karen; threw himself at every robber and murderer he could find on the street. He treated them all like bits of wreckage, like floating bits of wood on an open sea, because maybe if he moved fast enough, held on tight enough, the wave wouldn't take him under fully this time. He couldn't afford to sink, to drown, not when there were so many others waiting for him to go back and pull them up, too.
The frantic pace helped a little. At the very least it made him feel less useless as he waited for the storm to pass.
But it still left him drained, his body and mind so very tired from hiding how close he was to drowning. You were the only one who saw it, and only because there was no way to keep it from you.
"What's this one from?" you asked him one night, as he lay on his side in bed, unmoving in your arms where he'd curled up seeking some glimmer of comfort. You traced the ridge of an old scar across his hip, ragged and uneven, bared where his sweats had edged down. He wondered if that scar was pale yet, a ripple of silver, like a lightning bolt. His dad had always said his old scars would look like that eventually, but Matt had never seen any on his father's hands that stayed closed long enough to be anything but red and raw. And then he'd seen nothing at all.
Did he have more scars than his dad, now? Surely he did, on his knuckles at least.
What a fucking disappointment he was.
"Knife," he said distantly, flatly. There was never any energy left in him by the time he crawled into bed at the end of the night. Not when he spent most of the day, the night desperately trying to reach the surface of the water he'd sunk beneath. The things he'd read online never talked about how truly exhausting this whole process was. "Mugger in an alley. I think. It was a while ago. I don't really remember. Most of the scars all sort of blend together now."
You were quiet for a long moment, tracing up his side, following a carved map of old wounds and freckles he couldn't see, and never would. If you were bothered by his moods, by these waves, by the empty husk he became—because that's surely what he was, a scarred animal hide filled with thick black water and silt, nothing pleasant, nothing worth talking to—you'd never let it show. It had terrified him the first time you'd seen him like this. It still did, when he had the energy for that kind of emotion. How could you not get sick of this, of him, of waves that always, always came back? But at the moment, there was just… distant relief at the way he didn't need to pretend he felt better than he did; relief that he could just be… empty.
"This one's not healing great, though. I need to keep an eye on it," you murmured, brushing your thumb along a healing gash on his ribs. The skin there was sore, irritated and raw. The wound was in a bad spot, a place that pulled far too much when he was moving and swinging, a place he'd been cut before. Unfortunate. Scar tissue was never as strong as unbroken skin, weaker and more prone to tearing, and so it had beneath the fresh wound that had been layered over it a month ago, tear upon tear, split upon split, a scar for a scar.
This was the third time since then that he'd almost opened it up again.
"It's fine," he said, tone empty. A lie, one even he recognized, but an important one.
"Is it?"
He blinked slowly at the darkness that felt like deep water. Barely twitched when he felt the gentle, tender brush of your lips against the old scar on his hip. He hadn't bothered to dress in anything more than a pair of boxers, his skin raw and buzzing from the rubbing of cloth all day, his body an open wound soaked in saltwater. Your touch hurt a little, too, though he'd never tell you just in case it made you stop. He needed the comfort of your touch more than he cared about the pain.
"Matt?"
Was it fine?
"Yes."
Because he had to be. There was no other choice.
"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked. There was no pressure in it, no force.
The sharp smell of smoke appeared in his nose, phantom-like, ash hanging heavy on his tongue. He thought of a grandfather with a match and a sleeping family he'd rather die with than be forced to live without; thought of a swung fireplace poker that seemed to come from nowhere thanks to a sensory map distorted by roaring flames and waves of heat, burning his skin because he hadn't had time to run home and put his suit on.
"No," he said.
He'd gotten the family out.
Most of them.
Another kiss, soft and tender, near the healing line of his ribs. Not directly on it; it was too fresh for that.
"I wish I could reach the scars you have inside," you said softly, turning your head until the air currents above him stirred. He thought you were glancing up at his face. He didn't bother to stretch his senses out to confirm it, not even sure he could when he was this tired. The warmth of you at his back was all that mattered. "Sometimes I think they worry me more than the ones on the outside, with what you go through as the Devil. They're a bit harder to heal."
He remembered his father's hands and scars that never had time to mend, not when they were opened up again night after night. Was that what he looked like inside? Just... a mass of wounds that never had a chance to scar over before they were torn open again?
"Sometimes I wonder if they'll ever heal." It was a gloomy thought, but a real one, one that wandered in and out of his mind like an unwelcome guest when he was like this, like a passing shark stopping to take a few bites from the body struggling to make it to the surface. "I try to beat this when it comes, but nothing seems to work or stop it no matter how hard I fight it. It always just… there's nothing I can do. Nothing left to try."
"For what it's worth, there are more options than you had when you were younger. Most of which will feel more achievable when you come out of this low." You set your chin over his shoulder, spooning more comfortably up against his back. He was never sure if the cuddling made things better, but it kept him from sinking any further into the dark, which was always nice. "But I also know it doesn't feel like anything will work when you're deep in it. Still, the reminder is important. This wave will pass like all the rest, just like every time before, and then we can try something new. And we'll keep trying until we figure it out."
Trying something new.
He hadn't bothered in years, not since college.
He quirked a lip, vaguely sardonic. "Hope's a little hard to locate when you're depressed and can't even see sunlight."
"That's the darkest blind joke you've made yet, no pun intended," you huffed quietly in his ear, not put off by the flat, cynical tone in the slightest. "Well done."
"Thank you."
You lay there with him for some time after that, just breathing with him, your fingers skating up and down his arm. It was soothing, rhythmic, and his eyes fell half-closed, drifting into a bizarre sort of haze as he accepted that this was where he'd be for the rest of the night. You'd made sure he'd eaten earlier, for all that he had no appetite, for all that he'd fought you; made sure he'd showered, too, and put clean sheets on the bed for him, so there was nothing to irritate his skin and make this feeling worse. He was… comfortable, at least, held in your arms as he waited for sleep, for dawn, for something, and that was no small thing.
But then, you knew, first-hand, what these moods were like, what it was like to feel like you were drowning, and how the little things could add up until it was just the tiniest bit easier to breathe. It felt as if you'd taken some air from the surface in your lungs and brought it down to gift to him until he could make it there himself. You'd dealt with your own waves, learning through experience, through trial and error, but you'd also been through the gauntlet when it came to… those other options you'd mentioned. Ones that had helped you in the long-run, even if there'd been rough patches he'd had to talk you through, hold you through, just like you were doing for him now.
"What would it even look like?" he asked, his eyes fluttering faintly as you ran your fingers through his hair.
"Hm?"
"What would it…" He rolled his head on the pillow, tired but restless, irritated he'd even asked when there wasn't a point. "Nevermind."
"You can't leave me hanging like that," you snorted, sounding amused.
"It's not an option."
"You don't get to decide that, Mr. Low Serotonin. Not right now at least. Your brain can't be trusted when it's being a lying little bitch."
"Funny."
"You know I'm right. I'll put a braille post-it note up for you, too. Don't think I won't." You propped your head up with your hand, lifting your hand that had been on his hip to continue playing with his hair, slow strokes of your nails along his scalp that would have had him purring if he'd had the energy for it. "Let me guess. What would it look like if you… tried a few of those options? Some medication like mine, or therapy?"
"I don't even know how it would work," he said after a long moment as you combed through his hair. "With my senses, antidepressants would just throw me off. And anyone I talked to…"
"Didn't you and Foggy represent that one therapist, the enhanced one?" You cocked your head. "Alters her own memory so she can't remember her patients outside sessions? Supposed to be she's safe to be seen by… well, usually other mutants. But I suspect she wouldn't have a problem seeing a vigilante. She's an option."
"It would still be dangerous," he said tiredly, as you wound your way back around him, nuzzling against the back of his neck. He wished he could give you more back than this, more than just dead weight floating in the dark beneath the sea. Yet still, he worked up just enough strength to pull your arm in tighter around him, holding on as best he could even when his very bones ached. "You know it is, telling someone about what I do. Being… being open about it."
And there was no point, no point to therapy if he couldn't be honest, couldn't hold in the open his darker side, his life at night where so much pain, so many scars came from.
"I know," you said thoughtfully. "It's not that I don't get it. But you going out every night is dangerous too."
"What's that got to do with it?"
You tapped one finger meaningfully against one of the scars on his chest. "The point is that some people just... accept the risk if it means helping someone else. She might be one of them, just like you."
"I'm not worth it."
You clucked your tongue. "I'm not letting you get away with that one. Reframe that one like I have to with mine. Fair's fair."
He gave the tiniest snort, but it worked. "Fine. My brain is telling me I'm not worth it."
"Better. And yet again, your brain is being a lying ass because it's hurt right now." You tucked your legs up behind his, squeezing his hand when he tangled your fingers together—a life jacket, a life ring he clung to, that kept his fingers touching air even when all the rest of him had been dragged under. "You don't have to decide right now. But think about it, as you start to come out of this one. For me."
He sighed, but didn't argue. "...You think it will work?"
You pressed a kiss to one of the faded scars along his back as his eyes dropped closed, finding something like peace as he drifted off to the comfort and reassurance of your voice.
"I think at the very least," you said softly, "it will make things better, help you float until we find a ship that can pull you out of the water entirely. Sometimes that's what counts when you're drowning."
Days passed in the dark, in the deep.
A week.
Two.
And then—
The wave eased, just like you'd promised.
His hand touched air.
He breathed again.
Dawn after dusk.
"Did you make that call?" You traced your fingers across the old scars just beneath his collarbones, two clean lines left by Nobu's blade. "I saw it on the calendar."
"Mhm," he said sleepily, rolling over to face you, laying one arm over your hip. He was still tired, still treading water, but that was easier to do when he could get the air into his lungs. "Just a consult, so I can test her out. See if she's as safe as everyone says."
"Good. I'm proud of you." You leaned over to press your lips to the marks you'd just traced, before glancing down and making another soft noise of approval.
"Hm?" he mumbled.
"That one on your ribs is finally starting to make some progress." You brushed your fingers around the mark, the edges raised and bumpy, tattered and uneven. But unlike before, most of the soreness was gone now, the skin no longer hot and irritated. It wouldn't fade, not for some time. But it was a start. "Told you. It always gets better eventually."
"I'll just get another one like it next week, sweetheart."
"And that one will heal, too." You carded your fingers through his hair, and this time your lips brushed against his. He couldn't help but draw in the sweet warmth and air you gifted to him, pulling your breath deep into his lungs. "Won't it?"
Tunatober, Day 2: "Scout's Honor" (Bob Reynolds x F!Reader, Smut 🔥)
Based on my Tunatober Day 2 prompt: premature ejaculation and hair pulling.
Ship: Bob Reynolds x F!Reader
Wordcount: 2.6k
Warnings for this fic: smut obviously, hair pulling (gentle), Bob's fairly subby here cause we love us a good boy getting wrecked, premature ejaculation, coming in clothes, lots of grinding, Bob's got an unexplored oral fixation, Bob's eyes glow when he comes I don't make the rules, Reader's got a vagina
Fic Summary: "His lips tasted like chai, like cinnamon, and a little like the White Rabbit vanilla candies he kept tucked away in the pocket of the recliner. You couldn't help but savor the sweetness of it, and the now-familiar heat of his breath in your mouth.
But the kiss didn't stay slow, stay sweet for long."
It was a rare afternoon that you and Bob had the Tower to yourselves.
"It's just a simple track and retrieve, we don't need the whole team for this," Yelena had said as she'd stepped into the elevator, waving one hand dismissively. The rest of the team was already up at the Quinjet and waiting "We have this handled. You stay, do the cuddling thing with Bob, enjoy yourselves. Just don't break any furniture."
"We'll probably just do some reading, maybe watch a movie," you said casually, before holding up your fingers. "Scout's honor. No broken furniture."
Though you had every intention of breaking Bob's brain a little, if he'd let you.
The two of you had been taking your relationship slowly and carefully, each step forward only happening once he'd decided he was ready. The last thing you wanted to do was rush him, or make him feel like his own comfort didn't matter. You wanted him to feel comfortable, to feel safe, and that took time. But you also couldn't help but feel like you'd both have gotten past the heated makeout stage a month ago if the Tower wasn't so goddamn full of people.
You loved your little found family. You knew Bob did too. But sometimes, you just wanted some privacy and the chance to see if you couldn't fuck your insanely attractive, superpowered boyfriend absolutely senseless.
And now, fortunately, here you were.
No arguments in the other room that shattered the mood.
No shouted announcements that an impromptu movie night was about to begin.
No one to open the fucking door right when you'd slipped your hand up an eager Bob's shirt and his slack face was turning the prettiest shade of pink you'd ever seen.
Just you.
And an unsuspecting Bob, tucked away in his little reading nook.
Perfect.
You took your time, though, like any good hunter. There was no rush today, not when everyone wasn't due back for at least another six hours. Instead, you enjoyed the rare moment of quiet as you whipped up a couple drinks for you and Bob—cinnamon roll chai lattes today. It was a flavor he'd tried at a local coffee shop and loved, and it hadn't been hard to find a similar recipe online. Once you were done, with a healthy dollop of marshmallow foam on top for you both, you took both mugs and wandered over to the corner of the common area that had been unofficially designated as Bob's space, a massive leather recliner set low to the ground, along with a few small bookshelves and a little table, all of it positioned right in front of the massive windows so he could look out at the city if he wanted. You made sure to make a little noise, scuffing your feet, taking a wide circle into his line of sight to try to avoid sneaking up on him.
The second you came into view, he blinked and glanced up, still a little startled despite the way you'd tried to make sure he'd heard you. The book must have been good if he'd missed it, hypersensitive to the tread of footsteps when he was sitting and unable to quickly dart away. But his startlement quickly gave way to warmth, his eyes brightening, a smile lighting up his face. You'd never get tired of the way he looked at you.
"Hey, I didn't hear you," he chirped. "For me?"
"Mhm. Cinnamon roll chai for that sweet tooth of yours." You offered him his drink.
He reached for his bookmark, smoothly slipping it between the pages and setting the book over on the end table next to him before gratefully taking the mug from you. He also scooted over a few inches to the side, leaving just enough room for you to squeeze in next to him in the plush leather recliner, careful not to spill your drink. You still weren't sure how he'd managed to find a recliner this big, one that could technically fit two if those two were very comfortable with each other. You wound up pressed tight up against the burning heat of his side, once again reminded of the reason why you'd taken to wearing shorts when cuddling with him, regardless of the season. He draped one heavy arm around your shoulders, and you leaned into him, the two of you familiar with just how to make this particular tight space work. He let out a sigh, as if finally at peace, and only then did he turn to his drink.
One sip from him and you knew you'd gotten it right, his brow furrowing in delight, a low moan rumbling up out of his chest.
Fuck.
That was a nice sound.
Were you wet already?
You drummed your fingers against your own mug and stared ahead out the glass at the city, taking a sip to cover up the way you really just wanted to throw both drinks to the side and mount Bob right there in the chair. "Good?"
"Always." He turned his head and nuzzled at your hair. It had taken a little time for him to become less anxious over being so openly affectionate with you, so very starved for it but convinced he'd be rejected if he reached for it, or that he was asking for too much, being needy. Just to reward him, you turned your head to kiss his chin, and he practically purred next to you, kissing your forehead in return. "I don't know how you do it but yours is even better than the stuff at the coffee shop. Spicier, and with more cinnamon."
"I may or may not make adjustments based on your flavor preferences." You tipped your head back to stare up at him, sweeping your eyes over the fall of his tangled curls, the soft sweep of his mouth. You didn't miss the way his eyes briefly darted down to the low hem of your tank-top, lingering on the curve of your breasts before they shot back up, the faintest bit of pink appearing on his cheeks.
God help you, but you wanted to wreck this man.
"What are you reading?" you asked calmly.
He seemed thrown by the question, stuttering as he glanced back over at his book. "Oh, u-uh, just—it's Dracula? It seemed right for October."
You hummed, setting your drink down on the floor next to the recliner. "Are you at a particularly exciting part?"
"I mean, sort… oh," he breathed as you took his drink from his hand to set down beside yours. "Oh. Yeah, no, it-it can wait. It can definitely wait. I'm fine with getting back to it later."
"Good." You rose up and then swung your leg over him, settling atop his broad thighs. His hands quickly found their way to to the curve of your waist, edging up under your shirt just enough that you felt the heat of his fingertips on your skin. "Because we…" You trailed your hand up his cheek dangerously slowly, and his eyes fluttered, the long line of him shivering beneath you. Always so responsive to your touch, so sensitive. "…are truly alone for the first time in weeks. You may have noticed that."
"I might have. But I didn't… I-I didn't want to assume anything." He swallowed hard, the deep blue of his eyes gradually darkening as he met your gaze.
You slid your fingers up into his hair, tangling in the messy curls and strands, and his breath quickly grew shaky, his hands tightening at your hips.
"Consider this your green light," you whispered. "Wanna kiss me?"
He nodded eagerly, one of his hands leaving your hip to cup your face. And as you leaned in, he met your lips halfway.
The kiss started as something slow and endlessly, achingly tender, a soft little sigh of relief drifting from Bob's lips to yours. Kisses with him often started that way—hesitancy followed by reverence, as if he were always prepared for you to push him away, and equally grateful for the reminder that you wanted this as much as he did. His lips tasted like chai, like cinnamon, and a little like the White Rabbit vanilla candies he kept tucked away in the pocket of the recliner. You couldn't help but savor the sweetness of it, and the now-familiar heat of his breath in your mouth.
But it didn't stay slow, stay sweet for long.
Because Bob?
Bob was greedy.
You felt the faint brush, the heat of his tongue against your lips before long, and you quickly parted your lips. The moment stretched like a film slowed to half-speed, your lips parted against his as you waited, breath mingling in the open space between. There was something dangerously indulgent about the way his gaze met yours and held, his eyes hanging half-closed, the faintest edge of liquid gold eating away at the deep blue. Then he gradually slipped his tongue forward into your mouth, dragging it slickly against yours.
The wet sound of it was filthy.
Your hands shot up into his hair, making him groan beneath as you leaned into the kiss. In a breath, the crush of your lips to his grew desperate, your paired moans filling the air with heat. His grip on your hip, on your cheek was almost frantic as he breathlessly chased after your lips again and again, chased the sound of your growing gasps, the wet noises drowned out by the roaring drumbeat of your heart in your ears, finally, finally. He was just as hungry for this as you were, aching for it, yearning for it, and now? There was no one to interrupt you.
Things only spiraled further when his tongue retreated and yours followed, hunting after the taste of him like a lion after blood, sweet as candy but edged with sharp spice. You weren't prepared for the way he closed his lips around your tongue on instinct, blatantly sucking with a low, frantic whine. His hips jerked up against nothing when you didn't stop him, when you allowed him to suck and swallow the taste of you down, and it only felt natural to slide up from his thighs and into his lap, giving him something far more pleasant to rut against.
He wrenched his mouth away from you, his head thrown back as he choked out a startled, "Oh god, fuck—"
Something clattered to the floor in the kitchen, though you barely noticed.
"Tell me to stop and I will," you purred, and whatever he was going to say dissolved into a ragged moan as you stroked your fingers up his throat, his mouth falling wet and slack as you rolled your hips against his hardening cock. The way he bucked up into you was instinctive, mindless and animalistic, as if he were chasing pure pleasure without thought. There was already a small wet spot on the front of his sweats, slowly darkening the fabric where he'd begun to leak against the cloth. You had every intention of making that worse. "I don't think you want me to, though. Do you? I think you want me to ride you right here, right in the open, just like this for a little while. What do you think?"
The sound he made was almost a whimper. "Please. I need it."
You rocked yourself against him until you found just the right angle, got him lined up just right beneath his sweats. Then you moaned as you fell into a lazy rhythm that seemed designed to fracture you both like glass. Each slow, serpentine grind of your hips dragged just right, a rough slide up the underside of his cock that left you clenching around nothing before starting back down. He couldn't help but grind back up into the burning, wet heat of you radiating through your shorts, his arms winding tight around you, not that you were going anywhere. He kissed sloppily, clumsily along your jaw, wet, open-mouthed kisses leaving a trail of molten heat behind as he made his way down to your throat, slurring your name and praise in equal parts. Gentle, trying to be careful, until the next rock of your hips dragged your clothed cunt up and over the head of his cock, rubbing the seam of his sweats against him.
His teeth sank sharply into the tender skin of your throat, muffling his startled whine. It drew a gasp from you, the bite not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise, hard enough to tint the edges of pleasure with a delicious sting.
"Needed something in your mouth, pretty boy?" you breathed, and his answering moan was something wet and broken, all the confirmation you needed. He was practically drooling against your throat now, sucking hard, damn near mindless as he snapped his hips up, rutting into you, hitting that same spot again. The angle was absolute sin, sweet pressure and friction against your clit that had you choking out his name, trying to match his new pace. "Fuck, just like that, Bob, just—"
And you wanted to kiss him again, that was all. Your hands were already fisted in his hair, tangled in his curls, and it was simple enough to just…
Pull.
Not hard.
Not meanly.
Just a firm tug to yank his head back from your throat.
The lights in the common room flickered like a storm had just rolled in, something shattering in the kitchen.
But your eyes were on Bob.
His eyes flared a vibrant, molten gold before they rolled back, a choked gasp of your name tearing free as he arched beneath you, jerking his hips up so suddenly he almost bucked you off. Then, with a ragged whine, he started to come, spilling in steady pulses, a warm, dark patch slowly spreading across his sweats. You quickly leaned in and pressed your mouth to his reddened lips, crooning and trying to soothe him, stroking your hands far more gently through his hair as you worked him through his orgasm. Poor thing seemed to come for ages, shaking with each wave, which you definitely weren't helping with since you were still working your hips against him, dragging out his pleasure, because why the fuck not when he looked so pretty like this?
"Oh god, fuck, I'm sorry," he moaned, his face absolutely burning red with shame as he began to come down. He tried to duck his head, tried to shift out from under you in mortification. It was like he couldn't bear to let you look at him. "Shit, shit, baby, I'm so sorry, it just felt so good and I couldn't—and then you—"
But you didn't let him get very far before you pulled his head back up, giving him a fond kiss on the nose. "Are you kidding? That was… way hotter than you think." You pressed another kiss to his mouth, and then to his jaw as he stared at you in disbelief.
"You're lying."
You leaned in, catching his lower lip slowly between your teeth. And as you did, you took one of his hands and slid it down and under your shorts, dragging his fingers slowly, firmly along the absolutely soaked line of your panties. "That, ah, feel like lying to you?"
His breath caught in his throat, and you could feel the twitch of his soft cock in his sweats despite the way he'd just come, could see that hunger already returning in his eyes as he realized just how much you'd liked this.
He licked his lips.
"Can I eat you out first?"
"Oh my god, I thought I said no broken furniture!"
Tunatober Prompt: Hair Washing (Rhett Abbott x F!Reader, Fluff)
Based on my Tunatober Day 1 prompt: 'hair washing', combined with the prompt "Why'd you stop?" Cause lord do I want to get my hands into this man's hair, I just know he's never had the luxury of having someone wash his hair nice and soft and slow.
Ship: Rhett Abbott x F!Reader
Wordcount: 2.3k
Warnings for this fic: fluff, no use of y/n, pet names, Rhett absolutely melting as you wash his hair
Fic Summary: Rhett's convinced there's nothing special about getting his hair washed by someone else. You're determined to prove him otherwise.
GIF by vivian-rutledge
You still couldn't believe you managed to talk him into it.
It started in your kitchen—you perched on a rickety old dining chair, and Rhett sprawled out on his back on your floor, his upper half buried beneath the kitchen sink.
"Why do you think half of us go?" you asked him with a snort. Rhett only grunted, far more focused on fixing the stubborn leak in the pipes you'd been dealing with on and off for a year now. "Sure, the main reason is getting our hair done, but it's also about how good it feels to get your hair washed. You have no idea what you're missing."
Especially not someone like Rhett, who'd been getting his hair cut by his ma and a trusty pair of kitchen shears since he was a baby. On top of that, short of the gel he used to slick his hair back and keep his curls tamed, you were pretty sure his hair hadn't been touched in twenty years by any product other than a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. It was an ongoing tragedy you were determined to stop.
"It can't feel much different than me washin' my own hair." Even from where you were sitting, you could see him wrinkle his nose. "Besides, I don't need some strange lady scratchin' my head like I'm a dog."
"It absolutely feels different. Also, I scratch your head like a dog."
And goddamn, was he pretty when you did.
"It's cause I'm your dog. Sure do make me howl for you," he muttered, low enough that you suspected he thought you hadn't heard him, his words mostly covered up by the sound of metal clattering beneath your sink. He adjusted his position on the floor, his worn t-shirt sliding up enough to show a tanned, freckled strip of skin along his belly. You spent a delightful moment staring at that tempting bit of skin and lean muscle before reaching out with one socked foot to poke it. He half-heartedly lifted his own socked foot, kicking playfully back at you with those long legs of his.
"If you won't let someone else do it, let me do it," you tried, crossing your arms on top of the chair's back where you leaned forward against it. "I've got everything I need in my bathroom right now."
Including some new shampoo and conditioner you'd bought specifically for him in hopes he'd let you do this, not that you'd give that away just yet.
"You wanna wash my hair that bad?" He tipped his head to squint at you skeptically around his raised arms. A single drop of water rolled off his stubbled cheek, courtesy of the leaking pipe. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
You drummed your fingers, trying to think of a reason that might convince him. "Because it'll make you feel good?"
A scoff. He went back to the leaky pipe.
Fine. Time to bring out the big guns.
You lowered your head onto your crossed arms, and blinked at him so very sadly.
"Please, baby?" you asked softly, your voice dropping into that quiet, tender little register that always made him fold. It was rare that you used it on him, but it had a ridiculously high success rate. Rhett may have had a scowl that could send a grizzly bear running, but he was soft as a kitten for you inside. "I really want to after you're done with the pipe. Just this once. Then I'll never bring it up again."
Silence from under your sink as he met your eyes.
Then—
"Fuck."
Thirty-two minutes and one fixed pipe later, you had a grumbling Rhett Abbott in your bathroom, his head in your sink.
Success.
Before he'd even come over, you'd set the new bottle of shampoo and conditioner along the side of the bathtub in easy reach, just in case you'd managed to get him in here. You'd even thought about including a hair mask, something to really soften and pamper his hair, but you'd wound up nixing the idea. Getting to wash and condition his hair would be enough for now. Instead, you'd focused on making him comfortable, ignoring his amused snort when you slid a towel beneath his neck to pad the porcelain rim, made sure the water was warm before you'd rinsed his hair with the little spray attachment you'd connected to the sink.
"How long you been plannin' this, darlin'?" he asked you, more than a little amused.
"Just a few days," you said casually.
Or a month.
Part and parcel of waiting for packages when you lived in East Jesus, Nowhere.
"Liar."
"Hush, let me have this."
Now came the good part.
You grabbed the bottle of shampoo, popping the cap open to squeeze out a heavy dollop of shampoo into your hands. The air quickly filled with the scent of sandalwood and cardamom, faintly spiced but earthy. You'd tried to pick something that wouldn't drive Rhett crazy if the smell lingered.
Those deep blue eyes of his blinked up at you, his brow furrowing. "That ain't your shampoo."
"Nope," you said lightly, smearing the shampoo between both hands, warming it up. "Got it just for you. I figured you could use it when you showered here even if you didn't let me wash your hair tonight. Why? Thought I was gonna use mine?"
"Kinda," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. Edgy, restless, fidgety. He got like this sometimes when it was you taking care of him rather than the other way around, or when he had to sit still too long.
Or maybe…
You cocked your head. "Did you want me to use mine instead?"
One of his socked feet tapped against the tile floor, jittery, hesitation in the way his mouth opened and then shut tightly, lips drawn into a thin line. His eyes darted reluctantly over to the shower to linger on your shampoo and conditioner on the shelf—vanilla and honey scented. It was a scent he'd mentioned loving more than once, often with his face buried firmly in your hair or pillow.
You shrugged, rinsed the shampoo from your hands in the sink, and leaned over to grab those bottles instead.
There were still some things Rhett couldn't quite figure out how to ask for, desires he couldn't bring himself to verbalize, the thought of voicing them too… vulnerable, maybe, too revealing in a place that found such things a weakness. There was no room for any kind of softness. they said: not on the Abbott ranch, not in Wabang, not on this cold, hard land beneath an endless blue sky that stretched horizon to merciless horizon. But you'd gotten good at reading Rhett over the years, at picking up on those wants. This was a clear ask without words, and like with so many others, it was also one you were happy to fill. If there was no softness to be found out there, you'd create it here with him.
Just like that, the scent of sandalwood and cardamon, earthy and spiced, was replaced by the luxurious warmth of vanilla, the indulgently sweet scent of honey as you poured some of your shampoo into your hands, spreading it between your hands.
He huffed, his head rolling against the sink. "Now you're just bein' mean making me wait like this."
You rolled your eyes. "Or I'm trying to make sure I have enough on both hands to get all of your hair."
"You got enough. Come on, it don't take this long when I do it."
"You're awful demanding for someone who didn't want to put his head in my sink thirty minutes ago."
"Yeah, well, my head's cold now. I'm gonna get hypothermia if I gotta wait any longer."
"I'm going, I'm going." You let out another laugh, leaning forward over him when he made a show of starting to get up. "Jesus, you're impossible when it comes to relaxing. Just lay back and let me make you feel good."
"That's my line."
"Not tonight it's not."
He clearly had something more to say, lips curling up into that sly smirk of his. But before he could get the words out, you quickly lowered your hands to his hair, sliding them firmly across his scalp in a nice, long drag.
He froze beneath you, body stiff, his breath stuttering to an abrupt halt. It was almost like he was unsure of what was happening, or maybe waiting to see if that good feeling was a fluke.
It was not.
And on the second slow, delicious sweep through his hair, nails scraping, fingers pressing in circular motions, you could almost see the exact moment that something in Rhett Abbot's wild, chaotic, skeptical mind…
…Shorted out like a goddamn lightbulb.
Knew it, you thought smugly.
His head lolled into your hands as you kneaded and scrubbed, working your way through his hair. You were determined to leave no strand, no section of scalp untouched, working loose the sweat and dirt of his day on the ranch, the gel he used to keep his curling hair swept back and tamed beneath his hat. His eyes, already such a dark blue, seemed to glaze over and darken further in the watery butter-yellow light of your bathroom, his expression caught somewhere between awestruck, glutted pleasure and absolute bafflement.
"The fuck?" he slurred, his mouth hanging slack, the slightest flush coloring his cheeks. At some point he'd grabbed hold of your thigh, big calloused palm hot even through the thin fabric of your pajama pants. It wasn't sexual. It was more like he was using you to stay tethered, hold onto a world in which a hard-edged, bull riding cowboy like him couldn't be melted by something so simple as some shampoo and your fingers in his hair.
"I told you," you sang victoriously, dragging your hands down to the softly curling hair just above the nape of his neck. The scratch of your nails and the pressure of your fingers there at the base of his skull seemed to hit yet another switch in his brain. His eyes rolled fully shut this time, and there was a soft thump against the tile as if he'd just kicked his foot against it. But more important than that—
"Did you just moan?" you laughed as you gently combed through the strands of his hair to the ends, washing away more Wyoming dust and gritty sweat.
"…No," he said, his voice so choked it was almost a whine.
"Yes you did."
"Did not," he growled.
"I know a moan when I hear it, Rhett Abbott. You're enjoying this. Just admit it."
"It's just you washin' my hair. I don't fuckin' get it," he said hoarsely, almost squirming in the chair, unsure of what to do with how good he was feeling. Just to make it worse, you threaded your fingers through the hair and froth at his temples before slowly dragging your nails back in the direction you'd come. The sound he let out was ragged and garbled, as if he'd tried to turn his second moan into a much more intimidating growl at the last second. "I do it every day."
"And yet it's different." You leaned down and kissed his slack mouth. It was a testament to how out of it he was that he only just managed to kiss you back, clumsy, distracted. "Never doubt me again."
"Never," he breathed.
You shifted up above him, reaching over to flip the sink back on with a smug little flick of your hand.
That earned you what was definitely a quiet little whine this time, hovering there on the tail end of a shaky breath, so low you almost missed it.
"What?" you asked, concern slipping into your voice. You'd worked hard to make sure he was comfortable, but god only knew with how often he got thrown around on those bulls, his shoulder or neck could've been acting up sitting like this. "You ok? Need to move?"
He stared back up at you, and for just a moment there was a flicker of vulnerability there, his hand tightening on your thigh almost… nervously. You almost didn't think he was going to answer, and then, soft, tentative, came a quiet, "Why'd you stop?"
Ah. Now you saw the problem.
"I'm not punishing you, I promise." You hummed, scratching at his hair again, which seemed to soothe him just a tiny bit, his eyes fluttering shut on a sigh. "I'm going to rinse your hair now. And then we'll see if your hair is clean enough for conditioner. But it might need another wash depending on how much dirt you got in it today. Up to you."
He eagerly pushed his head back into the sink.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that," you teased, testing the temperature of the water with your hand.
He groaned, reaching up to scrub one hand down his face. "Are you really gonna make me say it out loud?"
"Yes. It's called communication, and generally it involves words and not just grunts and growls, as cute as those are from you." You took the nozzle and began to rinse his hair, careful to keep it out of his eyes. Foam and bubbles went swirling down the drain, the white froth now edged with sweeps of pale grey and a touch of brown, dirt and dust and even one little strand of hay swept away with the water. Something about it gave you a ridiculous sense of satisfaction. "Just say the word and I'll wash your hair again before the conditioner. I'll even do it slower this time."
He drew his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing on it as he shifted restlessly beneath you as he thought it over. You had just finished rinsing his hair, running your fingers through the slick, soaked strands, before you heard the slow intake of breath beneath you.
"I'll Tell You Again and Again" (Rhett Abbott x F!Reader)
Was watching Outer Range cause I have it bad for Lewis Pullman characters and after seeing him pretend to be asleep the morning after with Maria, this idea just wouldn't leave me, especially after yapping at @sunflowersandsapphires about how Rhett never gets told he's a good man so let's fix that.
Ship: Rhett Abbott x F!Reader
Wordcount: 2.8k
Warnings for this fic: references to smut, no use of y/n
Fic Summary: Rhett's rapidly become addicted to the way you touch him, talk about him, love on him so sweetly. And now? Now he's figured out that love doesn't stop even when you think he's asleep.
Slow, lazy mornings like these were his favorites.
Part of it was the rarity. There were always animals that needed tending, fences to be fixed, daily chores, and all the other particulars that came with maintaining an active cattle ranch. All of which his father was quick to remind him of. The Abbott Ranch stopped for no one save the Lord… though some days Royal seemed far less intent on teaching Perry that same lesson.
But today was a Sunday, God's day, when Royal, Cecelia, and Amy headed off to church and the less urgent morning chores could be put off for a few hours. Rhett had even talked a reluctant Perry into taking care of the necessities like turning out the horses and feeding the cattle. It left Rhett with ample time to relax in bed with you, sleepy and curled up close against your back, breathing in the scent of your skin where he'd nuzzled into the nape of your neck. Even better? You hadn't woken up just yet.
Not that he'd tell you he'd woken up first.
Not on a morning like this.
Not when he'd found that if he lay here just right, kept his breathing slow and even and his eyes closed, he could trick you into thinking he was still sleeping. And if you thought he was still asleep...
You stirred awake like you usually did, gradually shifting beneath his arm where he'd thrown it over your hip. Then came the familiar pop of your jaw as you yawned, regular as clockwork, followed by a sleepy little stretch in his arms, the lazy unwinding of a cat who'd been dozing in the sun. He kept himself motionless through it all, save for an instinctive tightening of his arm around you. According to you, it was something he did every time you moved around in bed, regardless of whether he was asleep or awake.
There it was: your pause as you processed his lack of response, the absence of his usual rasped, affectionate, 'Mm, good mornin', darlin'' that he should have drawled against the back of your neck. Instead, the silence was broken only by the distant whinnying of the horses in the pasture and the bright chirp of the robins in the nest they'd set up in the eaves just outside the window.
"Rhett? Baby?" you mumbled, your voice still thick with sleep. "You awake?"
He didn't so much as twitch.
You slowly rolled over in his arms, your movements cautious, clearly trying not to disturb his hold around your waist or wake him. From there, you edged your way up, inch by inch, until at last you were face to face with him.
It took everything in him not to hold his breath, not to tip his head in a silent request for what he knew was coming next as you just… considered him and his slack face for a long moment.
This was it: the best part, and the part that made the whole ruse worth it.
At last, he felt the first gentle stroke of your fingertips against his face, and down beneath the sheets, his toes curled.
People like him didn't get touched like this, not him, never him—all sharp edges rough as barbed wire, skin marred by years of scars and the scent of the Wyoming soil he could never quite escape. But you'd never hesitated. When you touched him like this, you were so breathtakingly, achingly gentle, far more gentle than he could ever remember being touched. 'Starved for it,' you'd told him once, only half-teasing, and while he'd laughed you off, he wasn't sure he could argue. Hell, his body still wasn't entirely used to the sensation, to soft, tender affection that came so easily, came without strings or the weight of expectation, the reminder that he had to earn it, had to be good enough to deserve it. But God, did he crave the feel of it, this strange thing he still wasn't sure how to ask for more of.
"Pretty, wonderful man," you whispered, trailing the backs of your fingers over his warm cheekbone, tracing carefully around a bruise he'd picked up after a rough dismount from a bull two nights before. From there, your touch glided down slowly until you could cup his face like he was something treasured, your thumb passing fondly over his lips. "How dare you look so handsome when you're just lying here, cowboy? The goddamn audacity of you."
You weren't doing this for him. Rhett knew that. Yet that was… why it meant so much to him, why it soothed some old ache in him: the way you touched him, talked to him or about him even when you didn't think he could hear you.
He knew what people said about him when he wasn't around, had paused instinctively in the hall or around a corner when he overheard his name. Usually it was just passing comments, a quick aside about his latest ride or discussing what the family had been up to lately, little things that could easily be discarded. But just as often what he heard was… harsher. Crueler.
"—nothing but trouble, you keep clear'a him—"
"—not like he's smart enough to make it anywhere else—"
"—good for a ride but not much else—"
He'd told himself he was used to it. Wasn't like he hadn't already overheard it from some of his teachers when he was younger; wasn't like he hadn't picked up on the similar sentiments from his own family, even if they thought they were being a bit more subtle about it. Hell, his dad had said it straight to his face once on a bad night: 'Some days you're just intent on bein' a goddamn disappointment, aren't you?' And while a stiff, awkward apology had come the next day, that moment had only confirmed what Rhett already knew.
He'd never be the golden child, never be seen as the good Abbott son. He was Wabang's wild-eyed trouble-maker, good only for drunken bar fights, for ranch work, and for the blood and sport of the arena… at least until the bulls he threw himself atop broke him permanently. Then he'd be good only for pity, one more failure, one more waste of potential, not that he'd ever had all that much.
But you… didn't talk about him like that.
He'd never heard that cold condescension in your voice when it came to him, never heard you talk about him as if he were anything less than your favorite person in the world, someone who made your life better. Always there in the stands to cheer for him rain or shine, through good rides and bad, your pride in him just as steady, just as unflinching as the land itself.Hell, he'd caught you bragging again last week about how he'd finally, finally stopped the sputter in your kitchen sink that three plumbers had been unable to fix—which hadn't been a big deal, he'd told you more than once, even if it had taken him three hours, two trips to the hardware store, and so much swearing he'd been surprised he hadn't peeled the paint in your kitchen. To you, he was your sweetheart, your stubborn cowboy, fearless and resourceful, with a big heart hidden behind his scowl and a dry, wicked sense of humor that had left you spitting out your drink more than once. And God help anyone who said something less than kind about him in front of you. Last time he'd thought you were going to bite Luke Tillerson right there in the bar, half-convinced he was going to wind up having to carry you out of the bar over his shoulder.
As for touch, well… he was pretty sure you were determined to help him catch up on all the physical comfort he'd missed out on over the years.
He hadn't thought all that affection would extend to when he was sleeping, though. It certainly wasn't what he'd been planning on the first time he'd tried this. No, he'd just wanted to see if you'd… stay with him there in bed if he was still asleep, just a little bit longer. The thought of asking for you to stay and curl up with him had been too much vulnerability in that moment, too liable to crack open his armored shell and reveal some tender, soft part before he was ready. But now that he knew what you'd actually do, he couldn't resist doing it again… and again and again, at least until he worked up the courage to ask for it instead.
Your lips brushed affectionately against his forehead, the softest little nuzzle against his skin, your warm breath stirring his messy hair. "I'm glad you're still asleep," you confessed, almost more to yourself than him. Your voice was so soft it was almost lost beneath the deceptively steady sound of his breathing. "I love getting to see you like this, when you can finally rest for a bit. You deserve it. You deserve so many good things. Do you know that? Cause I don't think you do, Rhett."
Your fingers trailed through his hair next, nails scraping delightfully against his scalp. He was grateful you couldn't see his face in that moment because he was pretty sure his eyes fluttered in pure pleasure, a pulse of liquid warmth rolling down his spine, and he knew, he knew if he let out that little moan trapped in his throat, you'd have teased him over it to no end, compared him to one of the damned dogs and that big groan they made when you rubbed their bellies just right. But god, it was just so hard not to react when you were making him feel this good. His whole body almost seemed to hum, a buzz beneath his skin like he was getting drunk on your touch, on the way you loved him so sweetly, so easily. The lingering tension and ache in his muscles from the day before slithered away, and he soaked it in, a dry, parched soil, hungry for every last drop.
"So when you wake up, I'll tell you again—"
Your lips dipped to his still-closed eyes, a feather-light kiss for each lid.
"—that I love you, and that you're a good man. My favorite person in the world."
A kiss to the tip of his nose, and he only just kept it from twitching. He wouldn't be able to keep this up much longer, and he didn't want to, tempted to just pull you in and spend the rest of the morning with you underneath him like he hadn't just had you last night, his mouth purring filth into your ear, his palm pressed over your mouth to keep your moans quiet as he'd buried himself in you over and over again. The house was quiet now, and he could take his time this morning, try to show you how much you meant to him, make you feel just as good, as loved as he did. No one was around to stop him, and God knew he could never get enough of you.
But you weren't done.
"And then I'll tell you again, and again, and again. For as long as you'll let me. Because that's what you deserve, no matter how much you think otherwise."
You finished with the lightest brush of your lips against his, soft and tender. When paired with another lazy, loving stroke of your fingers through his hair, he couldn't help but finally let out a glutted moan, contented and relaxed, floating in a thick haze that softened the edges of the world around him.
"Hey," you murmured, nuzzling against his mouth. His eyes finally fluttered open to meet your gaze. This close, there was no missing the affection and warmth in them as you smiled, just a touch apologetic. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up."
"Mmm, maybe I like wakin' up to you all pretty and warm and lovin' on me," he mumbled, voice hoarse and thick with what you'd hopefully think was sleep. He tightened his arm around your waist and then rolled lazily onto his back, bringing you with him until you were draped over his chest. The sweet warmth and weight of you sprawled on top of him made him sigh, his eyes fluttering shut in contentment. That sigh shifted easily to a low rumble when he felt your lips dip to his throat, and he eagerly rolled his head back to give you room, his hands sliding up under your shirt so he could palm the warm, smooth skin of your back. "Whole lot better than that alarm. Can you do this every mornin'?"
"If I woke you up like this every morning, you'd never get out of bed." You kissed warmly down his throat before nipping playfully at the junction between his neck and shoulder, making him grunt, his hips twitching under you.
"Tell me why that's a bad thing?"
"Someone's gotta feed the cows or they'll break in and eat us," you said, very very seriously.
He groaned, rolling his head back. "Goddamn man-eating cows."
You hummed before dipping your head again, kissing your way across his collarbone and over the black silhouette of the bullrider and bull etched across his chest. "Perry took care of them today, so I think we're safe for now at least. We can enjoy the morning while we have the chance."
"Speakin' of which," he asked you innocently, "what were you sayin' a minute ago? I only caught the end as I woke up."
He almost thought you'd caught him then, your mouth hovering over his chest where you'd been making your way over to the scar on the other side. But he just… needed to hear it again, even just a scrap of it. He couldn't quite see himself the way you did, had puzzled over it too many nights to count, why you'd picked someone who had so little to give you, but that didn't matter. Not here, not now. All that mattered was that you loved him, saw him in a way no one else did. Most days, that was enough.
You lifted your head, propping your chin on one hand as you used your other hand to fondly trace the outline of his tattoo. "I was just saying you're a good man who deserves the world," you said easily, and there it was again, that smile, loving and warm and endlessly affectionate—the one that carved through him like a bolt of lightning every goddamn time, made something small and tense and vulnerable inside him finally unwind to breathe. The feeling swelled up again in his chest, tangled and twisted, words knotted and stuck fast in his throat as they all tried to escape at once.
He'd never been any good with words, something he was working on with you, but even so, some of that feeling still found a way out, three rapid squeezes to your hips, his way of speaking even when he felt a little unsure, didn't quite know how to translate his feelings into words.
I love you.
Your smile only grew brighter, fonder. "That's also what I was telling you, by the way. Though I hope you know by now."
"I don't know about that," he said reluctantly, opening one eye to glance down at you. Your brow had already furrowed in confusion. "You only kissed me once that I remember."
The corner of your lip quirked, but still, you tried to keep up the act, narrowing your eyes at him. "I definitely kissed your neck repeatedly. And your chest."
"Doesn't count. I was still half-asleep, so my memory's a little fuzzy."
"Oh please."
"And I got thrown off that last bull pretty hard two nights ago," he told you solemnly. "Might've affected me. Gave me a concussion. I'm just sayin', you might need to do it again, make sure the memory sticks this time."
"I suppose I can do that," you said in amusement, rising onto your hands and knees, clearly intending to crawl back up his body.
You didn't get very far, though, before his calloused hands shot out. With a single playful swat to your ass that made you shriek, he hauled you easily up his body until you were sprawled out right where he wanted you, your face even with his, his nose nudging against your cheek. "There ya go, darlin'. Right back where you belong."
"Then I guess it's time to say good morning, Rhett," You leaned down to kiss him happily, your lips slotting easily with his. "Love you."
Had this one sitting in my docs folder for a while, decided to edit it and finally drop it in honor of the hot summer.
Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Wordcount: 2k
Warnings for this fic: SFW, no use of y/n, lots of descriptions about how hot it is but it's fine cause Matt still thinks you smell nice, Reader is AFAB, Matt is a brat
Fic Summary: Just a short, humourish drabble-ish bit about you and Matt dealing with the heat as I try to get back into writing.
Or: in which Matt is still somehow cuddly in triple-digit weather.
You were going to kill someone.
Matt would claim you were exaggerating, but you knew the truth. These were living conditions meant for lizards, not mammals, and when mammals—one particular flavor of mammal, especially—were forced out of their proper biome, murder wasn’t out of the question. You were pretty sure that was how it worked, anyway, according to Genesis. It was hard to remember when your brain was sizzling inside your skull like a wad of bacon.
One-hundred-and-fucking-six degrees.
You could have dealt with it if it had been a bit drier. Really. But during New York summers, the only thing more reliable than the honking of horns was the humidity, which had sent the index soaring up into the category of absolute hellscape. The rickety old air conditioning unit in the apartment had done alright until the heat index had hit triple digits. Then it had coughed, sputtered, and settled for, ‘Sure, you’re still a sweaty puddle of melting meat juice, but the outside is worse if you think about it, right?’ The A.C. at Nelson and Murdock had waved the white flag even sooner than that, to the point they’d closed the office four days ago and reverted to working from home. Matt hadn’t even bothered to go out as the Devil the past two nights, not when the very act of putting on the suit had become dangerous.
Not that there was anyone out there for Matt to fight right now. Apparently even the criminals had a temperature limit. Turns out the real secret to stopping crime wasn’t a Devil suit, but instead just cranking up the setting on the giant ball of fire in the sky until the very act of crime meant you might wind up with a chance to meet the real Devil first hand.
The fact that you were living in Hell’s Kitchen had never felt more accurate.
Matt, ever the practical masochist, was out in the bad air doing… something. Errands, you vaguely remembered, since it was after dark and thus moderately less like a pot of boiling soup outside. You didn’t much care, though. You were currently in the bedroom sprawled out on the floor where it was just a touch cooler, a few thin sheets and a pillow thrown down for padding. You’d stripped down to your underwear, five different fans whirring away around you in an attempt to stir the stagnant, sticky air in the room. If you were lucky, they’d help you retain the brief snatch of heavenly cold your body had greedily absorbed sitting in the shower for the past hour. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better, and at this point you’d take it. And as much as you loved Matt, it was far more pleasant without him here. That man was a furnace and the heat had only reduced his cuddling needs by about forty percent. On top of that, if he knew you’d cooled your body, he’d want in.
The bedroom door slowly rolled open with an ominous…
…squeak.
You blearily turned your head.
Matt had already stripped out of his shirt, his body so soaked in sweat he almost seemed to shine. On a good day you’d have compared him and his damp, pale skin to a beautiful marble sculpture, to classical paintings of gorgeous Greek Gods emerging from frothing rivers. Now, however, all you could think of was a hot dog pulled straight from the hot, cloudy water at that one food cart you didn’t really trust:
Shiny.
Questionably wet.
And not something you particularly wanted laying on top of you in triple digit weather.
Matt blinked innocently at you as he slowly shucked his shorts—shorts you hadn’t even realized he owned until this heat wave. It left him in nothing but damp boxers still clinging to his thick thighs. His intent was clear.
“Shoo,” you croaked. “My cold body. Go away. Go sit in the shower like I did.”
“Everyone else had the same idea. The water pressure’s too low now.” He took a creeping step, and then another, bit by bit making his way around the bed towards you like an overheated panther. “Share it with me. I want it.”
“Come back when it’s ten degrees cooler.”
“I love you,” he sighed sadly, aiming those big, dark, mournful eyes in your general direction as he rounded the bed. Foggy called it Matt’s ‘abandoned kitten in the rain’ look. It was far more effective on you than you’d ever admit to, and on a colder day, it would have worked. But you were quickly reminded of Matt’s true goal when a droplet of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked it away with a grunt, nose scrunching like a cat’s as he paused just long enough to wipe it away. Then he was back at it. He sank smoothly to his knees, crawling menacingly towards you across the floor on all fours. “I love you so, so much. Let me hold you, sweetheart. I need you.”
“Fuck off, you goddamn cold thief.” You kicked lethargically at him with one leg the moment he was in range, dodging his grip when he snatched at your ankle. You quickly shifted to your backup plan, which was mostly just rolling like an overcooked rotisserie chicken to the far side of the small cloth nest on the floor. But even after an hour in a cold shower, you still wound up partially stuck to the sheets where sweat had pooled against your lower back, bringing half the fabric with you, making you groan. “Do some Devil meditation to cool down.”
He’d made it fully onto the blankets now, inching towards you, that familiar predatory hunger radiating from every inch of him. He slowly tilted his head, honing in on you, on the exact positioning of his body. Then he flashed you a grin. “This is faster.”
“I’m not your cold pack—”
“You’re about to be,” he purred.
Before you could bling he’d flung himself across the blankets, twining himself around you, trapping you in his sticky grip. You squirmed and rocked weakly in an attempt to escape, a flopping wet fish caught in the clutches of your beloved cuddle octopus, but it was no use, and fighting him off would only heat you up further. You let out a miserable groan, sagging against the floor, and the sound was almost lost beneath his equally loud moan of relief.
The struggle clearly over, he made his final move, throwing one of his fuzzy, muscular legs over your waist and dragging you back in tighter against him, shoving his hips up against your ass without so much as a, ‘you want some dinner first?’ Just like that you were trapped against a mountain of sweaty, burning Devil. His contented, admittedly-mildly-heat-exhausted little purr into your hair was only matched by your grumble of irritation as his body eagerly began to drain you of every last drop of cold you’d managed to suck up in the shower.
“Why?” you moaned, his sticky, wet skin sliding against yours with every breath, the sweat already pooling between you. You felt like you were trapped against a slip-n-slide. “Why, Matthew?”
“You don’t want me to get heat stroke do you?” he mumbled sadly, though he wasn’t sad enough not to rub his great, big, obnoxious, sweaty head against your damp hair. There must have been some cold left up there, too. “Who will keep you warm in the winter? As if you don’t do this to me when you’re cold. Fair’s fair.”
“The pot is uncomfortable being called the fuck out by the kettle,” you muttered, reluctantly lifting one arm so he could more easily wrap himself around you. Which he did, with no small amount of pleasure. “This sucks, and I hate it.”
“There is one upside though.”
“What’s that?”
He dragged his head sleepily down to your neck and faceplanted against your damp skin without any hesitation, taking a few long, drunken inhales. When he spoke again, his voice had grown just a little slurred, glutted and thick. “You smell amazing, sweetheart.”
“No, I smell like I’m a bag of meat that’s marinating,” you said grimly. “Because that’s what I am right now thanks to this heatwave. I am God’s sentient bag of marinating meat.”
“Mm, but the bag smells good at least.” Matt rubbed his cheek fondly against your slick shoulder, no doubt luxuriating in all the pheromones bogged down in the sweat clinging to your skin. “We can marinate together.”
Who said romance was dead?
“As flattering as it is that you’re not turned off by how I smell soaked in my own sweat,” you told him tiredly, though not unkindly, “I regret to inform you that Club Vagina is closed until the air stops trying to kill us.”
“Fair. Just thought you should know how good you smell.” He yawned, adjusting himself against you. You grimaced when your skin and his stuck together awkwardly for a moment before sliding slickly against each other, only to seemingly glue itself back together a moment later when he settled.
Once he was cooled off, you were absolutely leaving him on this side of the floor nest and making an escape for the other side. Hell, you might be able to talk him into giving you a good six inches of space if you could convince him that a single pinky toe touching qualified as cuddling in spirit, if not in form.
That he still wanted to cuddle at all was the bigger mystery.
“What I really want to know is how you aren’t dying right now.” You furrowed your brow. “You’re tolerating this and the heat a lot better than I thought you would.”
“Let me put it this way.” He tapped one finger against you almost playfully. “Ninety degrees in the suit feels roughly equal to triple digits when not wearing it. At least this way the sweat has somewhere to go. Some nights I’m surprised I don’t make sloshing sounds when I move.”
Your brain unhelpfully offered up an idea of what that might sound like: a wet squish caught somewhere between the splashing of water in a bucket and the muffled squeak of a water balloon when you squeezed it in your hand.
You really wished your brain was a little less imaginative. Or specific.
“Oh god.”
“Mhm. Now you know why I sometimes avoid you until I shower after patrol in the summer.”
“That is very much appreciated. Speaking of showers, I could already use another one, but that’s not doable until the water pressure’s back.” You blew out a breath, staring at the wall, the only shield between both of you and the tacky, carnival taffy-thick humidity desperate to find a way in. One of the fans sputtered as if in sympathy, though that likely had more to do with the way it had been running almost non-stop for twelve hours. For all you knew, this was the fan threatening a lawsuit over unpaid overtime. “Until then we just survive. Or evolve into lizards.”
“I choose survival. Might be hard to keep the streets safe if I was a lizard.”
“Unless you were a really big, scary one. A Komodo Devil.” You groaned, flopping your head back against his shoulder. “Then you could chase people off before they take all the ice cream at the store. I don’t suppose you found some?”
“I could only find a box of popsicles.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Except they melted on the way home. So fruit-flavored, room-temperature water in a tube is the best I can offer until they solidify in the freezer again.”
Fuck.
This wasn’t fair. You bet Turk had ice cream. Somehow. Why couldn’t you have some of that
Actually…
“I don’t suppose,” you said innocently, “I could talk you into stealing an air conditioning unit, and maybe some ice cream, from a bad guy?”
Matt was quiet for a long, thoughtful, Catholic moment as he presumably considered the sin of thievery, especially if that thievery involving taking something from a very, very bad person who surely didn’t deserve the cold air and sweet, sweet relief of ice cream as much as you, the love of his life, did.
You pointedly leaned forward, your wet, sweaty body peeling away from him like the hands of a kindergartener who’d coated his palms in Elmer’s glue.
That did it.
“The second I’ve drained all the cold from your body, I’m willing to discuss it.”
As promised, I've got one of the first of a few DDBA!Era fics! This one was based on a few different asks in my box requesting some Red Thread style comfort for Matt through that moment in the first episode of Daredevil: Born Again. This will not be a canon event in TRT's universe, but we could still use the comfort especially since i'll also be filling the far less comforting requests in my box related to the same event ya'll really want me to hurt you with that one. As such, parts of this like the psychic descriptions will be a little hard to understand if you haven't read The Red Thread over on Ao3, though you're free to give it a go anyway!
Ship: Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader
Wordcount: 4.3k
Warnings for this fic: Major Character Death (if you know you know), blood, depictions of death and grief, bodies, hurt and at least some comfort
Fic Summary: There's nothing you can do to change what happened. But at least you're there to hold Matt through one of the worst losses in his life.
Smoke hung like a shroud inside Josie's. But it couldn't cover the scent of blood, of death.
It was a cloying, coppery sweetness, that smell, one now mingled with the bitter tang of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer that lay soaking into the battered floorboards. Shattered glass and worse crunched underfoot as you staggered around the unmoving bodies of clients and regulars, people you'd known, people you'd drank with, done jobs for.
Don't look at them. Just don't look.
You ignored the wet, thick squelch beneath your boots as you tore through the bar towards the back door, tracking the red thread that led you directly upwards.
The memory of Foggy's voice chased after you, a shade that snapped at your heels like a beast.
"Go," Foggy choked out. It was the only word he could manage past the gurgling, wet rasp of his breathing, past Karen's pleas for him to hold on. Your hands were warm and sticky, coated in his blood where he'd taken your hand and clenched it tight. His eyes, fearful but aware, resigned, met yours with such an intensity that the image would haunt you until the day you died.
He knew it was too late to save him. And so did you, even if Karen was still trying to turn it around.
He drew in another wet, gasping breath before bringing your hand up to his chest. It was clear what he wanted, what he was asking for. You swallowed hard as your third eye flared open. Colors spun and spiraled around you like carnival lights, gradually solidifying until you could gently cradle the flickering red thread that lay between you both. You parted it just enough for his words to make their way to you, there where thought flowed faster than action, his river's current gradually slowing as it meandered through the peace of the woods before flowing out into the lake within him.
You could see him there now, standing knee-deep in the sparkling blue expanse. He smiled sadly up at you where you stood up on the bank, the two of you separated by feet, by miles, the distance growing wider with every second that passed.
'I love you guys. Go help him, stop him before he… does something that'll break him,' came his fading whisper, the last words you'd ever hear from him, soft summer sunlight waning as dusk drew near and the seasons began to change in the forest you'd come to know so well. You forced down the cry that tried to claw its way up your throat, fought the way your breath tried to hitch as you stroked at Foggy's cold cheek, trying desperately to give him some sense of comfort here at the end. 'Don't… let him push you away after this. Tell him… it's not his fault. He has to keep going. You and Karen, too. Don't give up.'
You brought Foggy's hand shakily up and gently pressed your lips to his knuckles, your tears dripping down to mingle with the blood smeared across his hands.
Matt may have been your husband, your dearest friend. But Foggy was the brightest light in all of your lives, the sun by which you'd set your course more times than you could count.
"Love you, too, Foggy. I'll tell him. I'll tell them both," you promised hoarsely, something fracturing in your chest as the thread's light between you both began to dim, its pulses steadily growing fainter with every slowing beat of Foggy's heart. "Save your penguins and your co-zookeeper a spot over there."
"No!" Karen choked out through her sobs, still desperately trying to press down against the wound, tears and worse dripping down her cheeks. "No, no, Jane, don't go, stay, you have to stay, we can still—hang on Foggy, just hang on, please, please—"
But Foggy had given you his dying wish.
Foggy weakly squeezed your hand, his final goodbye here in the real world, and then you turned and sprinted for Josie's front door, chasing after Matt and Dex, ignoring Karen's screams and the wail of the dying around you.
Even from floors below them, you could hear distant crashing and snarling, agonized roars of rage and pain as Matt and Dex threw themselves at each other over and over again. You passed more bodies on the stairs as you raced upwards, some moving, some not. A distant part of you knew, it knew you should have stopped to check on the living, but you didn't dare slow down now, not when Matt needed you. You had to get up there and do what you could to help, to keep Matt from doing something he might regret. If that made you selfish, so be it. You'd take the title if it meant you kept hold of Matt.
The distance between you and the fight somewhere above you seemed neverending, your flight up staircase after staircase quickly sapping your strength. The still-bleeding wound in your shoulder wasn't helping, a gift from Dex as you'd dived behind the bar. You were lucky it wasn't worse, lucky that Matt had tackled Dex before Dex could get another throw in. You knew that. But that knowledge didn't stop the steady bleeding, nor did it numb the sharp ache that radiated down your arm and body, your lungs heaving for air that tasted of blood and smoke and death. For a moment, you were tempted to slide into the red thread that lay between you, just to reassure yourself that he was still there, just to immerse yourself in the heat of him when you were hurting like you had so many times before, but you couldn't risk it now when it might distract him from the fight. Instead, you held it firmly shut.
You kept climbing.
Abruptly, the sounds of battle vanished, gone between one blink and the next.
You froze, straining to hear anything beyond the pounding of your heart, the fearful rasp of your breathing, the screams and moans of the wounded and dying somewhere down below. The silence darkened the world around you, the shadow of a massive, cresting wave, one so heavy and whitecapped that you knew there was no way you'd all survive the impact unscathed.
The world stilled.
A sigh of a breath brushed past you somewhere deep within your soul, like the final whisper of an autumn wind before it gave way at last to the quiet hush of winter. And with that, a single fading red thread that hung down against your chest…
…flickered gently before darkening to a deep blue, the color of the night sky when the sun finally vanished beyond the horizon.
From the rooftop came a single, devastated scream.
It was a sound so broken, so raw, so grief-stricken that the force of it tore open the red thread that lay between you and your husband with a violent flash of ethereal light the same color as the blood still drying on your hands. And through that parted connection came a shattered melody of broken sorrow, mournful and anguished, the wave rolling outwards from the connection in a flare of wildfire sparks that joined the scream ringing out through the night.
That current of shared grief—yours and Matt's where the emotion flowed and twined in harmony deep within the thread—threatened to swallow you up on the stairs, consuming, inescapable. Your knees hit the bloodstained step beneath you as you sank, your chest burning beneath the weight of the ragged sob that tore its way out of you.
You wanted to scream, too. To break something, to retch, to hurt someone, to fight, to escape, your desires and Matt's so tangled you weren't sure what was yours and what was his. Maybe it didn't matter. All that mattered was what it meant.
"Foggy," you whispered, your fingers curling against the floor until your bloodied nails chipped at the cracked, flaking paint. You could barely see past the rippling of tears in your vision, your body gone cold and heavy beneath the weight of loss. "God, Foggy. I'm sorry."
'Go help him, stop him before he… does something that'll break him.'
But you couldn't afford to stop here. You couldn't afford to grieve or process what had just happened. Not when Matt needed you. Not when Foggy had asked this of you with his dying breath.
And when had you ever not been willing to keep going, keep moving, keep acting and fighting and running and doing what needed to be done if it kept your mind from the pain?
Matt.
You staggered back onto your feet, blood rolling down your arm in a steady stream, before you started up the stairs again. As you went, you forced down your exhaustion and pain, swallowed down your bitter grief, dug and dug and dug until you could push it all into that hole inside your chest where it wouldn't interfere, not for a time, at least. You were so focused, so distracted that you barely noticed Cherry on the way up as you tore past him. He tried to stop you, grabbing at your wrist, but he was too slow, your skin too slick with blood. Whether it was your blood or Foggy's didn't matter. You wrenched yourself out of his grasp.
You left him behind.
You were one floor away from the roof when you heard more screams, this time from the street. Unlike before, there weren't the wails of those mourning the dead or the cries of those in pain. These were shrieks of horror, of terror.
No!
Not Matt, not—
You drew your knife from its sheath in your jacket, taking the final set of stairs two at a time before throwing yourself with a snarl at the rooftop door, slamming it open. You didn't know what your plan was—to go in swinging with your knife, to use any threads Dex might have against him, to kill that piece of shit yourself, slit his throat, because it would be better for you to take that weight, that grief, that guilt than Matt, better for it to be you, one more won't matter, your hands already so stained with blood. All you did know was that you wouldn't lose Matt, too, without a fight.
You scanned the empty rooftop frantically before you finally saw it: the familiar figure wreathed in red, kneeling alone on the rooftop's ledge.
Matt's mask hung limp in his hands, his bloodied face blank and empty, head tipped down towards the street as if he were still listening.
If Dex was gone, then had Matt…
"Sweetheart?"" you whispered. Your knife slipped from your slick fingers as you stumbled towards him on shaky legs. "Matt? Talk to me. Please."
He didn't so much as tip his head towards you, tears still rolling down his face in an unending stream as he dragged in ragged, uneven breaths that shook his frame where he slumped on the ledge, his expression the emptiest you'd ever seen it. He gave no sign that he'd heard you, no sign he was even aware of your presence as you hovered your stained, trembling hands over him once you'd reached him. Up close, his injuries were so much worse than they'd looked from across the rooftop—an array of knives stuck out of him like quills, trickles of blood steadily rolling down the hard lines of his suit, gleaming beneath the unforgiving, cold light of the city. Each shuddered inhalation prompted a soft, barely audible whine of pain. He needed you, he did, but you were unsure of how you could touch him without hurting him worse than he already was, your tears rolling down your cheeks in a mirror of his. "Oh, Matt, there's-there's so many. I—"
People gasped down on the street, and just like that, Matt's mask slid from his hands, tumbling over the edge.
You were up on the ledge just in time to catch him as he crumbled, falling into your arms with a broken sob. Your tears and his mingled between you as you wound yourself around his shaking body, his face burying itself against your neck where it was safe to fall apart. Somehow you managed to hold him close despite all the blades, cradling him against you as you tried desperately to give him something like comfort when there was so little to be found. There was no telling him it would be ok, so you didn't try as his blood quickly soaked into your shirt, as your hands left smears of Foggy's blood on his suit. All you could do was cling to him like he clung to you, your whispers broken by ragged breathing, his hands clenched in your shirt. "I've got you, Matt, I've got you, sweetheart. You're not alone. I know, I know it hurts, D, come here—"
"He's gone!" Matt let out a low, agonized moan, the haunting, mournful call of a wounded animal. He gasped for air that felt too thin, his body wracked with grief, and you rocked him gently, pressing your lips to his sweat-soaked temple over and over as if it might hide your sounds of grief. "Foggy—I tried, I tried so hard, and I couldn't-I couldn't get there in time—it's my fault, I-I tried to stop him but I couldn't and now he's gone, it's my fault—"
"I know you tried, I know you did." You buried your face against his neck like he had you, your eyes shut tight against your tears and the misery that tried to claw its way back up out of the hole you'd buried it in, still desperately rocking with him, grief flowing through the open connection between you like something living. "And he knew that, too, Matt. I promise."
Matt shook his head sharply, violently. He made a sudden, panicked attempt to tear free from your hold, to reject the comfort he felt he didn't deserve. Just like Foggy said, he was about to push you out, you could feel it—feel the self-loathing, the grief, the darkness rising in him. You clung to him even tighter as it threatened to swallow him up, as tightly as you could, only his exhaustion allowing you to hang on while he fought you.
"Let me go!" he snarled as he thrashed weakly in your arms, with every last scrap of fire he still had, a dull roar as the swirling flames around him in the thread grew into a blaze, an attempt to scare you away. "I don't deserve it!"
"You can lie to yourself but not to me," you whispered, breathed it out against his throat still stained with tears, holding fast beneath the storm that was trying to drag him down beneath the waters, drag him away from you. "It's not your fault, Matt."
And he fought…
"It is!"
"No, sweetheart. It's not."
And fought…
"You don't know that!"
"I do, because he told me, Matt."
…Until at last he gave in and sank again into your arms again with a broken groan, holding on tight, as if you were the only thing keeping him from sinking between the waves. It was as if even that little bit of fight had drained him of every last scrap of resistance, broken down every last wall. You seized the moment while you could, because he needed to hear this now before he spiraled too far down into that dark pit. You pulled his head up, cupping his face in your hands as you pressed your forehead desperately to his.
"Listen to me, Devil-Man," you said shakily, your thumbs sweeping over the flow of tears on his cheeks. His face was twisted with grief, his eyes so very lost, but even so, he couldn't help but listen, his shaky breaths struggling to find balance with yours. "Foggy knew, sweetheart. He knew you tried. He said to tell you this wasn't your fault. That he loved you and that it wasn't your fault. He loved you and it wasn't your fault, do you understand? That's what he wanted you to know, right there at the end."
Then you drew him back in, letting him muffle his cries safely against your throat.
The rooftop door opened, and you met Cherry's eyes. There was no hiding Matt where you held him in your arms as he cried, your fingers in his hair, his hands clenched in your shirt so tightly you were surprised the fabric didn't tear. You tipped your head back towards the door, asking Cherry to guard it. He nodded and stepped back, quietly shutting the door behind him as you pressed gentle lips to Matt's hair again. "I know, Matty. Let it out. I've got you. You can let go, Matt."
His next cry was a hoarse scream as he let his grief tear loose against your skin. It trailed off into a broken sob, lost beneath the eternal, merciless hum of the unfeeling city.
It took hours for Claire to stitch Matt up in the quiet dusk of your home. He didn't make a sound as she worked, his head unmoving in your lap as your fingers stroked his hair, his dark eyes glazed over and empty, a mere shell of the man you knew so well. Claire didn't try to break the silence and neither did you, leaving nothing but the sound of Claire's tools and Matt's stuttered breathing whenever some memory hit him and another tear silently dripped down to dampen the fabric of your sweats. Once she was done with him, she moved on to you, cleaning and stitching up the wound in your shoulder without a word. The two of you patched up, she stayed just long enough to squeeze your good shoulder and run a kind hand over Matt's hair with a whispered, "I'm sorry," before she was gone.
"Come on," you said softly to Matt, reaching down to rub his arm even if he didn't respond. "Let's get cleaned up and into bed."
It took hours longer for Matt to fall asleep after you curled up with him, his body held in your arms. Time went distant there in the dark and then the coming dawn, one that rang hollow and cold as tears that came and went, bouts of shaking followed by long periods of just… empty silence. But eventually, he drifted down into a fitful sleep, his body too exhausted to keep fighting its need for rest.
Only when you were sure he was asleep did you risk leaving the bed, stroking a soothing hand over his hair when he let out a quiet, broken little noise in his sleep at your absence. The touch seemed to calm him, at least a little, and you pulled the blankets back up over him. You wouldn't be long.
There was a frosted haze that lay over your thoughts now, a cold distance that left parts of you unfeeling and numb. You knew yourself well enough to recognize what was happening, knew that your mind was pressing down more inconvenient emotions, locking them away so you could focus on necessary tasks. Your time for grief would come eventually, but not now. Not when Matt needed you, and not when there was something you needed to do.
And it was something you'd decided just before you'd thrown that rooftop door open, Foggy's blood still drying on your hands.
You made your way to kitchen, digging around in the junk drawer until you pulled out one of your backup burner phones. It took you only a moment to dial the secure number you knew by heart. You'd called him earlier to let him know you were alright, but that had been all you'd had time for, then. You'd trusted his information network to tell him the rest. Now, hoever… you had something to different to discuss. And knowing him, he'd already made the arrangements.
Any who drew the blood of family would have it dealt back in kind. He'd been the one to teach you that.
It rang only once before the line clicked.
"What do you need, mia cara?" Ciro said immediately. "Name it."
"You're aware of who did this?" you asked, your voice dangerously calm, cool, collected. There was no remorse, no hesitation.
"I am," he replied.
"Do you know where they're keeping him?"
"Yes."
"Do you have someone who could get in and out without getting caught?"
"My people were moved into place the moment I discovered his location. One call is all that is needed. You have only to ask."
There was a stirring of… something inside your chest, the quiet protestation of a battered soul. But that objection was quickly devoured by a cold, unfeeling wall of ice.
Better you than him.
"Make the call," you said flatly.
"It shall be done. Have you… told your dear one what you intend?"
You stared at the framed photo on the wall beside you. It was one of many that had joined the first picture you'd taken with Matt almost a decade ago.
It was one of your favorites from your and Matt's wedding day. In the background, Matt had bent you back to give you a romantic kiss like something out of a fairy tale, though the kiss barely concealed the way you were both laughing. In the foreground, a grinning, triumphant Karen and Foggy had their arms thrown around each other's shoulders, both of them holding aloft twin trophies that read, 'Best Zookeeper Award'.
Foggy had tried to keep a solemn face, you remembered. But he'd been… too happy.
"I haven't told him," you told Ciro quietly. "But it doesn't matter. I'm not just doing this for him."
Because it wasn't just Matt that had lost Foggy.
It was you, too.
And you'd gone too long, lost too much, fought for too much… to let anyone take this away from you without a response.
"Then I will see to it. In truth, I was already considering it, so do not trouble yourself with guilt."
"Thanks, Dad."
"My love to you. Sono qui se hai bisogno di me, mia cara. I will be there in two days once I can get away. We shall speak more then."
Once the call was finished, you padded silently back into the bedroom, circling around the bed. Matt didn't look like he'd moved since you'd left him a few minutes ago, and you'd hoped he was still asleep, but as you crawled back in under the covers, his eyes slid half-open, damp but very much aware. The moment you were in reach, he met you halfway, winding himself around you as you took him back into your arms.
"What does it say about me that I didn't even try to stop you?" His voice was tattered and quiet as he buried his face against your neck.
You pressed your lips tenderly to his hair as you tangled your legs with his in the early morning light, the touch of it pale and cold, its warmth failing to touch the room. It felt… wrong, somehow, that the world kept spinning, kept moving, that the city's sun still rose and set on the same day that you and Matt had lost your own sun.
"I think it says you know your wife," you said, your voice just as soft as his. "You knew you couldn't have stopped me from making that call at some point." The touch of your hands as you swept them down his back prompted a shaky breath from him, more tears dampening your skin, warm and bitter. "And it says you know your father-in-law. Ciro would have done this even without my call, you heard him. This isn't on you."
"Isn't it?"
"No, it's not." You blew out a slow breath, stirring his hair as your eyes closed, allowing him to hear the steady truthful beat of your heart. Your tears were for later, after you'd stopped the bleeding here. It wasn't even that you regretted the call. This was a kill you'd lose no sleep over. No, this was… about the cause, the shadow of it hanging over you both, leaving the light of day cold and empty. "What's about to happen in that hospital room is because of me, not you. I made the decision, told Ciro to pull that trigger even if he was going to do it anyway. We… me and him, we did this, so let me take the weight. I know how to carry this one. Foggy is… he was family to us."
"And now he's…" You felt another fresh flood of tears against the skin of your throat. Matt's hands fisted in your shirt and he let out a quiet, broken noise, shuddering as the reality of his loss seemed to wash over him again. You tried as best you could to pull him closer, trying so goddamn hard to shield him from the pain even for a little while, or at least dull the edges of it as his breath came in choked gasps. "He's gone. He's-he's gone and I-I don't—"
It didn't take long for your tears to join his despite your best attempts, as you let him break apart again in your arms there where it was safe, and you quickly joined him. That was all you could both do tonight: hold onto each other through this wave of grief as it tore apart the world around you, hoping, waiting for that moment in which you could both come up for air, come up just long enough to breathe before the next one hit.
"It hurts," he whispered.
"I know, sweetheart," you whispered back. "Just hold on and breathe with me. I've got you, Matt. Just… just breathe."
The Library of Pastaxandria has recorded for its archives: Chapter 163 of The Red Thread.
Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Chapter Summary:
"The person I'm tracking… It has to do with Project Beagle." You grimaced as Matt abruptly straightened next to you, his inhale sharp and startled. "I'm looking for the brother of my old handler. Anthony, from the journals. He might be hiding in Queens, according to S.H.I.E.L.D.. His brother's lived there for decades, and they think he's stashed Anthony somewhere. If I can find the brother… I find Anthony."
Silence hung heavy in the air, thick and heavy as a shroud. Then Matt blew out a slow breath, letting go of you so he could scrub his hands down his face.
"Shit," he said softly.
Wordcount: 7.6k
Warnings for this chapter: for once this chapter is ENTIRELY SAFE, I even added some extra cuddles for all of you, and there is a WONDERFUL CAMEO I have been waiting to get to at this point in my outline, so go forth!
Read me on AO3 where Matt's suddenly realizing there might be too many things going on for him to handle all of it
My period was brutal this week but Matt Murdock popped up in a dream and told me to wake up which saved my sheets from bloodstains, so in honor of that, here's some period-related headcanons about Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, and Michael Kinsella.
In other words:
Ships: Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Frank Castle x F!Reader, Michael Kinsella x F!Reader
Warnings: Period blood obviously. I've also included a single spicy period sex headcanon for each of them at the end of each of their sections, so consider those bits NSFW.
MATT MURDOCK
Matt is a master of noticing your body's changes that signal your oncoming period, to the point he doesn't really bother to track your period on a calendar. If your period's coming early, he'll make sure you know, potentially even hurrying you out of Josie's if he senses it's going to happen within the next half-hour. If your period will be late, he can give you a rough estimate of what day it'll finally show up. His heightened senses have saved your clothes—and your sheets—more than once, the scent of blood rocketing him up out of sleep just in time for him to sweep you out of bed and into his arms.
"Wake up, sweetheart, you're bleeding."
"Matt? Shit, did I—"
"No no, don't worry, we caught it in time. Let's get you cleaned up, and then we can go back to bed."
And even if it happens while he's out at night, it's not like he's never stained the sheets with blood himself. He'll help you into the shower with a fond kiss, holding you close as he helps you clean up. Then all you have to do is sit while he changes the sheets out in record time before he brings you back to bed, all that Devilish heat winding itself back around you with a contented sigh… and maybe also with one sleepy joke, a smirk against the back of your neck, about how much harder you'll have to try if you want to break his record for bloodied sheets.
Often upon waking up, you'll find him waiting for you with water and a handful of vitamins and supplements, a custom mix based on what your body needs in that moment to help ease your cramps. He also takes over cooking dinner for those weeks when you're on your period as long as he's not busy at the firm, stating more than once that he's determined to minimize the amount of work you need to do. You're still not entirely sure how he knows what foods will make your cramps worse and what won't, but he always manages to walk the fine line between food that's good for you and the food you're absolutely craving.
Running out to the store to grab some of your period products is, understandably, a bit difficult for him since he's blind and they don't exactly put braille on the packaging, but he does his best. Usually he winds up wandering calmly around the menstrual product aisle, he wishes they wouldn't keep moving things around, until he eventually bumps into someone who's shopping for products like he is. The women always find it delightful that he knows the exact brand and type you're looking for, along with two substitutes should your products be out of stock, but as far as he's concerned, it's the bare minimum he can do for you. He's never understood why someone wouldn't care enough to help their partner out by just grabbing what they needed, and he's not afraid to say that loud enough for any grumbling idiots nearby to hear.
His giant hands and the way he burns like a furnace means he makes a lovely heating pad, one he's happy to let you use whenever you like. It's not unusual during the worst of your period to have him curled up behind you on the couch so his body can warm your aching back while he slides one of his big hands down to knead gently your stomach, helping to relax the spasming muscles that are causing you pain. You'd swear his fingers were like magic—he always manages to find just the right spot to work his fingers over until eventually you're a melted puddle on the couch.
And if you want another type of pleasure that might help relieve some of that ache… well. A little blood in his mouth is just fine with him if it means he can bury his head between your thighs with a quiet, eager moan. Like always, he'll stay there for hours if you let him, no thought given to the blood smearing warm and wet across his face.
"God, sweetheart, you always taste so good."
FRANK CASTLE
Frank treats keeping you comfortable during your period like it's a goddamn mission. People laugh when you tell them that. They think it's an exaggeration. It isn't.
He tracks your cycle religiously, and a full week before you're due, he's double and triple-checking his stockpile of products in the bathroom, his truck, and in his bugout bags to ensure he's got enough to last you your entire cycle and potentially a bit longer if you both have to run for whatever reason. If he decides he's too low, he's off to the store without you needing to ask. He is, hilariously, the most terrifying and intimidating man the workers have ever seen march into the menstrual product aisle, so while other men might get teased for marching out with a handbasket full of period products and chocolate bars, ice cream, and whatever other comfort foods you might want, there are very few willing to say a word to Frank. The ones that do quickly find themselves pinned down under a disgusted, dark-eyed stare that shuts them up.
"You wanna be a piece of shit, that's on you, but I take care of my woman. Now get the fuck outta my way before her ice cream melts."
You aren't allowed to lift so much as a finger if you have bad cramps. Your only job is to get through your day and come home to curl up on the couch where he can care for you. His priority is your comfort, so whatever foods you want will find their way to you without hesitation, and while he usually puts up a playful fight with you when you both want to watch tv or a movie together, the remote is yours on nights when you're hurting, your head finding its way onto one of his thick thighs so he can stroke your hair while you curl up around a heating pad, the tv blaring away.
While he can't catch your period if it starts in the middle of the night like Matt can, if he does wake in the middle of the night and finds blood on the sheets, he's going to pick you up and carry you to the bathroom, brushing his lips against your forehead when you wake up.
"Shh, you're ok honey, just got a little blood on the sheets. Gonna put you in the bath so you can be comfortable while I change 'em."
Frank is more than happy to fuck while you're on your period if you're up for it. As far as he's concerned, it just makes you warmer and slicker, allowing him to slide his cock inside you with delicious ease, all while rumbling and groaning into your ear over how fucking good you feel, how "Gonna take care of you real good, my sweet girl, yeah? Gonna fuck you just like you need, don't you worry." He doesn't stop until every last ache you have is drowned beneath the weight of the pleasure he gives you, your fingernails leaving long scratches in his back that allow his blood to join yours on the sheets.
MICHAEL KINSELLA
Michael hates seeing you in pain when your periods get bad, and he does everything in his power to help ease that pain, including providing you with copious amounts of tea.
One day you let yourself into his house for a surprise visit, and discover him muttering and swearing in the bathroom as he and his brothers install a massive bathtub.
"Mikey, you didn't have to do this."
"It's really no trouble, love. I just want ya to have a place ya can soak and get away from the pain for a little while."
It absolutely is trouble, and you both know it, but it's worth it for him the first time you're able to sink into that hot water with him and your pain just melts away.
Even early in the relationship, Mikey ensures he has a ready supply of products you can use, just in case you maybe sorta find yourself spending more time at his home with him. He isn't sure how to ask you what to use, and the aisle at the pharmacy is insanely full—he wanders it for a good ten minutes, nervously fingers fluttering over his choices because he doesn't want to get it wrong—so he eventually winds up getting a little of everything. Fortunately, it pays off. The first time you need something at his house and he directs you to the cupboard under his bathroom sink, you're shocked to find everything from pads to tampons to menstrual discs. Your delighted laugh is loud enough to be heard from the living room. His grin is just a touch sheepish when you come walking out.
"Wasn't sure what ya might need, so I tried to choose a bit'a everything. I swear it's like buying bloody tires, four-wall this and water-resistant that. But based on yer smile, I must'a got at least one of 'em right."
"You did, but I'll make it easier on you next time by just telling you what I use."
Mikey's still relearning how to cook after his time in prison, so until then, he's the master of Period Takeout. One of your favorite things to do is curl up with him on the couch, cuddled into his warm, sweatered body, the two of you devouring your takeout craving of choice before you wind up in his lap, one of his hands kneading absently at your stomach as you both watch something silly on tv.
And should you want that hand to go a little lower? He can do that, too.
"Is that what ya need, pet?" he murmurs, big, thick fingers sliding lower to pet at the band of your sweats. "Need my fingers to help distract ya, do ya? Aye, I can do that. Spread yourself for me, love. There's a good pet."
He'll make you come right there on the couch, three fingers buried deep and blood-slick inside you while your head hangs back slack on his shoulder, his mouth to yours as he purrs praise and affection into your gasping mouth.
"Love Leaves A Mark" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic, Pure Fluff)
I've been working on this for a bit to celebrate the release of our older Born Again!Era Matt, and happily I can say this one's now done, which means I can finish up another little oneshot I have and then get back around to The Red Thread's next chapter. This is written with TRT!Reader in mind, but I also tried to write it vaguely so it's easy enough to enjoy even if you haven't read that massive saga.
Also if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications!
Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Wordcount: 3.8k
Warnings for this fic: None that I know of, they're just being cute and in love as they grow old together. There ARE some vague physical changes described that are standard in aging but that feels pretty normal.
Fic Summary: You and Matt are growing older together, and you're both loving every second of it, including the physical changes that come with it.
“Did you get more toothpaste today?” you called sleepily, lifting one leg to idly scratch at your calf with your foot. You worked your toothbrush over to the other side of your mouth, wrinkling your nose at the taste. Nine years you’d been using your husband’s toothpaste and you’d never gotten used to the flavor, or lack thereof. You’d be damned if you didn’t use it regardless, though. “And Mini’s food?”
“Picked up both.” The low rumble of his voice was sleepy and distracted as it drifted out of the bedroom. Outside the little brownstone you both now called home, the snow continued to fall in thick, heavy flakes, muffling the roar of the wind and the few cars still out on the street despite the late hour and travel ban. You were grateful for that storm. In all the time you’d been with him you’d never had a problem with the Devil’s nightly rounds. Loving Matt meant loving Daredevil, too. But you still treasured evenings like these when he was able to stay in with you, your purring, cuddly husband happily playing the role of your favorite blanket. “I may have also stopped at the bookstore and gotten you something on the way home.”
You paused, shifting your gaze meaningfully toward the open bathroom doorway. You probed curiously at the psychic connection between you, a subtle attempt to discern what it was he’d picked up for you. All you got was a playful nudge back. He didn’t even have to try all that hard anymore, smoothly deflecting you with all the ease of swatting away a pillow.
“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” His voice was an amused whisper in your mind. “You’ll have to figure it out the old-fashioned way.”
You scrubbed faster at your teeth, grinning at his laugh in the other room.
“I don’t know how you have any gums left considering how often you do that,” he mused as you leaned down to rinse your mouth out. You quickly shoved your toothbrush back into the penguin-shaped toothbrush holder before flipping off the light and padding out of the bathroom.
“The benefits of genetic tampering,” you said dryly, joining him in the bedroom. He was already settled into bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard, a well-worn book beneath his hand. Down atop his blanket-covered feet, a large, round black void of fur had arranged itself into a perfect circle, no head or tail to be seen. Matt tipped his head as he tracked your eager circling of the room, the barest little smirk quirking his lips. You scanned around for anything new, hunting along the walls and the bookshelves that had managed to migrate their way into the bedroom once your shared office slash library had gotten too full. Books had a tendency to breed like rabbits between you and Matt. “Where?”
“Your nightstand. I figured you’d probably want to dive in.”
You darted over towards your nightstand.
“No way,” you breathed, sitting down on your side of the bed and snatching up the first of the three new hardbacks he’d placed on your nightstand. “This one—I thought it was going to take another week at least before they released it. How did you…?”
“I kept checking with Hanna every time I passed by her bookstore.” He cleared his throat as you flipped open your new copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy to a random page, the much-loved scent of new paper and ink filling your nose. “Eventually she took pity on me and finally let me buy this one early with cash. Although she wasn’t sure why you wanted this one when you have so many other translations already.”
“It’s Palma’s new translation,” you murmured distractedly, dragging your finger down the flowing lines of poetry, your eyes skimming rapidly over the page. You could already spot some of the changes. “I have the first translation he did of the Inferno, but this is the first time he’s done the entirety of the Divine Comedy, and he’s tweaked his previous translation. It’s supposed to mimic the rhyming scheme Dante created more closely. Not easy when you’re shifting it from Italian to English. Dad’s going to have kittens when he hears the Devil got me my copy before he got his.”
Even without looking at him, you could feel Matt’s smug satisfaction. “You should call him so I can hear him swear.”
“Call him yourself if you want to rub it in.” You snorted in amusement at Matt’s neverending desire to goad your adoptive father Ciro, who admittedly had a habit of goading back. At the very least their jabs had become less hostile over the years, the two of them now closer to sparring partners than actual enemies. You leaned over to look at the other two books Matt had gotten you, your brows shooting up. “And you got me Emily Wilson’s translations of the Illiad and the Odyssey? You’re spoiling me, husband dearest.”
“You said last month you were thinking about picking them both up. I figured I’d check if they were there.” There was a rustle of blankets behind you, and a slightly irritated, ‘mrrp?’, presumably as Matt adjusted his feet beneath the fuzzy black hole curled up atop them. “Consider it an early anniversary gift.”
“Not that I’m not grateful, but you and I both know it’s January, dear.” You set Dante back down atop the stack of books before swiveling on the bed to face Matt. You started crawling across the mountain of blankets and silk sheets toward his grinning form. “Our anniversary is months away.”
“The anniversary of our first kiss, then.” His smile only grew wider when you reached him and threw your leg over him to sit astride his waist. It was something he welcomed as he always did, his hands setting aside his book immediately in favor of you. He slid his palms warmly up and down the fleece covering your thighs, pausing here and there to knead at the muscle just because he could. It never seemed to matter that he’d touched you a thousand times before. He treated every moment like this as if it were the first. “A few hardbacks are the least you deserve.”
“Lines like that make me want to marry you.” You sighed, draping your arms comfortably over his broad shoulders, lifting one hand to idly card your fingers through his dark hair. He hummed beneath your touch, tilting his head openly into the fond drag of your fingers like a big cat. “Buying a woman hardbacks? In this economy? Put a ring on me, Mr. Murdock.”
“Now Mrs. Murdock, how would your husband feel about you saying things like that?” His voice was a playful purr, words thick and glutted thanks to the drag of your nails. You were pretty sure his eyes had rolled back behind his closed eyes. “He’d, mmm, hunt me down until his dying breath if I laid so much as a finger on you. As for me, my wife is… not inclined to let me go gently.”
“You’re goddamn right I’m not.” You sprawled out against his chest, dipping your head. He met you halfway, touching his lips to yours. You gave him a warm, lazy kiss, faint traces of copper and cinnamon passed from his smiling mouth to yours. The familiar taste of him, the softness of his skin, the sweet warmth of his breath in your mouth soothed you in a way little else could, and you drew him deep into you on a slow inhale, humming against his lips. His chest rumbled contentedly beneath you in response, his hands sliding up from your thighs to squeeze and rub affectionately your hips. “And don’t you ever forget it.”
“Never,” he murmured against your mouth, chasing after you to steal another kiss when you tried to lift your head. You ran your fingers through his hair again, sighing at the soft, playful brush of his tongue against your lips, giving it a mischievous nip of your own that made him rumble another pleased noise beneath you. His voice dropped further, all lazy warmth and possessive hunger, shades of the Devil coloring the edges like a painter’s brush. “Mm, my wife, all mine.”
“Your wife,” you agreed fondly. “One who’s cut people before and will happily do it again if it keeps you safe.”
“Your services are very much appreciated.”
“They should be since I fully intend to sit in a pair of rocking chairs with you one day in our old age.” You brought your hand around to scratch your fingers lightly through the coarseness of his beard, making him groan breathlessly in delight, his back arching just a little beneath you. He’d been letting his beard grow in for the past week or so. You were unsure if it was by choice or if it was simply that he’d felt too busy to take the time to shave. It had been a while since you’d last seen him with a full beard, though, a few years at least. And to your pleasant surprise, there were a few changes. Your fingers petted curiously over the small patches of silver scattered around. “I’ve even kept you alive long enough that you’ve got grey here in your beard now. That’s new.”
His brows rose in surprise, his eyes fluttering open where they’d fallen closed. “Really?”
“Yup. It’s very handsome.” You stroked at the prickly grey strands before your hands slid back and up to his temples, tracing the few strands of grey there just as affectionately. His cheeks had even turned the tiniest bit pink at your praise. “Some here, too. Just a little at your temples. You gonna be my silver fox, Matt?”
“I guess so. That’s what I get for letting you pet all the color out over nine years.” He heaved a great sigh beneath you as if his care sheet instructions didn’t require at least ten minutes of petting each day, without which he would wilt away. “You made me look old.”
“Oh please. You don’t look old. You look human.” Your fingers left his hair so you could poke him pointedly in the chest. He threw you a wounded look, all furrowed brow and big sad eyes that you weren’t falling for even a little. “Also, you gave yourself those grey hairs, thank you very much. You’re the most stressed man I’ve ever met. Half of what you put yourself through would have turned anyone else’s hair white by now.”
“Fine. I’ll admit that I may have done… a few things that were somewhat stress—”
“Got a building dropped on you. Fought Nobu in tissue paper. Got shot in the head. Used a neti pot to snort some fucking rusty tap water full of amoebas and tiny shrimp—”
“That last one still really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“You have no idea. One day I’m going to kiss you and taste brain shrimp, I just know it.”
He snorted. “You say that like I don’t have my own list of all the things you’ve done that have almost given me a heart attack.”
“Alright, so my list is also… a bit long.” You tilted your head, watching his eyes shift absently around. After so many years with you, he was no longer self-conscious about letting you watch his eyes this closely, much to your delight. In the low light of the bedroom, his eyes were a soft, dark brown rather than the green or grey they could shift to during the day. Beautiful as always, especially with the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lines that now seemed permanent even when he wasn’t smiling. You brushed your thumb over a few of those lines, your playful tone falling away into something more serious. “What if I like it, though? These parts of you that are getting older? Like these laugh lines.”
He furrowed his brow pitifully. “Now you’re telling me I’m wrinkly, too?”
“Oh, fuck you!” you huffed, his body shaking beneath you as he laughed. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop deflecting, I’m serious.”
“I’m know you are, even if you’re telling me I’m a grey, grizzled, wrinkled husk.” He groaned theatrically, rolling his head back. “You should just bury me if I’m that old.”
“Not a chance. Not when I love everything I’m seeing. Like these…”
You leaned in and planted a kiss on the laugh lines in question, feeling them grow deeper under your lips as he smiled.
“And these…”
Another kiss, this time against one of the grey patches in his beard, making him sigh.
“...and goddamn do I love all this, too,” you murmured, sitting back so you could drag your hands hungrily down the front of him. There was no part of him you didn’t love, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a little obsessed with the dark hair now edging up past his shirt collar—so much of it now that he’d finally given up on shaving his chest and let it all grow back—and the slightly thicker lines of his abdomen and hips, both of them a touch softer than they had been almost a decade ago when you’d first met him. You’d know; you’d been laying on him almost every night for most of that decade, barring a few rough patches and business trips.
“Mrs. Murdock,” he breathed in feigned shock, as if he wasn’t aware of exactly how much you enjoyed both his chest hair and the whole of his body from top to bottom, “are you insinuating something about me?”
“You mean like insinuating I’m the reason you now eat regularly and aren’t so dehydrated that I can practically draw a map of your veins by sight?” You squeezed at the meat of his abdomen and hips greedily, your voice growing smug as you kneaded at him. Your touch made him chuckle and squirm beneath you, only drawing more protests from the cat trying to sleep on top of his feet. “Yes. Yes, I am. You’re welcome for the health, by the way. You’re aging like a fine wine, husband dearest. And it makes me happy.”
His face softened at that, one hand leaving your hips to lay against your sternum. “If your heart wasn’t beating so steadily, I’d say you were just trying to flatter me,” he mused. “But… me getting older really is making you happy, isn’t it?”
“It is. I…”
You paused for a moment, struggling to put into words what you were feeling. His hand at your hip edged up under your shirt until he could rub his thumb soothingly at your skin, content to wait while you figured out how to say what you wanted to say.
“I think it’s that… there was a time when I wasn’t sure if you’d live long enough for me to see you grow old with me.” You cupped his face in your hands, treasuring the way his eyes fell slowly closed and he leaned into your touch so openly, so easily. It had taken so much work to get him here, where he felt comfortable accepting your love and your affection, but it had been worth every ounce of effort. You traced over his laugh lines again with your thumbs before skipping down to the faint smile lines at the corners of his mouth, a mouth that pursed to kiss your thumb when you swept one over his lips. “But you did. I’m getting to see it. That’s special to me. I want to see that… that you’re still alive, that you’re living long enough for these things to happen. I want to see all these little grey hairs, and wrinkles, and the way your body has gotten a bit softer, because every little piece of you that gets older represents a moment I didn’t know if I’d get with you.”
He drew in a shaky breath before his eyes fluttered slowly open again. And in the dark of his eyes there was such a reverent joy, such a bone-deep love filling their depths that it almost took your breath away. You’d never tire of seeing it, even if you both lived for another fifty, another hundred, another thousand years, joined in this lifetime and in whatever came next. Religion had nothing on being loved fully, wholly by Matt.
“I could say the same thing about you,” he breathed, his hand at your sternum sliding up to cradle your neck, thumb sweeping gently over the thin skin above your pulse. He pressed just a little, just enough to tug your skin back and forth. A moment later, he tugged you in until he could feather a kiss against your pulse where his thumb had been, lingering there as you nuzzled into his dark hair. “And spots like right here.”
“What’s changed there?”
“The texture of your skin. How much it moves when I touch it. I like to think,” he whispered against your throat, “that your skin’s a little looser here now, more worn in, because I’ve stroked at it so much that I’ve changed you permanently. It’s a sign of just how much I’ve touched you, how many times you’ve trusted me and let me put my hands here. It’s never mattered to you how scarred those hands were, how covered in blood. You let my love leave a mark.”
He tightened his other hand against your hip next, taking hold of the curves that had changed as you’d journeyed through the years with him. “And you’re softer now, too, just like me.” From there he smoothed his hand affectionately upwards over your ribs and up past your breasts, mapping over all of the places your body had begun to show your age like his: stretchmarks and small wrinkles where once skin had been smooth and tight, scars from old battles now faded and ragged with time. The journey his hand took was made with reverence, tender and heavy with intent, his smile so very soft and almost… wondrous. “I may not be able to see you, but I can feel you growing old with me, too, sweetheart. More curves, a few wrinkles. It’s like I can feel your body sinking deeper and deeper into a life with me.”
“That’s what happens when love winds up being your gravity.” You leaned in to kiss his forehead lines. “A decade of being drawn in by you.”
“Mhm. And up here.” He shifted his hand at your throat to cup your face like you had his, his thumb tracing the corners of your eyes. “Laugh lines. Because our life’s made you laugh so much that it changed you. They weren’t there the first time I put my hands here. But they are now. Signs of how happy you are with me. And there are more every year, because you… love me enough to stay.”
“Hey, my Devil-Man,” you whispered, tilting his head up until your forehead could meet yours. He didn’t bother to hide the vulnerability in his eyes, this old wound of his. It was mostly mended now, when it came to you, but sometimes that furrowed scar inside his heart still made him ache. “Do you need me to remind you again? I’m not going anywhere, husband of mine. There’s nowhere you’ll go that I won’t follow.”
“I know.” His eyes fluttered as you stroked at his skin. His arms left your face until he could wind them tighter around you, pulling you in tight against him until his every breath became yours. That seemed to settle him some, the weight of you against his chest, especially when you dropped your head to his shoulder, nuzzling in against his neck. “That’s… that’s just it. With me, you see… moments you didn’t think you’d have because you didn’t think I’d make it. And I didn’t think I’d have this with you, either. A home, wrinkles, greying hair. Not because I didn’t think you’d live long enough, but… but because I never thought I’d find someone who could love me enough to stay this long. To love me this long. Long enough that I could feel you grow old with me.”
“Loving you has never been a chore, Matt.” You breathed in the scent of his skin, soap and the faint copper of blood, traces of cinnamon and just him. It was a scent you knew better than your own. You lifted your hand to run your knuckles down his cheek, tracking your way through his greying beard, hoping that your touch would help your words sink in. He slid his hands up under the back of your shirt to drag his palms smoothly down your back, comforting himself with the feel of your skin as he tilted his head, listening to your heartbeat. It wasn’t because he thought you were lying, that much you knew. But he’d told you once he found the truth soothing when hearing something that might make him feel otherwise vulnerable. Something like this, this old wound of his, absolutely qualified. “And it never will be, no matter what comes at us. If you need me to remind you of that every day, I will. I’ll tell you that over and over again, until the day we die and get buried in matching coffins.”
“The same coffin,” he said quietly, tipping his head to nuzzle at your temple. “There’s a reason we took ‘Till death do we part’ out of our vows. No parting, even in death.”
“Do they even sell double coffins? If so, I’m down.”
“Even if they don’t, I’ll tell Foggy to make sure I end up in yours with you.”
“I think I should end up in yours.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone will just assume your coffin’s extra heavy due to your goddamn audacity.”
He burst out laughing beneath you, his body shaking and almost throwing you off him entirely.
“I’m just saying,” you continued, trying not to grin as he choked out more laughter, “you live your life in a very particular way, man without fear. ‘Christ, why is his coffin so heavy?’ And our friends can just say, ‘well, you know, it’s Matt Murdock’ and it’ll explain everything. No one will notice me shoved in underneath you so you can lay on top of me forever.”
“It’s a date,” he said, still huffing in amusement. A pointed paw tapped at your back before starting a walk up your spine. “Speaking of which, looks like someone’s eager to get in on the cuddling.”
“Behold, offer to cuddle and both Matts will appear,” you snorted as roughly twenty pounds of scarred black cat trod his way stubbornly up and onto your shoulder, rasping out an indignant meow that sounded like he’d been smoking a pack a day for the past seven years, because how dare the two of you do this without inviting him. “I’m about to be sandwiched, I think. Hello, Mini-Matt.”
Sure enough, Matt’s smaller clone enthusiastically rammed his head against your temple, making you grunt, before doing the same to Matt’s chin. He was already purring like an old motorcycle engine in a request to get in on what seemed like a nice, cozy cuddle pile, as if Matt would ever turn the cat down. Sure enough, Matt leaned in, planting a kiss to Mini’s big fuzzy forehead before turning and laying a much gentler kiss on yours as Mini draped himself over your shoulder, stretching one paw out to pat Matt's face. “Something tells me you don’t mind, though.”
"Waking Nightmare" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic)🌧️
Time for the next prompt for my Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! This is for day 7. Took an extra day to work on it cause this is a very angsty one, since our prompt was 'Nightmare' and I went with the classic, 'he accidently swings at you while asleep' trope (many thanks to @sunflowersandsapphires and @shouldbestudying41 for helping me with our chats on this one!). You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications!
Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Wordcount: 5.2k
Warnings for this chapter: BIG angst warning on this one, along with a warning for being hit (not intentional), nightmares, guilt, blood, Matt's convinced he committed DV so that is discussed.
It began, like so many disasters did, with a series of small fractures.
What started as a horrible week turned out to be the harbinger of a truly terrible month for Matt. Despite near-constant, frantic late nights of casework at Nelson and Murdock, the firm lost two important cases in short order. Both cases had been a long shot when it came to success, but that had done little to soften the blow to Foggy, Karen, and Matt—especially Matt, who’d made promises to client families that he’d been unable to keep.
Matt’s work as Daredevil hadn’t gone much better. A new gang had moved into the Kitchen and set up shop, staking out a territory drenched in blood, ash, and terror. Matt had thrown himself into that fight with the same determination that he always did, and while he’d made serious progress breaking down their operation, there had still been losses. As far as he was concerned, the lives lost in the past month—the three targeted victims in the burning apartment complex he’d been unable to reach in time, and the two store clerks shot and killed in their shops before he could make it to them—were caused by his own personal failings. Despite your best attempts to convince him otherwise, the perceived blood on his hands had only driven him to devote himself even more ferociously to his work at night and during the day.
That devotion snowballed rapidly into a lack of sleep, often the first casualty in Matt’s life when things got stressful or busy. The exhaustion only sent him spiraling further into bouts of anger and a retreat behind his emotional walls. He snapped at you whenever you tried to talk to him about it, shying away from the kind touches he felt he didn’t deserve. While a quiet apology almost always came later in the night, soft and full of regret, it didn’t change the fact that you could see him beginning to splinter and crumble beneath the pressure he’d placed on himself, your Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. You’d gone through this with him before, the periods in which it all seemed to go wrong and he refused to strap on the lifevests you stubbornly threw to him over and over again. As best you could tell, when these storms came there was no other option but to simply plant your roots deep and ride it out with him, ensure he knew he wasn’t alone. And when he finally fell to pieces, giving beneath the weight, you’d make sure he had a loving hand to help him glue his bloody, broken pieces back together.
You’d thought that fracturing would come from something on the streets. Another death, maybe, or sheer exhaustion.
You’d never expected it to happen here.
Not at home.
“You’re going out?” You watched him dig through his father’s trunk for his suit, his back to you. He’d only just returned from another late night at the office. The only reason you were seeing him at all was because you’d woken up thirsty, heading out to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The distance between you both abruptly felt so much farther than a meager ten feet, so much harder to cross. Still, you tried. “It’s almost two. Some rest might—”
“Don’t,” he said tightly, yanking his mask out and tossing it back onto the couch. He pulled out the rest of his suit next along with his billy clubs. His movements were unnaturally stiff, almost robotic. “I need to…” He sucked in an uneven breath, reaching up to run an exhausted hand through his dark hair. After a moment, he dropped his hand, going back to what he’d been doing. If anything, your implication had only made him more determined, his voice now resolute and closed off. “Our appeals aren’t going well. The city’s quiet for the first time in a month, but that might not last. I need to go out. Just for an hour or two. Go back to bed.”
You gnawed on your lower lip in thought as he stalked over to the couch. Without his shirt, it was so much easier to see the lines of stress and tension cutting their way through him like winding roads, his muscles drawn up tight and hard. The bruising along the canvas of his back and ribs stood out with every neon flash of the billboard beyond the windows, adding a layer of blood red to the spiraling waves of deep blue and sullen indigo painted on his skin. That he’d been hurt even with the protection of the suit told you just how bad it had gotten out there. He needed rest, desperately. You both knew it. But you couldn’t bear the thought of trying to keep him here, forcing him to listen to the sounds of the city without being able to do anything about it. It was a promise you’d made to yourself, once, and you intended to keep it.
“Ok, D.” You kept your tone gentle. He’d hear you even across the room. “Ok. Come back safe.”
Some of his tension eased at your agreement, and he slowed where he’d been opening up his suit, preparing to step into it. Had he really thought you’d fight him?
“I…” He shook his head after a moment. He turned until you could see him in profile, that same red light now highlighting the dark, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. But for just a moment, there was the barest softening in his expression, a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. You knew this look, this hand stretched out through the bars of the darkened prison cell he’d found himself trapped within. “I love you,” he said softly. “So much. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m sorry.”
“I know. Don’t worry about me for now. We’ll work it out. Just be careful tonight.” You tilted your head as he took a few tentative steps towards you. You took your own small step, cautious like you were approaching a stray who might run if you moved too quickly. He lifted his hand once you were within reach, the back of his fingers stroking lightly, tenderly against your cheek. You turned and brushed your lips fondly against his fingers, your eyes fluttering shut as you soaked in the warmth of his skin. It was the most intentional touch you’d gotten from him in a week, outside those moments in his sleep when he held you close, and god, were you grateful for it, something in you easing at the return of his affection. It meant he was coming out of this, swimming back up to the light and out of the void he’d been lost in. Sometimes you wondered if him denying himself your touch wasn’t just another way he punished himself when his darker thoughts seized hold of him. “I love you, too.”
“Go back to bed, sweetheart.” He tipped your chin up so he could place a tired kiss on your forehead before he let you go and returned to his suit. His motions, at least, seemed more settled now. “I’ll be back in an hour if it’s quiet, I promise. I’ll find a way to make it up to you this weekend.”
You left him there in the living area, more content than you’d felt in weeks. Sure, the past month had been shit for you both, but you were coming out of it now just like always. You fell asleep comfortably with that knowledge, cradling it inside you against your heart as you drifted off.
You weren’t sure what it was that woke you later. Not at first, anyway. The bedroom was dark and quiet, save for the usual sounds of the city at night that leaked in through the closed windows. Matt’s arms weren’t around you, but it was possible he hadn’t gotten back yet. Without any other signs of danger, you gave a soft huff of irritation. Figures. Waking up over nothing. You shifted your head around on the pillow until you found a nice cold spot, closed your eyes, and began to drift back off.
Then you heard it again behind you.
Your brow furrowed, eyes blinking back open.
Right, now you knew it wasn’t just a dream.
The sound you’d heard wasn’t quite a moan. It wasn’t a word, either. Hell, you didn’t know what to call it, exactly, but it definitely wasn’t a happy noise, that much you knew. This sounded… almost pained, hitched and edged with something like panic. You blearily rolled over to get a better look, still half-asleep.
Apparently Matt had gotten back while you were asleep, the shadowy outline of him curled up on the opposite side of the bed. He was also facing away from you, which was… odd. Most nights, he slept with you in his arms—or him in yours on particularly bad nights. That he’d either consciously or unconsciously placed this much distance between you would have stirred the smoldering embers of worry if you’d been more awake. It wasn’t right that he was over ther, curled in on himself, small and isolated, a lonely island in the sea of silk sheets. As you watched, he twitched restlessly, before making that same small, pained noise you’d heard before. Or was it scared?
Nightmare, you thought sleepily. That explained the distance. He’d probably just rolled away in his sleep. You yawned, untangling yourself enough from your cocoon of blankets that you start crawling over towards him. Clearly this was one of those nights when he was the one that needed to be held. You weren’t entirely sure why your presence helped to soothe his nightmares, but for whatever reason, your arms around him and your breathing against his back, your heartbeat pressed against his back, was often all he needed. Even if he woke up when you got over to him, he’d have an easier time falling back asleep with you holding him. He always did. Especially after such a terrible month.
You yawned again when you finally settled down behind him, throwing one arm over his waist and spooning affectionately up against his back. He stirred slightly at that, his body going tense and hard, his chest resonating with a soft growl. But he quickly quieted, soothed at the sound of your voice.
“It’s ok, Matt,” you said sleepily, breathing slowly, intentionally against the hard line of his back. “You’re ok, sweetheart. Just a bad dream.” You tucked your legs up behind his, nuzzling over onto his pillow, hunting for him even as your eyes fell shut again. You’d kick yourself later, for what you did next.
Without thinking, you leaned in… and brushed a firm kiss against the back of his neck.
Just like that, the peace, the calm was shattered.
A wild snarl filled the air, followed by a sudden, blinding explosion of pain across your face that lit up the black behind your eyes like a skyline of fireworks. Before you could even cry out, you’d been thrown clear of the bed. You only just avoiding cracking your temple on the corner of Matt’s nightstand. But what your head missed, the rest of your body didn’t. As you slid across the nightstand and came crashing to the ground, you brought down every last object on the nightstand with you, glass and metal shattering somewhere far away from where you were, the whole of the world gone thick and quiet.
Things got fuzzy then, a sickening carnival maze of light spinning in your vision every time you blinked. Your dazed thoughts were thick, slow to come together. But, still, you tried, because something was very, very wrong.
Matt.
Yes. You needed to find Matt. He was probably out on the streets still. It was the only way someone could have broken in just to hit you like an asshole. You weren’t sure where you were crawling too exactly, but away from the threat felt like a good start. As you moved, something hot and wet began to pour down your face in steady streams, irritating and coppery whenever it made it into your mouth. Fortunately, that was a distant problem. You could worry about whatever was on your face later. Your only concern at the moment was holding your attacker off until Matt could get here and kick some fucking ass.
A pair of feet slammed against the floor, someone calling out, panicked and frantic. The sound was far too garbled for you to understand it immediately, but what it did tell you was that your attacker was still close by. There wasn’t anything around you that you could easily use to defend yourself, or at least, there wasn’t until your hand bumped into something long and metallic. You snatched it up, ignoring the sudden appearance of pain in your palm as you did so. You dragged it with you, metal squealing across the floorboards as you scrambled on your hands and knees. In seconds, you’d made it out of the bedroom and into the living area.
Good. When Matt came through the rooftop door, he’d have less distance to cross to get to you. You’d also be able to see your attacker better in the flash of the billboard lights, though the flashing sea of red light made your eyes water and burn. But you could also feel your vision clearing, which was great. You’d need it.
A shaking, trembling hand brushed against your shoulder.
You rose up swiftly on your knees, metal rod clutched tight in both hands. “Get away from me!” you snarled, putting every last ounce of strength you had into your motion as you twisted and swung.
And Matt—
What?
—snapped his hand up, catching the lamp rod just before it could hit him in the face.
“...Matt?” you asked shakily, unable to hide your confusion. “It was you?”
“This can’t be happening, no, no no no,” he choked out tearfully, his breath coming panicked and wild. His tone was so ragged you almost didn’t recognize the voice as his. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re bleeding, I-I’m sorry, I’m so—”
The lamp rod fell from your paired grips. Hands shaking, he brought them up tentatively towards your face. He stopped just before he could touch you, hovering them a breath away from your skin. The first of his tears began to trail down his cheeks, his expression twisting in what you alarmingly recognized as grief. You’d seen him cry before, but never like this. “God, I-I didn’t know it was you, I’m sorry, I thought you were…”
He was… apologizing. But that didn’t make sense, no matter how much you tried to force the idea to settle into your dazed mind. It couldn’t have been Matt. You weren’t afraid of Matt. Matt didn’t hurt you. He didn’t hit you. Those were facts, as irrefutable as gravity, as reliable as the rise and the fall of the sun. You didn’t understand, just like you didn’t understand why he wasn’t holding you. He always did when you were hurt. “You… you hit me?”
The low, agonized noise he made was inhuman. It was the sound of a wounded animal, of someone who’d just been carved open. His hands drew back from your face, dropping down towards your hands where they’d settled on your thighs, though he seemed just as hesitant to touch you there. Tears dripped down from his face, joining the droplets of thick, deep red now scattered across the floor. Had you left all fo that there? You really… were bleeding, weren’t you?
“I-I… I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t,” he whispered brokenly, his breath hitching with what was almost a whimper. He grabbed one of the blankets off the chair next to him, the one you loved to curl up under with him. He slid it as gently as he could around one of your hands—oh, you were bleeding there, too, just a little, goddamn cheap lamp—though he avoided allowing his skin to brush against yours. “I was… having a nightmare, and I thought-I thought you were someone else, they had you and I was trying to-to get to you but someone grabbed me and I—God, you have a concussion, your nose is-is bleeding. I have to call Claire, get away from you b-before I… I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry—”
Finally, the idea settled into your mind, the world abruptly righting itself.
The nightmare.
Well, that made sense.
You still weren’t quite thinking right, thoughts thick and fuzzy like wisps of cotton, a massive, throbbing ache in your head and face that only got worse every time the billboard lit up. But you you’d been right. Matt didn’t hit you. He hadn’t hit you, because he hadn’t known it was you. Hell, he’d even apparently been trying to save you, at least in his nightmare. It seemed simple enough to you, an obvious accident. But it didn’t seem quite so simple to Matt. You reached for his cheek. “Matt,” you soothed, your words only a tiny bit slurred as he sniffled and wrapped the blanket tighter around your hand, applying firm pressure to stop the bleeding. “It’s ok, Matt. You didn’t mean it.”
But the second your fingertips brushed against his skin, he threw himself backwards and out of your reach, his dark eyes wild. “Don’t!” he spat.
You faltered just a little, suddenly unsure. But you quickly shook it off, shakily climbing to your feet to follow after him. Your own injuries felt secondary in that moment, because this… this was the wound, the disaster that might do you both in if you didn’t find some way to stop it. Your bloody nose and hand could wait. “You didn’t mean it, Matt. It was an accident.”
For every step you took forward, he took one back, the two of you performing some twisted, heartbreaking sort of dance across the floor. Eventually you cornered him against the wall, hemming him in. He was almost shaking as you stepped in close. Your hand rose and this time around, you successfully managed to cup his jaw, trying to press your affection, your calm into his skin. “Easy, Devil-Man. I’m ok,” you murmured. You swiped one thumb over the trail of tears sliding down his cheek, a new one appearing each time you’d cleared away the last, an endless stream of them falling from his grief-stricken eyes as they darted sightlessly around you. “This wasn’t your fault. Help me get cleaned up and then we’ll talk about it, ok?”
He hitched a soft, quiet breath when you tugged his head down, his forehead pressed to yours like he’d done for you so many times before. You breathed with him for a moment, trying to ease him down. He swallowed hard, his eyes fluttering closed as you stroked your thumb against his cheek, and for a moment, you almost thought you’d managed to fix it.
A breath.
His jaw clenched, and your heart sank.
This time when his eyes opened, all traces of warmth in them were gone. Whatever door you’d once pried open was now shut, slammed resoundingly in your face.
“No. It’s not ok.” He brushed your hand away, sliding out from between you and the wall without so much as a pause. He reached up to wipe away his tears, the motion sharp and edged with tension.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to call Claire to come look you over,” he said flatly, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll use my burner. Mine was on the… the nightstand.” The brief crack in his voice, a brittle chip in the armor he’d just tried to throw up around himself, only confirmed what you’d hoped you could avoid.
“Matt,” you said softly. “Don’t lock me out like this.”
He may have been aiming for calm but he couldn’t hide what he was feeling, not entirely anyway. Not when his hands were still trembling as he felt around on the kitchen counter, acting like he hadn’t heard you. “I’ll call Foggy, too. Once they’re here, I’ll go.”
“What?” You watched in disbelief as he kept hunting along the counter. With every second that passed and he failed to find it, he grew more frustrated, more angry. He quickly turned his back to you, body stiff like he was expecting a sudden blow. “You’re you’re leaving me?”
“I hit you,” he spat viciously, another seething wave of emotion bubbling up through the cracks of his voice like acid, bitter and toxic and just as liable to burn. Here it was, here it was: the self-loathing, the disgust, the burning hatred. He drew in a sharp breath, shivering as he did. And on the exhale, he seemed to have regained control. His voice rapidly returned to that same cold, emotionless monotone, though he kept his face out of your view. Whatever expression he had would give him away, you were certain of it. “I almost broke your nose. You have a concussion. You cut yourself trying to get away from me. I’ve put men in the hospital for a lot less. You’re not safe with me—”
“That’s horseshit,” you huffed, starting towards him on wobbly legs. You had to stop and grab one of the chairs just to keep your balance and halt you from pitching over onto the floor. Not that it was a concern; no matter how upset Matt was, he’d catch you. But still, you falling would only make things worse. You forced yourself to breathe through the roiling in your stomach, unsure if it was the concussion that was making you nauseous or simply the knowledge that he was trying to leave you. But you wouldn’t let those fucking voices in his mind—ones that probably sounded like Stick—drive him away from you. Not without a fight. At least your nose seemed to have stopped bleeding. That was a good sign. “It was an accident. We both know it. This just—it happens something with nightmares, including non-vigilantes, Matt. I’ve woken up scared and smacked you in the face more than once, and you know it.”
“You didn’t throw me across a nightstand or give me a concussion.” He barked out a bitter laugh. The hateful sound filled you with dread, as did the heartbreaking resolve beneath it. He’d already made up his mind, convinced himself of what he’d done. “I always knew. That’s what they all said. That I was cursed. That I had the Devil inside me. That all I wanted was to hit someone. This is who I am. I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, but deep down, I knew. And now I hurt you. I can’t let that happen again, even if it means I have to leave to keep you safe.”
“Matt,” you said desperately, managing to make it to the couch, bracing yourself against the arm of it. If you could just get to him, you could fix this. You knew that. “That’s not true. Let’s just talk about this.”
Matt ignored you again, snatching up his keys and starting towards the hall. “I can’t find my burner,” he said. That tone, flat and empty of all feeling, was so much worse than anger. You’d take anger any day—you’d take grief, or hurt. Emotion meant you had a way in, that he’d opened himself to you, baring all the parts of him left vulnerable and raw. This tone, though…You couldn’t help but feel like you were banging your bloodied fists against a door abruptly chained shut. “Keep pressure on your hand. I’m going next door to ask for their phone so I can call Claire. I’ll only be gone for a minute, then I’ll be back. I’ll find somewhere else to stay once she’s here to take care of you.”
No.
No, he couldn’t leave you over an accident. Your heart rate shot up, rattling against the lump in your throat. You almost felt like you couldn’t breathe, panic crushing your lungs in their grip, something that made him him stiffen. And you-you couldn’t let him leave, not like this, not when he might not come back. There had to be something, some way to reach him and keep him from destroying, burning down the best thing in both of your lives.
And there was only one method that might work in a moment like this.
Holding up a mirror.
“I’m sorry,” you breathed.
And Matt… froze in the hall, a mere three steps from the front door.
“I’m sorry,” you repeated, more firmly now. You didn’t bother to hide the waver in your voice. You drew in a slow breath, exhaling just as slowly. It wasn’t blood running down your face, now, and he’d know it. “I’m sorry for scaring you. For touching your neck in your sleep. I know how vulnerable it is, and how you feel about it being touched by anyone other than me. I didn’t think about what touching that might feel like during a nightmare.”
“Stop apologizing,” he growled, his shoulders drawing up tight. “They’re not the same thing, and you know it.”
But despite his objections, he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t left yet. Hell, maybe he’d found he couldn’t. Not when you were injured. You’d take it if it meant you had a chance.
“Aren’t they the same?” You reached up with your good hand, sniffling a little as you wiped some of the blood off your face. “According to you, they are. It doesn’t matter what I meant to do, right? Just that I did something that led to me hurting you. And this is hurting you. I can tell.” You choked out a wobbly laugh when he flinched. You used that break in his armor to edge closer, praying you didn’t stumble and fall, losing the ground you’d just gained. “Do you remember when I slipped and dropped that bowl last month and it shattered and cut your feet?”
“That’s not—”
“I had to pick shards of porcelain out of your poor bare feet. I felt horrible.” Another step. Then another. “Remember when I smacked you in the face during my nightmare last January? Split your lip and everything.” You caught one hand against the shelving unit by the hall, taking a split second to breathe, more tired than you wanted to admit. “You told me those weren’t my fault. You even fucking laughed about your lip. But if this accident is your fault, then all those times are my fault, and so is this one, if you think about it. So I’m sorry, Matt.”
“I hit you,” came his voice, trembling and uneven. You had a feeling those three small words were your target, spiraling on loop in his mind, their sharp edges tearing into him over and over again. His head slowly dropped, his body curling in on itself as you stopped a few feet away. He shuddered then, and without being able to see his face, you couldn’t tell if it was shame or just… hurt. “Don’t apologize when I hit you. I threw you across the room. I-I hurt you.”
“Oh, Matt,” you whispered. You took another step, at last coming within touching distance where you might be able to reach him. “It was an accident, sweetheart. You didn’t mean it. You didn’t know it was me. But… but if you want to talk about hurting me, let’s talk about this here.”
He stilled when he felt the first gentle touch of your hand against his back. Warm, unafraid, tender.
“If you’re worried about hurting me, this is how you’d do it,” you said softly, trailing your fingers down the line of his spine with all the love you had in you. “By leaving, Matt. By leaving me here without you when I love you more than anything or anyone else in the world. Don’t do that to me. Please.”
This time the sound he made was a broken sob, one hand rising up to fist in his hair. He sank slowly to the ground. You sank with him, winding your arms tight around him as he finally broke, shattering beneath the weight of his guilt. When he didn’t reject your touch, you quickly shifted around him, climbing into his lap. His arms found their way home around your waist, clinging to you tight as you rocked him in your arms, his face buried against your neck, tears flowing hot to join the blood still clinging to your skin.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was thick with sorrow, each breath one he had to fight for. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I never wanted to hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you, I’m sorry—”
“Listen to me. This was not your fault. I promise, baby,” you whispered, lifting his head to press your forehead to his like you had before. His eyes were shut, but they fluttered open just for you, as he finally, finally let you back in. You could almost see the torment swirling in them, the guilt, but that was alright. If you could see those shadows, you could fight them. “You were asleep, Matt. You were dreaming. You can’t control what your brain does then. If it thinks there’s a threat, it’s going to react without your input. Do you know how I can be so sure you won’t hurt me? How this all just proved I’m safe with you?”
His blank gaze shifted around you, one shaking hand coming up to trace your smile in open disbelief.
“Because the second you woke up, you were horrified.” You leaned into him, running the fingers of your good hand through his hair as he let out another shaky, breathless sob. “The second you woke up and realized it was me, it just broke you. You would never choose to hurt me, Matt. You're not a violent person, even if you've been taught to use it out there. A bad man doesn’t react like you did. A good man does. You are a good man, do you hear me? And if you leave?” You found his hand with your good one to lace your fingers together and squeeze, his eyes fluttering closed, as did yours. “I swear to God I’ll go stand in an alley in my pajamas and scream that until you have to come protect me from every mugger in the Kitchen. Which will only prove my point that you’d never let anything or anyone hurt me.”
He choked out a quiet, watery laugh, letting you bring his head back down to your throat. His tearful groan at the affection just made you cling to you tighter. “I love you,” he hitched out. “I love you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry. God forgive me, I’m so, so sorry.”
“I love you, too, Matt,” you whispered, burying your face in his hair. “It’s not your fault. Don’t let your nightmare knock us out this easily. Get back up. Stay, and fight for me, for us. Can you do that for me?”
You felt his eyes fall closed, and for the first time since he’d woken up, you heard a different kind of resolve in his voice: one that was far more familiar, far more welcome, solid and warm and steadfast, a strength you’d happily build your life upon, as he let your love seep in through the cracks to at last chase away some of the dark.
His breath eased out against your skin, soft and familiar. “I… ok. I can do that.”
Time for Day Six of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! I chose the angst prompt, "Shh, I've got you now. I'm here." with Michael Kinsella! I originally planned to use all three prompts (the above plus 'love bites' and 'spread your legs for me') but this one just sorta worked beautifully focusing on the angst prompt alone, despite my plan. May come back and do a sequel with the other two prompts eventually. You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!
Ship: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader
Wordcount: 1.1k
Warnings for this chapter: angst, blood, injury care, mention of reader briefly held hostage, language, mention of domestic violence, some shouting and breaking things (Michael is very angry here, just not at you).
His hands shaking, Michael cleaned you up in the bathroom.
You weren’t sure if that tremor was due to fear, or… or exhaustion, maybe. He probably hadn’t gotten much sleep the past two nights while you’d been missing, held captive in an abandoned building by a group of men who’d been looking to blackmail the Kinsella family. It hadn’t worked out well for them based on the dead bodies you’d seen when Michael had grimly carried you out past his brothers, his hands stained heavily with blood and smelling of fresh gunpowder.
It was those hands—the very same hands that had so recently dealt out death and destruction—that now tended gently to your wounds. With barely a word save a soothing murmur whenever you winced, he washed away the crusted grime and dried blood from your body in the shower before settling you down on the side of the porcelain tub. Once you were comfortable, he set about cleaning out and bandaging the bloody cuts on your hands and face, the torn skin on your wrists left by the handcuffs, and the burns along your forearm from the cigarettes one man had decided to put out against your skin when you’d spat in his face.
With every injury Michael cared for, however, the more his hands shook, his breathing growing sharper, hissing out from between his clenched teeth.
No. This wasn’t fear or exhaustion making his hands shake, you realized. This was…
He rose from where he’d been kneeling in front of you. He stared down at you for a moment with those dark eyes of his, taking all of you in for the first time since bringing you back home—taking in every last swollen bruise and vicious cut, every bandage and mark of pain left behind by those who had wanted to harm his family by using you against him.
…This was rage.
He snatched up the first aid kit, turned, and hurled it with a furious scream. It shattered against the wall in the hall, its impact leaving a crumbling hole in the drywall. Gauze and ointment, bottles of pills and splinters of plastic scattered left and right.
“Michael,” you said weakly. “I’m ok now.”
It was as if he hadn’t even heard you.
“I’m goin’ ta find the rest of ‘em and kill 'em for this!” he snarled savagely, his accent even thicker in his fury. Gone was the gentle lilt, the familiar softness he always seemed to gain in his voice when he spoke to you or about you. Now he was every inch the dangerous Kinsella that so many feared, though not you. Never you. Even now you weren’t afraid, despite the way he whirled and paced wildly in front of you, as if looking for the very same ones who’d so recently hurt you. This was rage in your defense, and that made all the difference.
“Michael—”
“They think I can’t find ‘em?” he spat. “They really think I can’t? I’ll hunt down every last fuckin’ one’a them filthy little cunts fer puttin’ their hands on ya! By the time I’m done wit’ em, there won’t be enough’a their fuckin’ bodies left for their mams to bloody bury!”
This time it was the drinking glass on the counter that paid the price. It flew out into the hall to shatter violently against the wall just beside the mark left by the first aid kit. Glittering shards of glass, some pieces still damp, joined the rest of the debris on the floor.
“Michael.” You heaved yourself upright on shaky legs, wobbly as a newborn fawn. And it hurt, it hurt to move, cuts tugging, body aching. You tried to blink the dampness away in your eyes, not now, come on. “It’s alright—”
“Don’t tell me it’s alright when they hurt ya!” he roared. But the moment he swung back around to face you and saw you on your feet, he spat out a curse. He stormed across the bathroom before you could take more than a step. “Daft woman, sit your arse back down before ya fall over!”
One hand still braced against the wall, you lifted your other arm quickly towards him. He lurched to a stop before he could touch you, an expression of horror twisting across his face, all furrowed brow and parted lips. Only then did you realize what that must have looked like to him—your arm held up to fend him off, trying to stop him from coming towards you, tears in your eyes as if you were… as if you were terrified of him and what he had been doing.
Gone in a breath was the rage, the fury, replaced by a gutted, heartbroken grief. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d have said he was about to cry, too. “Ya didn’t think I was goin’ to…” he whispered, swallowing hard and taking a cautious step back. “I… I swear, pet, I would never—”
“God, no, Mikey. I know you weren’t going to hit me,” you croaked, trying to put your arm out again in a more welcoming way, and if your breath started to hitch, tears now beginning to roll down your cheeks despite your best efforts, well, surely you were entitled to that, because it had been a horrible few days and the longer you stood here, the more you began to shiver and hurt. It had only been a few minutes since you’d been in his arms, but your body clearly wasn’t ready yet for even that much separation. Emotion welled up inside you like a dark wave, endless, bottomless. You were terrified you’d drown beneath it without him to help you keep your head above water. “I was trying to… could you come over here and… and hold me? I just need…”
He caught you just as the first choked sob tore its way out of your throat, the strength of the sound so violent, so raw it almost frightened you. One of his arms quickly wound around your waist, pulling you in against the comforting, familiar warmth and strength of his chest. His other hand rose to gently cradle the back of your head, bringing your head down so you could bury it against his neck. He rumbled low, soothing notes into your ear, tender words of comfort as you desperately tried to breathe in the scent of whiskey and leather, gun oil and rain between your heaving breaths and broken sobs.
“There ya go. Shh, I’ve got ya now, pet,” he whispered, laying his cheek against your hair. He shifted the two of you carefully across the floor until he could ease himself down on top of the toilet seat, pulling you slowly into his lap. You went without a fight, clinging to him, the fabric of his shirt held tight between your fists as if it were your lifeline. “I’ve got ya now. Let it all out. I’m here, darlin’. Yer safe with me.”
“Don’t let go,” you choked out, “Please.”
“Never. I promise.”
"From A Squirt Gun, With Love" (Bucky Barnes x F!Reader, Fic)
Time for the next prompt for my Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! This is for day 5's prompt: water gun fight. It's also been a while since I've written for my favorite super soldier, so today's prompt is for Bucky Barnes! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! Side note, once I've got more these will all be edited a bit more and placed on my AO3, so if you lose one, just keep an eye out over there!
Ship: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Wordcount: 1.5k
Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: some suggestive dialogue and innuendo
You couldn’t afford another mistake.
He’d been hunting you for at least an hour now, stalking you determinedly through the corridors of the compound and the manicured gardens outside. He’d already nailed you half a dozen times. And much to your disbelief, one of those times was because he’d somehow managed to find his way up into the air vents where he could track you unseen. You’d done your best to at least make it a challenge for him, relying on a variety of traps you’d managed to set up ahead of time, but it hadn’t done you as much good as you’d hoped, your hit count a measly two against his six. And now? Now you were running low on ammunition, and just as low on workable options. What was worse, he’d cornered you in the garage. You’d been able to tuck yourself beneath an SUV before he could see you, but there was only one exit—one currently being monitored by your annoyingly precise marksman of a boyfriend.
You held your breath at the quiet scrape of heavy combat boots scuffing against the concrete floor. If you had to guess, he was wandering around about two rows over and off to your left. He could have bent over and just scanned beneath the cars immediately, but he was enjoying this far too much to let it end that easily. He was toying with you, dragging things out now that he had you boxed in.
“I know you’re in here, doll,” came his low chuckle. “Come on out, and I’ll go easy on you. Besides, you gotta be soaked by now, and not in the fun way. But I can change that for you if you want. All you gotta do is pop that pretty head up for me.”
Not a chance.
You weren’t going down without a fight.
You clutched your water gun tighter, checking the glowing tactical display—you hadn’t even known high-tech water guns existed until Bucky had dropped one into your hands with a grin. “If my girl wants a water gun fight, we’re gettin’ a water gun fight.”
And what you saw wasn’t good.
Shit.
You were down to eighteen percent tank capacity. Anywhere else in the compound, you might have had a chance to reload with one of the buckets you’d both scattered around, but you’d forgotten to put one in the garage. If you didn’t get him with your next shot, you were done.
“The fact that you’re not out here shootin’ at me like before tells me you’re low.” His voice sounded different now: higher up, and a bit more distant. Had he… climbed on top of the cars? “You need more practice. I’ll admit, I was proud of you when you got that ass shot in, but that ain’t happenin’ again. My turn to get your ass now, darlin’. You gonna give me what’s mine?”
You sucked your lower lip for a moment before carefully edging your way forward, water gun held in front of you just in case he decided to pull a horror movie move and drop into view. It wasn’t easy. The goddamn water gun was shaped more like a shotgun than a super soaker, clunky and a bitch to drag around. The upside was it had an automatic reload so you didn’t have to worry about making any noise while pumping the gun. Its range was good for a water gun, around twenty feet, but not good enough that you could shoot Bucky at distance. You’d need to get close.
One of the cars down the row creaked, tires groaning, presumably as your massive super soldier of a boyfriend strolled along the top of the cars like they were paving stones. That he wasn’t bothering to be silent was… unusual.
“Here, kitty kitty,” he purred, his voice growing fainter as he wandered down towards the other end of the garage. “Where’s my pretty girl gone?”
On the one hand, you enjoyed hearing that tone from him, playful and relaxed, warm and content. He’d grown pretty comfortable with you, open and affectionate, over the time you’d known him. That comfort, that openness with you had only blossomed further as your relationship had morphed into something romantic. But even so, it was still unusual for him to let go like this just so he could have fun. It was progress, and that knowledge filled your heart with a sparkling warmth.
But you also couldn’t help but be the least bit suspicious, because it would be absolutely like him to use his voice and playful tone to distract you from something.
You froze again when a pair of boots suddenly appeared on the concrete in front of you, landing without a sound—you’d been right; all the sound a minute ago had been to try to lure you out, make you think he was farther away than he really was. You didn’t dare move, not when the slightest sound might give you away. Slowly, the boots shifted on the concrete as he turned one way, and then the other. Waiting for you to make a run for it.
But he’d taught you better than that.
There was the softest, quietest little huff of amusement, or maybe pride, instead. But instead of heading off, he began to kneel.
Shit, shit, shit—
He was going to duck down and look under the car. He knew you were here, he had to. He had to. Could you shift the angle of your water gun before he leaned down and saw you—
Fortunately for you, it became clear a second later that he was only lowering himself into a crouch. You stilled again in the shadows beneath the SUV, your gun still aimed cautiously at his legs.
Speaking of wish, you had a really good view of his thighs at this angle. With him crouched the way he was, his thighs looked even thicker than usual, deliciously hard muscle covered in old denim. The round curve of his ass looked just as good where he filled out his jeans, though the dark splotch on the tight fabric made you grin. It was a testament to one of the only two shots you’d managed to him with. Sure, he’d shot you twice in the ass in retaliation, but it had been absolutely worth it.
He settled onto the balls of his feet, rocking a little back and forth. You heard a soft whir, before his metal hand appeared in your view. Your heart skipped a beat, a droplet of maybe-water-maybe-sweat rolling down your temple. Only… his hand didn’t appear to be going for you like you’d expected. Instead, it slipped down to the concrete. One metal fingertip gleaming in the fluorescent lighting, it brushed lightly at the droplets of water drying on the concrete.
Fresh droplets.
From you.
Crap.
His head appeared beneath the SUV as he leaned over to meet your eye. Then he flashed you a feral grin. “Hi doll,” he said smugly.
“Hi Bucky. I love you,” you said fondly, and shot him in the face.
His head reared back as he spat out a curse, frantically swiping the water away from his face. It gave you just enough time for you to squirm out from under the SUV and take off down row between the cars, your sneakers slapping against the concrete, the wind blowing your hair back. If you could get to the door before he did, you could turn around and lock him in. It wouldn’t keep him here forever, but it might buy you a few minutes to reload.
Based on the rapidly pounding footsteps behind you, though, you weren’t even going to get close. Not when it sounded like he was charging after you with every last bit of super-soldier-powered speed he had. You needed another plan, or else—
Something slammed hard against one of the cars behind you, startling you enough to make you stumble. In that brief moment of distraction, Bucky had vaulted himself up off the car and over your head.
His broad form landed smoothly in front of you in one easy motion, dropping into a crouch. He rose slowly, powerful muscle gradually uncoiling inch by inch, until finally he loomed up over you, water gun held ominously in one hand. His pale eyes had gone dark with heat, pupils blown wide as he fixated on you: his prey. He took one prowling step forward, a flash of pink from his tongue as he lazily licked the droplets of water away from his mouth.
“You shot me,” he rumbled hungrily. “I should be mad. But damn, doll. That was hot.”
“Hot enough to stop you from shooting me back?” you asked hopefully.
“Not a chance,” he said with a smirk, before firing a blast of cold water directly at your abdomen. You let out another shriek, turning to sprint away from him, a trail of damp footprints left behind. And if your shriek was half laughter, well, his playful growl was just as full of joy as he took off after you.
"Sharing is Caring" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic, 🔥)
Time for the next prompt for my Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! This is for day 4 (Matt very much did not like this only being a drabble so now it's 5600 words, fuck me), I chose to combine the kink and fluff prompts (69 and 'Are you blushing?'). You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!
Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Wordcount: 5.6k, Matt fought me and won
Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: smutty smut smut, 69 position so oral for both plus face riding, overstimulation, lil bit of prostate stim, multiple orgasms, panty tearing, matt is a MENACE
LOOK AT THIS SMUG MOTHERFUCKER, I HAD A NEAT AND ORDERLY TIMELINE AND A DRABBLE OUTLINE, INSTEAD HE THREW THAT OUT THE WINDOW AND HE HAS FILLED THIS FIC WITH SIN, THE AUDACITY, WHAT TIME IS IT, MATT THIS IS YOUR FAULT
Matt was a giving lover. That much you knew.
No round of sex with Matt ended without at least one orgasm for you, and often more if he had his way, which he often did, the audacity of that man. It wasn’t unusual for him to spend hours with his head buried between your thighs, skilled tongue lapping hungrily at your sex in a way that made you see stars, and had also led to you tearing a hole in the sheets on more than one occasion. He’d bent you over every last surface in the apartment, and some of the surfaces outside it too. Somehow he always managed to sink himself so deeply inside you that you’d have sworn you felt him in your throat, and that feeling was always followed by him fucking into you with a practiced athleticism that never failed to leave you a melted, howling mess.
In other words, if sex with you was an artform, your climax was the masterpiece Matt lovingly devoted himself to creating. You’d never been with someone who took such joy in giving you pleasure.
But sometimes he was… too giving.
Like now, when what you wanted was to get that thick cock of his into your mouth.
“Oh, but sweetheart, I’m so hungry,” he purred, a warm, distracting light in his eyes. He was all heat and hungry fire where he stood in the bedroom doorway, a slow, lazy lick of his lips that admittedly had your cunt clenching around nothing. That look meant he had no intention of letting you out of bed for at least the next three hours. The growing outline of his hardening cock against his slacks only confirmed your suspicion as his voice dropped into something low and tempting. “I’ve been thinking about tasting you all day. It’s the only reason I got through work. Let me get my mouth on you, just for a little while. I’ll make it good for you, you know I will. Don’t you want that?”
It was a good offer. A very good offer, and one he was more than capable of fulfilling. You both knew it. But damn it, you also knew what you wanted.
“No,” you said stubbornly, crossing your arms. “I don’t want that.”
“Lie,” he murmured. His head cocked, his sightless gaze droping to your chest, and then lower until they landed somewhere around your hips. His lips slowly curled up into a smirk. “Mm, big lie.”
“...Alright, so maybe I always want that,” you admitted reluctantly, biting your lip as you stared down at the outline of your prize, heavy and thick even through the cloth. It was enough to make your mouth water. “But right now I want to suck you off more.”
And god, did you ever. It was rare for him to let you go down on him, but those memories had become regulars in your fantasies. There was just something about his soft moans and hitched whines when you took him in your mouth, the way he threw his head back and his mouth hung slack, his spine arching when you let the tip of your tongue gently brush that spot below the head of his cock until he fucking begged for you to swallow him down. And if you kept going after he’d already come, kept sucking at his softening cock and pressed your knuckle just right behind his balls, drove his trembling, writhing body carefully into overstimulation, you could even drag something like a second orgasm out of him in short succession. He’d been a melted, purring, barely-coherent puddle for a good hour when you'd last managed it and you had every intention of seeing if you couldn’t do it again.
His brows shot up, as if he were genuinely surprised at just how truthful you’d been, or maybe surprised at just aroused the thought of your mouth on him made you. But those same brows quickly furrowed in open confusion. “You…” His head shifted back and forth, checking again that you were telling the truth. “You want that? Over me going down on you?”
“Why is it so hard to believe I want you like you want me?” You snorted, wandering over to him until you could lean in and kiss him playfully. He still seemed puzzled, but he made a little huff of amusement when you did it again, dragging your nails down the front of his shirt. His chest rumbled beneath your touch, a quiet groan of pleasure. “Come on. Share, Matt. Let me have a taste this time.”
He tipped his head down slowly towards you, clearly tempted. You leaned into him, another rumble leaving him when your lips brushed tantalizingly against the corner of his mouth. You almost had him now. The blatant note of your arousal in the air would only help your case now that you were up close. There was a flush on his cheeks now, and his nostrils flared, taking your scent in when you not-so-subtly rubbed your thighs together. You slowly hooked one finger in his belt, giving it a tug. “Please?” Your desire left you almost breathless, the word hushed and pleading. You weren’t above begging if you needed to. “I need you in my mouth, Matt. You can have me after, can’t you?”
“Or…” He drew his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, sucking lightly before letting it go, his mouth parted and wet. “Or we can both get what we want, with a few adjustments.”
Oh.
Your breath caught, and you went still, something thick and rich as molten honey rolling through your veins.
“Why, sweetheart,” he murmured, dipping his head until he could feather his lips over your ear. One of his fingers brushed over your sternum, so light you almost didn’t feel it, before it traced its way gradually up your throat to your cheek, stirring all the tiny hairs in its wake. “Are you blushing?”
“No,” you whispered, caught up in visions of what that might look like, feel like, to have his tongue licking its way hungrily into your cunt, all while you took his cock in your mouth and tried your best to make him lose his mind. Would he grow sloppy then, clumsy when you toyed with the head of him? Or would he tap into that focus of his, the two of you in a blatant competition to see who broke first? You wouldn’t deny just how wet the idea made you, but that would also be a lot of sensation for him, especially when you both knew he could come from the taste of your cunt alone. “Or… yes, I… Would that be… too much? Your senses—”
“I’ll be fine. I may have…” He let out a low chuckle, his own cheeks now the lightest bit pink as he cleared his throat. “I may have gone into the office bathroom before I left work, and… taken care of myself. I’d been thinking about my head between your thighs all day. I had to make sure I could get home.”
The visual slammed into you with the force of a truck: Matt with one scarred hand pressed tight over his mouth to stifle his moans while he frantically stroked at his cock. And it was all because he’d spent hours thinking about how he was going to go home, throw you into bed, and find his way right down to your cunt.
Your low moan was quickly swallowed up as he caught your chin and tipped your head up so his lips could find yours. The kiss was all teeth and burning heat, fire and fierce need, his stubble rasping against your skin until you felt like you were on fire. One of his hands swept down and behind you, fingers spread wide as he groped roughly, greedily against your ass. He used that same grip to haul you forward into him, making you whine when his hips ground into yours, letting you feel exactly what you’d done to him.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “I can smell you, how wet you are. Tell me you want that, sweetheart. Tell me—”
“God yes, please, please, Matt.”
You didn’t bother to keep track of where your clothes fell as you both stumbled your way into the bedroom, neither of you willing to pull your hands and mouths off each other long enough to figure that out. You managed to get everything off but your panties by the time you neared the bed, and you fully intended to slide those off, too, but you were distracted by the pleasure of Matt’s mouth as he determinedly nipped and licked at the skin of your throat, blatantly drinking the pheromones from your skin. Fortunately, Matt was a bit less distracted.
The tearing of fabric rang out, and then Matt’s fingers slipped between your soaked folds, stroking three fingers eagerly along your slit until you gasped out his name.
“Oops,” he said with a smirk.
“You’re paying for those,” you grumbled.
“Happily.” He side stepped around you, and by the time you’d turned he was already on the bed, rolling onto his back and tipping his head back in clear expectation. Then he brought his wet, gleaming fingers up to his mouth, inhaling intently as he rubbed his fingers together. The reaction was immediate: a fierce groan, his other hand shooting down to wrap tightly around his cock as his hips bucked.
“Shit,” you whispered, absolutely mesmerized as he took another greedy breath, a creeping flush spreading across his pale skin. He may have come an hour or so ago, but his cock already looked achingly hard, the whole of it flushed dark and red, a decadent droplet of precum beading at the tip. He was an absolute vision, all of that strength and power, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen layed out like a meal for you, this affected just by the thought, the scent of your arousal. It lit a fire in you, and Matt must have sensed it, because he let out a growl before giving in and shoving his fingers into his mouth. His eyes snapped shut, a loud moan tearing through him. His other hand started to stroke quickly at his cock, firm drives up with a smooth sweep of his palm over the head before sliding back down, all as he sucked the taste of you eagerly from his fingers, unwilling to lose even a single drop. It was one of the hottest things you’d ever seen. “Holy shit, you’re trying to kill me.”
“Get up here and ride my face, sweetheart,” he grit out, shifting to let his thumb rub against the wet head of his cock. A delicious shiver ran through him, and he rolled his head on the pillow to face you. There was something far darker in his eyes, then, whispers of the Devil, of merciless rain on hard city streets. “Do it before I drag you up here myself, because I’m not going to fucking care if you can reach my cock when I do.”
It was the only invitation you needed, and you scrambled up onto the bed before he could change his mind. You had no intention of missing the opportunity he’d given you.
You hit another brief snag, however, once you’d crawled over to him. You’d ridden his face before, but that had always been with you facing the headboard or the arm of the couch. This required the opposite angle. After a moment’s consideration, one that ended quickly when Matt growled a warning, you muttered a quiet, “fuck it,” and did a half turn, throwing your leg quickly over him so you had a knee on either side of his shoulders. Then you walked back a step or two on your knees, Matt’s free hand taking the meat of your thigh in his grip. It was difficult to figure out just where you needed to be to get the angle right. All you could see from this angle was his body stretched out like a long, open road before you, his other hand still stroking roughly at his cock, his knees bent, feet braced so he could rut lazily up into his grip. You didn’t really know where to put your hands, so you settled for placing them against the broad line of his chest, using them to brace yourself as you tentatively adjusted.
Matt, however, had lost his patience.
With a snarl, he let go of his cock. Both his hands caught your hips, and with one hard yank he wrenched you down, burying his mouth against your pussy as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
You both let out a sharp moan, Matt’s far more muffled than yours. There was no gentleness now, no parting you with his fingers to tease you with the tip of his tongue before settling in. Instead, it was something ravenous and filthy, animalistic, Matt’s mouth open wide as he licked and sucked at your folds and slit, greedily drinking up every last drop of your arousal he could find. For a moment you forgot what your plan had been. Your head fell to rest against his abdomen, your lips parted on a whine as Matt devoured your slick with heavy grunts and rumbles of approval, your hips starting to rock against his mouth. He was eating at you with everything in him, no thought given to things like air, based on his hitched breathing and muffled groans. He’d told you once, lips curled into a smirk, his chin still wet with your arousal, that if he died between your thighs, well, he’d consider that death a victorious one.
“Mm—Matt, oh god, please,” you whimpered, your fingers curling against his skin, red lines left in your wake.
Apparently satisfied that he’d taken in everything he could get, Matt tipped his head down just a hair, using his grip on your hips to adjust you until his tongue found your clit. With a purr, he began to lap warmly, steadily at it, over and over and over again, every now and then pursing his lips to kiss at it with a fond affection that was almost tender. The attention to your clit made your eyes flutter shut, quiet whimpers escaping you with each pass of his tongue, your body clenching in want. At the fresh trickle of wetness, Matt groaned in delight. “Taste so good, sweetheart, all mine,” he slurred warmly, syllables thick and sounding almost drugged, before his tongue found you again, falling right back into his aphrodisiac of choice. As he did, his body began to shift beneath you, before settling into a steady rocking. Startled, your eyes fluttered open, and you glanced down his body. What you saw made your mouth fall slack.
Matt had begun to roll his hips, rutting up in lazy waves. At first you thought it might be an invitation, a reminder, but as you watched you quickly realized what he was doing. With every flex and buck of his hips, he managed to rub his cock against his abdomen, just a little. You could already see the smears of precum pooling in the lines and grooves of flexing muscle, and that only made each successful contact smoother, Matt’s moans against your cunt growing stutered and hoarse. It likely wouldn’t have been enough sensation for anyone else, but for Matt and his senses, it was just enough to drive him further upwards, his thich thighs starting to tremble. Hell, he was probably enjoying it, considering how he liked to tease himself.
Fortunately, it was also a reminder of what you’d wanted to do.
You quickly stretched out above him, headed for your goal. Your hips shifted just a little as you did, and Matt let out a low, possessive growl, his hands tightening on your hips in a warning. He didn’t like the idea that you might pull away before he was done, you had a feeling.
“Relax.” You choked out a shaky laugh, lowering your head to kiss fondly at the crest of his hip. Your affection softened his growl to a gentler, contented groan. “Just-just trying to get to you.”
He seemed soothed by that, at least. Then again, maybe he just wasn’t listening, far too focused on your cunt to really hear you. Either way it didn’t matter, because you’d finally maneuvered yourself to where you’d wanted to be. You braced one hand shakily on his thigh, some of your weight settling down on top of him. His chest rose and fell on a happy sigh beneath you, more than happy to have you sprawled out over him. It also meant his cock was now in range of your mouth.
It was even more tantalizing up close, flushed, wet, and practically begging for your attention even if Matt’s mouth was otherwise occupied. You eagerly caught the base of it, wrapping your fingers tight around it. Beneath you he let out a grunt, his tongue faltering against your clit. You had no interest in waiting any longer, so without a second’s hesitation you dipped your head and stuck out your tongue, catching one of the drops of precum rolling down the shaft. From there you rose with one long drag along his length, following that damp trail back up to his tip like you might a melting drop of ice cream. The moment your tongue swept over the head of Matt’s cock, he let out a startled moan, one that morphed into a hoarse cry when you lapped warmly at his slit, chasing the taste of him, taking in every fresh drop that welled up beneath your attention. It had been far too long since you’d gotten to taste him like this, bitter and salty in equal measure, the scent of musk and sex so much stronger here.
“God,” he choked out, squirming beneath you, his hands practically clawing at your hips. His head dropped back and away from your cunt as he gasped up to the ceiling, breath hitching on a high moan as the strokes of your tongue grew more firm. “Ah-ah! Your mouth, sweetheart, I need it, just—”
Time to see if you could break him before he broke you.
You dropped your mouth open wide before starting to slide him into your mouth, using your hand at his base to angle him and make it a little easier. But easier was… relative.
Shit, you thought with a low moan, one that had Matt crying out behind you. He was so fucking thick, broad enough that you felt a faint ache in your jaw, saliva already leaking out past the corners of your mouth to drip down his length. There was no graceful way to swallow him down, but the sensation of your saliva rolling down his shaft, your stifled huffs through your nose as you slowly worked your way down his cock had him absolutely wrecked. His body trembled beneath you, his hips jerking in an only barely aborted attempt to thrust up into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. He actually whined when you gave him your first little suck, and those whines only grew in number as you did it again, his panting music to your ears, so wet you were practically dripping down onto him. And maybe you really had, because before you could blink, he’d yanked your hips back down. This time, however, he brought his hands around so he could use his thumbs to part your body for him. With a wild moan, he’d buried his mouth against your slit, licking hotly at your opening over and over until he’d managed to worm his tongue inside you.
Your eyes rolled back at the feel of his tongue lapping eagerly at your inner walls, his chin grinding roughly against your clit. He’d burrowed in so hard against you it was if were intent on drowning, on latching onto you and never letting go. The angle was perfect, and you found yourself grinding down instinctively against his face, riding his tongue inside you and the stubbled texture of his chin, chasing your pleasure just as you were seeking his. His delighted moan as you started as you started to use him the way he wanted was so muffled you swore he shouldn’t have been able to breathe, but still you couldn’t bring yourself to stop, whining around the length of him in your mouth as he slurped deeper, your thighs locking up around his head, his skin slick with you. He was dangerously close to coming based on the way his cock had started to throb against your tongue, and you weren’t much further behind, but he was clearly aiming to get you there first.
No.
No, you wanted to ruin him too. Focus, just a little more. You clumsily lifted your head halfway up before skating back down to meet your hand around his base. Neither of you were coordinated enough to make this last much longer, too distracted by the rising waves of pleasure, but that didn’t matter. You knew his body. You could outlast him, by a few seconds at least. But to do that, you’d need one more thing, so And, determined to win, you quickly worked your free hand down past his cock, pausing to knead briefly at his sac just for the way it made him moan roughly against your cunt before you drifted past it. You didn’t slide your fingers inside him—something you both hadn’t tried quite yet—but you did curl one finger and press your knuckle up gently just behind his balls, indirect pressure against that spot deep inside him.
His back arched so sharply and suddenly beneath you he almost managed to throw you off, and his choked gasp hit air as he threw his head back. With a shaky whine, he ground down desperately against your finger before snapping his hips up, clearly torn between the wet suction of your mouth around his cock and the firm pressure against his prostate. But unlike last time he’d thrown his head back, this time you followed his mouth with your hips. You were too close to that edge now to go without it, especially not with the noises he was making—whimpers and broken moans, slurred pleas—so you tried desperately to find his lips again, grinding down against his face. And though you were reluctant to let him go, you still managed to tear your mouth off his cock just long enough to gasp out, “Fuck, Matt, please!”
Your begging managed to drag him up out of his haze just enough that he began to sloppily hunt for your clit, licking at your cunt until he finally found it, closing his lips around it just as you did the same to the head of his cock. Two warm pulls of your mouth to match his, and then with one more shove of your finger against that spot inside him, he cried out and came hard into your mouth in salty, bitter waves that tasted like fucking satisfaction. His hoarse moans, desperate and so very needy pushed you the rest of the way. Matt’s tongue lapped warmly against your clit,a nd just like that you joined him in falling over the edge, your body tightening and releasing in a rolling tide of pleasure that left you floating. He quickly shoved his mouth against your slit, grunting as he greedily drank down everything your body gave him.
You thought you were done, then, your chest heaving, your thighs shaking as the waves began to ease into aftershocks. But then Matt nuzzled roughly at your clit, his tongue brushing over it almost curiously. Then he moaned, dragging your hips back down. “Don’t stop,” he rasped hoarsely, yanking your hips back down. Just like that, his mouth was on your clit again, which was great except that you still hadn’t quite finished the last orgasm. The sudden rush of overstimulation before you could fully dome down left you shaking, clawing wildly at him, but your squirming got you nowhere, your hips firmly held in place.
Don’t stop.
There wasn’t much you could do but follow the instruction.
You moaned and began to suck clumsily at him, the softness of his cock cradled gently on your tongue. The noise he let out was strangled and hoarse, almost pained, because this had to be too much for him, it had to be, and yet… he couldn’t resist starting to rock up instinctively against your mouth, a broken whimper breathed against your cunt when you managed to probe your tongue against the tip of him. You knew, distantly, remembered that you’d had this plan: if you did this fast enough, did this just right, using his senses to your benefit, you could make him come again. And, well, it had helped before, so you shifted and rolled your finger, grinding hard against that spot inside him in steady waves, sucking harder at his cock just for the way it made him writhe. His head fell back once again, his hands dropping away from you to fist in the sheets, but you didn’t care, your goal in sight. One of these days you were going to get your fingers inside him to see what noises he made then, and just to taunt him, you hooked and curled your fingers against his soft skin, your message clear.
You weren’t sure who was more startled when he came—you, or him—but either way, he did, his cock only half-hard at best as he snapped his hips up, his body locking up as he spilled into your mouth. He made a sound you’d never heard from him before, one part shout and one part a high, hitching moan, the sounds ebbing and flowing with each jagged wave of pleasure you dragged him through, almost enough to hide the sound of tearing fabric. There wasn’t much left for his body to give, granted, but you still accepted those few drops anyway, swallowing them down with a satisfied moan as you milked him dry, massaging your fingers against him to drag it out. You didn’t stop until his sounds began to sound pained, and even then it was a struggle. You had to force yourself to lift your head, sitting back against his chest. But even that much pressure against your clit, made you whimper, your body shaking, because despite the overstimulation, as predicted he’d managed to shove you up far enough again that you were hanging right on the edge again, orgasm just a breath away.
“Matt,” you choked out, not even sure what it was you needed—his hand maybe, or even just for him to hold still so you could ride some part of him. One glance over your shoulder, however, let you unsure of what he might be able to give.
Matt’s head was still thrown back on the pillow, his mouth hanging as he panted, hair damp and sticking up in every direction. His eyes were glazed over and dark, absent any real awareness or thought. You knew that look, one he got when you’d really managed to fuck him senseless or leave him wrecked. He was out of it, his senses momentarily overloaded, come back later. You quickly pulled yourself off of him, just in case your weight over him had been unpleasant. He’d need some time, but fortunately, sitting here and staring at what you’d done—Matt Murdock, fucked out and drunk off your body—would be just the sort of visual you needed as you took care of yourself. You dropped one hand, sliding it between your legs until you could circle your clit with your fingertips, your lips parting on a satisfied moan. It wasn’t as good as Matt, but it was good enough.
Or… that’s what you thought you’d do, until Matt’s head snapped in your direction. His hand darted up, grabbing for you.
Except that he missed, his hand snatching at the empty air about two inches to your left.
“Matt,” you huffed shakily, using your other hand to take his. He probably just wanted to stay close, he usually did when you got him like this. “I’m-I’m fine, just, unh, gonna fini—Matt!”
Your hand brushing against his had apparently been the compass he needed, because yuou you abruptly found yourself shoved back onto the bed on your back with a grunt. He was on his hands and knees before you could blink, scrambling and feeling around the bed to feel out how you’d fallen, his eyes burning. The moment he made contact with you again, he shoved his head forward with a growl, mouthing at you, licking, biting at whatever skin he could find, which happened to be your ribs, the nip of his teeth sharp enough to make you cry out. You knew that you knew you’d have a mark there tomrrow, one to join the bruises on your hip. But it clearly wasn’t the part of you he’d been aimiing for, and he snarled in clear frustration, swinging his head back and forth in a failed attempt to orient before he managed to find your hips with his hands. Your own wound up tangled in his hair as he dragged himself roughly over your legs, and fuck, if he was offering, you were happy to take it. You lifted up your hips, tugging at his hair to direct him. “Here!” you gasped, pushing his head down between your thighs. “Here, Matt, right—”
He buried his face sloppily against your cunt again, not a hint of shame or hesitation in him. And his furious, rough lapping at your clit was exactly what you needed. The sound you made was raw and torn, almost a shriek as you suddenly got the stimulation you’d been looking for, your body tightening in rapid waves beneath his mouth. He caught your clit between his lips, growled, and sucked hard enough to have you seeing stars. That was it for you, your back arching as you fisted your hands tightly in his hair and came across his tongue, a flood of wetness drenching his face. With every pulsing wave of pleasure, he let out a satisfied little rumble, sucking in time with the rhythm of your body, dragging your orgasm out until the world burned white. The moment those waves began to ebb, he switched to broad flat licks along the entire length of your cunt, mindlessly drinking up every last drop, his eyes falling half closed in apparent bliss.
Which was nice. Until your body started to request a break.
“Matt,” you choked out, trying to shift away. He instinctively followed, blearily keeping his mouth latched onto your cunt, the pressure on your clit almost painful now. “Matt, that’s—fuck—II need a break, sweetheart, please! Matt!”
The sharp call of his name seemed to snap him out of it, and he finally let you go with a groan. He didn’t get very far, though, immediately tipping his head sideways until it landed on your thigh with a soft thump.
You let yourself breathe for a minute, twitching now and then when an aftershock rolled through you. When you were feeling a little more able to breathe, you finally lifted your head to glance at him. “That,” you wheezed, “was… we need to do that again. But in… in a while.”
He blinked slowly at you, blissed out and lazy as a lion who’d just had a meal. He hadn’t moved from your thigh, his face still absolutely drenched. Then he grinned, and the expression was so absolutely, drunkenly smug that you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.
“I take it you’re ok, then?” You snorted, reaching down to stroke your fingers down his cheek.
He blinked at you again, and there was a brief delay before his head turned and he nudged affectionately at your hand. Sometimes when his senses got too overloaded after sex, he needed a few minutes without touch to come down. This time, however, it seemed like that was what he needed.
“You wanna come up here and listen to my heartbeat until your senses are all back online?”
He seemed to think that over for a minute before he slowly started to drag himself up your body. He didn’t even bother to lift his head from you, simply dragging it along your skin as if he were loathe to lose the sensation of you aaginst him. He only ran into a slight hiccup when he bumped into your breasts. He noses around for a second, huffing briefly, before he found the space between them and continued on.
“You’re drunk as hell,” you choked out a laugh, as he rubbed his ear fondly back and forth over your sternum, hunting for whatever spot sounded best. “You’re pussy drunk. God, I love you.”
He finally selected his spot on your chest, his head dropping. The rest of his body followed, as he settled down on top of you with a groan of satisfaction. Then he rumbled out a contented sigh as you got your fingers in his hair, stroking through the sweat-soaked strands. One of his hands fumbled its way down to your hip, where he began to knead clumsily at it, your affections very much returned. “Mhm. Love you, too.”
“Little more coherent?”
“Mm. You taste good.”
“So do you. Don’t make me wait so long to get my mouth on you again.”
“Mhm,” he sighed. He absently licked his lips, before purring quietly, his eyes falling shut. “I promise. We’ll share.”
"You’re who I want." (Michael Kinsella x F!Reader)
Time for Day 3 of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! For Day Three, I chose to combine the fluff and angst prompts ("I feel real when I'm with you" and 'Broken'), and I also decided to try my hand at one of Charlie Cox's other characters for once, that being our favorite sad, tragic, sweetheart of a mobster Michael Kinsella! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!
Ship: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader
Wordcount: 2k
Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: mentions of blood, kiss at the end, angst (but with a happy ending obvs)
It was Birdy that called you right as you were getting ready to settle in for the night, the heavy downpour a drumbeat against your windows that you’d hoped would lull you to sleep. But that wasn’t in your cards tonight, it seemed.
“He’s headed yer way. Things… didn’t go well tonight.”
Not for the first time, you quietly cursed the way the Kinsellas had dragged Michael back into their business as you dug out the first aid kit, setting it beside a change of clothes and a few clean towels to help Michael dry off when he arrived. You didn’t care what the Kinsellas got up to on their own time, who they sold to and what their business was. What you cared about was whether Michael had wanted this. But he was a loyal man, endlessly devoted to family, something Amanda was all too happy to take advantage of.
You had thoughts on that, too, but that would also have to wait.
“We lost a few o’ ours. He managed ta turn it around at the last second, but… Well, the family argued after. Things were said ta him, and…”
Some nights, though, you wondered just how long Michael had left before he broke beneath that weight—the weight of expectation and a grim responsibility he shouldered without complaint, even as he began to crumble beneath it. In the two years since you’d met this beautiful, quiet man in that small coffee shop, you’d watched those brittle cracks form. Over time, as he gradually began to let you in, you’d discovered the far deeper fissures that lay buried beneath. Your lack of fear, your absence of judgement over what he’d done, had only opened that door further, until he began to seek you out as you did him. Time passed, and your orbits were brought closer and closer together, spiraling planets caught inevitably in the pull of each other’s gravity.
Neither of you had named what this was. But if he could find comfort here, safety here, then you’d happily give it.
“Just… be gentle with him, dear.”
Somehow, even the knock at your door sounded exhausted. You hurried out of the kitchen where you’d been filling up the kettle—you’d learned very quickly how important it was to have it ready at all hours when you’d moved to Ireland—and headed down the hall to the front door. You unlocked the door and tugged it open, letting in the roaring sound of the rain and a gust of chilled wind.
“Oh, Michael,” you whispered.
He was soaked to the bone, dark hair plastered down against his skin as he leaned tiredly against the doorframe, his body wracked with shivers from the cold. What was worse: even with the rain, you could still see traces of blood on his shirt and hands, more of it leaking steadily from a split on his lip. Fortunately, only the blood on his mouth seemed to belong to him. He tried to throw you a small smile, but it was far too crooked, too brittle to be real, and you had a feeling his eyes weren’t red because of the rain. The moment he seemed to realize you didn’t buy it, that shield fell away, and you were left with just Michael at his most exposed, empty and exhausted.
“That bad, eh?” he asked tiredly, trying for humor and missing by miles.
“Shit, get in here before you freeze.” You caught his arm and tugged him forward until you could quickly shut the door behind him. He didn’t fight you on it physically, for which you were grateful, but he couldn’t seem to resist at least a little verbal stubbornness.
“I’m gettin’ yer floors all wet,” he said. Without the need to pretend, his tone had gone empty and lifeless, stripped of all energy, as if he’d used up what little he had left on the walk over. He dropped his head, staring down at the growing puddle on the floor, his face twisting through something unreadable. “‘M sorry, pet. I shouldn’t have—”
“Floors can be dried, Mikey.” You waved the objection away, locking the door before turning back to Michael where he was standing shivering in the hall as if he were reluctant to take up any further space, as if he feared he were unwelcome. And something about it, about the way he seemed to barely be holding himself together, just… broke your heart. “Come here.”
He shivered again, even as he shook his head, arms wrapped around himself. You could almost see him changing his mind, a wave of regret rearing up inside him, flashing in the dark of his eyes, eyes still looking too damp for just the rain. “I’ll… I’ll get blood on ya.”
“I don’t care.”
He clenched his jaw, still refusing to look at you. Some of the blood on him had joined the puddle of rainwater at his feet, the pale tile darkening to a rusty pink. “No, I-I shoulda stopped ‘a home first, cleaned up. And it’s late, yer clearly dressed for bed. We can talk another time—”
You crossed the distance between you both before he could take a single step towards the door. He went stiff the moment you pulled him into you, but you let him work through it as you wound your arms tightly around him, hooking the fingers of one hand in his belt loops, making it clear you weren’t going anywhere. You used the other hand to stroke gently down his back, heedless of the water and blood that began to dampen your clothes, breathing in the scent of whiskey and leather, of gun oil and rain and blood. “Stop worrying about my clothes or the floors, you silly man,” you said softly, setting your chin on his shoulder as his breath hitched. “I don’t care about those. I care about you, Michael. No matter what happens, that won’t change. I’ll stand here all night with you if I have to.”
He choked out a shaking breath against your hair, and you could feel it the moment he began to break, his hands tentatively finding their way around your waist, as if he were still half-convinced it would be rejected. Something far warmer than rain dripped against your neck. “Why?” he whispered. “I don’t understand. I have nothin’ ta give ya. Ta give anyone. I keep tryin’ to be what everyone needs, but I can’t even do tha’ right. Why do ya keep openin’ the door for a broken man, pet?”
“You might be hurt, but you’re far from broken,” you murmured, turning your head to lay it on his shoulder as his hold gradually tightened around you, his hands beginning to fist in the fabric of your shirt. Another shaky breath from him, more of his tears falling against your throat as he finally let his head fall to your neck, accepting what you’d offered. “I let you in because I just need you. You’re who I want. So you can let go, Mikey. There’s nothing here you need to fix, no one else you need to be.”
That was all it took, and between one breath and the next, he crumbled in your arms, the entire terrible night, terrible year, terrible life tearing its way out of him in choked sobs. You held him as tightly as you could, soft, soothing whispers in his ears, your hands running gently down his back and through his hair as he let go of every last wall he’d put up between him and the outside world.
It took time for that wave of emotion to ease, time you spent with your head on his shoulder, with your chest to his, until eventually the shaking of his body began to slow, his breath easing against your throat. Only then did you guide him to the bathroom, taking the time to clean him up. He accepted the care silently, his eyes half closed, his form slumped and exhausted, drained after the emotional release. You knew better than to press before he was ready, so you let the quiet have its place, though every now and then you’d lift his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
You left him alone just long enough for him to change. You were glad he now kept a few changes of clothes here. It was another unspoken intimacy between you both, the knowledge that this place was a retreat for him just as his home sometimes was for you, even if neither of you had said as much. Once he was changed, you tipped your head before heading towards the bedroom. He hesitated, just for a moment, and you paused in the doorway, waiting.
It wasn’t every time he came here that you both wound up curled up together. Just on those bad nights, those nights when one of you needed each other’s presence to act as a shield against nightmares, against grief or hurt. Until now, however, it had always taken place on the couch, the two of you dozing off together under the excuse that you’d never intended to fall asleep at all. Tonight, however, you just… thought he deserved a bed. That you and he had never taken this step before hung heavy between you, weighted and intimate. Neither of you had dared offer access to the other’s bed until now. Hell, you hadn’t even kissed yet, though there’d been… moments when you’d both come close, dancing along that edge. Somehow you knew there’d be no going back after this, no more pretending, even if no one had believed either of you before now when you’d both sworn you were simply friends.
And after a long moment… the soft padding of his footsteps began to follow.
The bed came first, soft sheets and the gradually returning warmth of him, one of your arms draped over his waist as he buried his face in your hair, the two of you twined together so closely that there was no space at all between you.
Then came his voice, the soft lilt of it soothing you as much as your touch seemed to be soothing him.
“I don’t know what I’d do without ya’,” he sighed, his breath slowly easing. He nuzzled at you gently, and you tipped your head up to meet his eyes. The warmth in them took your breath away, filled with a tender light and a devotion so deep you knew you could spend the rest of your life searching for the end and never find it. “Every time I think I’ve lost who I am, yer’ there ta bring me back. I feel… I feel real when I’m with ya’. I…”
His eyes searched yours for a moment before he seemed to make a decision. He dipped his head down slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Instead, you tilted your head back, your hand sliding up to tangle in his hair as his lips met yours.
The kiss was a soft, new thing, fragile as spun strands of glass. His lips still tasted a little of copper and whiskey, chapped from the cold night air, but his breath was warm, and his mouth moved against yours with a hesitance that swiftly gave way to confidence as you leaned into him, using your fingers in his hair to pull him in closer. His name on your lips was a sigh, a gift to him, one he breathed down as if he wanted to draw it down into the very heart of him. When he finally pulled away, he lay his forehead against yours, his eyes falling closed. You reached up to stroke your fingers warmly against his cheek, and he smiled, eyes crinkling, even if they stayed closed. “Wanted ta do that for a long time, now,” he admitted. “Not long after we met, if ’m honest.”
“I may or may not have wanted the same thing,” you huffed softly, his smile growing.
“Can I take ya ta breakfast tomorrow?”
You made a contented noise as you curled into him, and he wound around you, the two of you getting comfortable for the night. It felt… permanent, as if you two had simply been waiting to find your way here, this place you were both meant for.
“I’d love that.”
And maybe tomorrow... you'd tell him you loved him, too.
"A Bit Of Sunshine" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic)
And here we are on Day 2 of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! For Day Two, I chose the fluff prompt: Flower Crowns. You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. And off we go!
Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Wordcount: 985
Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: none, just some sweetness
It was rare that he found time to simply relax.
And yet here he was with you. The air was pleasantly warm, a whisper against his skin from the cool breeze faintly tinged with salt from the sea, and the shade from the massive oak tree above kept the worst of the sun’s rays from reaching him. The familiar sounds of the park—squealing children, laughing couples, bees buzzing away beneath a chorus of birdsong and rustling leaves—had been a welcome respite from the blaring sirens and furious car horns, though he’d have been able to hear those, too, if he’d concentrated hard enough. But in a brief moment of peace, he’d allowed himself to reel his focus back in, his hypervigilance easing until he was just… here.
Here, in this case, referred to the two of you together atop a blanket under a tree in the park, the chosen location of your Saturday date. You’d settled with your back against the tree, your legs stretched out easily in front of you. It hadn’t been long before the warmth and fresh air had drawn him into an unusual state of lethargic relaxation, and at your encouragement, he’d wound up sprawled out next to you, his head in your lap, his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest. You’d seemed to recognize the moment for what it was, too. Your fingers had quickly found their way often to his hair, stroking fondly through the strands, nails against his scalp a sensation that occasionally made him purr or hum, rolling his head into your touch. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but that didn’t seem to matter. Sometimes you both talked, and sometimes instead you lapsed into a pleasant quiet, the two of you simply enjoying the break from all the chaos and stress so common in your life together. Though your hands had been absent from his hair for a little while now, instead working steadily away at some sort of mystery project above him. He wasn’t sure what it was. He’d have to extend his senses to find out, and for now, he was choosing to trust you while he let go of his usual control.
Still, the repeated shift of you as you reached for something beside the blanket, the little snap as you pulled something from the grass over and over, adding it to whatever you were working on, finally stirred his curiosity.
“What are you doing?” he murmured, fighting back a yawn as he adjusted his head on your lap, tipping it towards yours. It wasn’t like he could see you, but he liked to make sure you knew he was listening.
“Making you something.” You let out a hum, something soft and light falling from whatever you held in your hands to land on his cheek. He didn’t bother to move it. It was soft enough, whatever it was, and delicately scented—faint traces of cut grass and something vaguely sweet, tinged with musk and the scent of your skin where you’d touched it. Even without his focus firmly in hand, the sensory weight of it made his nose twitch as he took it in. Fortunately, the smell wasn’t unpleasant, especially when mingled with yours around him, with the scent of grass and earth, oak leaves and sea breeze and sugary vanilla from the ice cream cart a few hundred yards away. Somehow, he had a feeling the unique mixture would stay with him, a memory shortcut back to the feeling of this moment, so he spent a long moment breathing it in, letting it imprint itself on his mind. These brief moments of joy, of perfection were something he held onto as tightly as he could, a shield for his heart when his thoughts grew dark and the world seemed intent on stripping all the good from his life like meat from the bone.
“There,” you said happily, the shape of your smile sunlight on his skin. “All done. Hold still.”
You shifted a little above him, lifting his slack head just a touch, and a moment later you settled something onto his head, a circular loop of sensation that lightly pressed down against his hair, tickling, velvet-soft whispers of textures against his forehead. The scent of cut grass and sweetness grew stronger with its presence, and he lazily blinked his eyes open, shifting his gaze towards where he knew your face lay.
“Oh, you need to let me get a picture before you take that off. My flower king.” You sighed, before leaning down to kiss him lightly. You lifted your head again, tilting your head in the way he’d come to learn meant you were taking him in, trying to ensure you would remember this later, just as he had a moment ago with the scents around him. “Your eyes with the yellow dandelions and your hair is just beautiful. You look happy.”
And the truth in your heart when you said it just…
“Maybe I am happy.” He leaned into your hand when you ran it down his cheek, scanning lovingly around the sensory shape of you, all gentle whispers of fire and soft sensation. “And what about you, sweetheart?”
“I’m with you,” you said softly, lifting up one of his scarred, battered hands. You brought it up to your mouth, letting his fingers trace your smile before you turned it and kissed the woven bands of scar tissue on his knuckles. “So yeah. I’m happy. Now sit up for me for a minute. I want to get a picture of us, flower crown included.”
That picture found its way onto his desk a few days later.
He couldn’t see it, of course.
But the cut dandelions you often left beside the picture were quick to bring the memory back, as did every last determined bloom he found growing up stubbornly through the cracks of his city.
