if i look back, i am lost
almost home
ellievsbear
NASA
#extradirty
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Janaina Medeiros
DEAR READER
Keni
pixel skylines
trying on a metaphor
i don't do bad sauce passes
we're not kids anymore.
dirt enthusiast
Discoholic 🪩
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Claire Keane
Origami Around
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@spider-stark
୨ৎ nice to meet you, my name's lainie ♡ 20s. she/they. writer. ୨ৎ
| andrew detmer apologist | ramsay bolton simp | writing + rambling | x reader content only | avid lover of sfw, nsfw, + dark content | message me about your favorite characters! |
♡ current masterlist ୨ৎ old masterlist ♡ character playlists ୨ৎ
cute star banner at bottom by @/saradika-graphics
people should be allowed to have low ambition, and also be able to feed a family on the salary of a cashier at a convenience store.
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
RECKLESS
paring | foggy nelson x reader
summary | statistically speaking, fucking your annoying coworker is never a good idea. but who cares about statistics?
warnings | MDNI 18+, sexual themes & situations, no real plot (just concepts & vibes bb), your yearly reminder that i can't write smut, not edited we die like foggy in dd:ba (fuck that show)
word count | 660+
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy–”
“Foggy!” Your voice was sharp. His face—cheeks tinted rosy pink—was so close to yours that, with the slightest movement, your noses were at risk of bumping together. “Stop. Talking.”
His breathing was erratic. His gaze flitted between your eyes and your lips, as if unsure of where to look. “Sorry.” A second of quiet, and then: “It’s just—are we doing this? Like, actually doing this?”
You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to kill him.
You wanted him to shut up and to never stop talking ever again.
“Foggy?”
“Yes?”
“I mean this in the nicest way,” you told him, though your tone indicated otherwise, “but don’t you think now is a little too late to be asking that?”
Your skirt was pushed up to your goddamn waist. Whatever skin wasn’t covered by the thin fabric of your panties was pressed to the smooth, cool varnish of his desk. His palms pressed flat against the side of your thighs, fingers occasionally flexing with the urge to squeeze, held back by a most infuriating sense of restraint.
His hips were wedged between your legs. Even through the barriers that separated you—his slacks, your panties—you could still feel him pressing against your core.
Hard.
Thick.
“Well, you know what they say.” He gave a little shrug, nervous and adorable. “No time like the present, amirite?”
You couldn’t agree less.
But this was what Foggy was good at, wasn’t it? Pushing your buttons, getting under your skin. The two of you were opposites. Oil and water, yin and yang. If you said down, he said up, if you said red, he said green.
And if you said Let’s Fuck, Foggy Nelson was for sure the type of guy to look you dead in the eyes and say: Actually?
“Franklin–” his nose scrunched at the use of his real name “–I can feel every inch of your dick pressing against my–”
His grin widened. “How are you feeling about that by the way?”
You sucked an agitated breath through your nostrils.
“Presently? Not so good, Franklin.” Your glare bored right through the soul of him, menacing as it was in any courtroom as you stressed, “Not. So. Good.”
You hated this.
You hated him.
Just minutes ago, the two of you had been at each other’s throats—a common occurrence during late nights at the office. The catalyst had been stupid. For tomorrow’s opening statement, you wanted to present the teenaged client as wholly innocent. But Foggy—stupid, stupid Foggy!—wanted to paint them as misguided youth. That way, he argued, if the plaintiff brought forth enough evidence to prove the client guilty (which, to be fair, they definitely were), then the jury might still take pity on them if it seemed they’d been failed by a larger system.
It was risky. Reckless. No better than a blatant admission of guilt, really.
And that was exactly the point you’d been trying to make—your finger jabbing against his chest, his jaw clenched with frustration—when, suddenly, the Earth shifted on its axis and his lips crashed against yours.
As a lawyer, you prided yourself on being a person of extreme logic.
Facts and figures, reason over impulse. You valued sense. Statistics. You never made a move without ensuring that success was not only possible, but probable.
And workplace relationships? Ugh…
Let’s just say the numbers weren’t in your favor on that one.
“Foggy,” you raked your fingers through his soft blonde locks. Tugged, relishing in the way his eyelids fluttered shut, plush lips parting with a sweet, almost whimpering, sound. “I’m only going to tell you this one more time.” Your voice was low, firm. “Stop talking and start fucking. Got it?”
He was already nodding, already fumbling for his pants, before the last word had even left your tongue. “Yes ma’am,” he choked out, so dutiful and submissive that you forgot all about facts and figures, reason over impulse.
Fuck statistics.
You were doing this.
Definitely, definitely doing this.
a/n - god. if i knew how to write smut? i'd love to continue this. such a fun concept (in my opinion). anyways, hope you all enjoyed this little short piece about the most precious human to ever live (count your days, born again).
as always, could be ooc, but I do my best so cut me some slack lmao
Screaming cause I adore this sm and I am ALWAYS here for Foggy smut. And this is a very accurate write to him honestly he would be that way I’m,,,,
omg, how am i just now seeing this? thank you! so much!
i've got some foggy ideas in my draft that i really need to blow the dust off of. love foggy <3 so much <3
thank you again!
WINTER ROSE
pairing | theon greyjoy x stark!reader
summary | you and theon aren't good at sharing how you feel, but one thing's for certain: you do not want to marry roose bolton
warnings | MDNI 18+, written with season one theon in mind, some vulgar language, doesn't adhere to canon, probably ooc don't come for me i'm trying my best (first time writing for theon), not beta read so if there's an error kick me
word count | 2.5k
Laughter floated like music from Winterfell's great hall, humming all throughout the vastness of the garden.
You wished it actually was music.
There was a misconception that northerners didn't like music. This was the reason singers seldom traveled to the snowy lands beyond the Neck, and why harpists never dared for fear of losing a prized finger to frostbite for no more than a few coppers. Madness, you often scoffed at the matter.
Everyone liked music.
It was central to all of Old Nan's greatest stories. A song, a dance, a knight and a lady pressed chest-to-chest, lips mere inches from true love's kiss. "That's how all wars ought to end," she'd say over the click-clack of her needles, ignoring how the boys groaned while the girls listened eagerly at her feet, "with a love that can staunch the bleeding of a realm."
You believed in the power of song and dance, and even extraordinary kisses. But true love was where your belief suspended.
You weren't like Sansa and little pea-brained Jeyne, still young enough to think all men as kind and chivalrous as those in Old Nan's stories. You knew men could be unpleasant even when powerful, cruel even when courtly.
Still, you weren't yet too old for pretending. And tonight, you thought, seemed as good a night for it as any.
The winter roses had finally bloomed.
Here in the furthermost corner of the garden, your secret spot since childhood, the world appeared a wild thicket of pale blue petals and emerald leaves, competing only with the stars above for the title of Most Beautiful.
Sitting on a bench of carved stone, cold enough to kiss the backs of your thighs even through the thick layers of your finest dress and cloak, you gazed sightlessly at the petals. There was a dream in your head. A silly, girlish dream.
Some lord would happen upon you, a fair maiden alone in the night, snow melting in your hair. He would be stricken by you. Would walk amongst the flowers, considering each winter rose until he found the prettiest of them. He would pluck it, come forth and place it in your hair, introducing himself on a breath of sweet nothings.
In your dreams, the lord was young and handsome, with hair always slightly mussed. His eyes were the murky blue green of the Sunset Sea. He was bold and kind and eager, with a heart made for laughing. Familiar and brave and just a little bit bawdy. Capable of lighting a fire inside you that no one else could, of knowing what you needed even when you failed to know yourself.
He would be all this and more, you dreamt.
And he would not be Roose Bolton, you prayed.
"By your mother's gods!"
The curse jolted you from thought, head snapping to the concealed pathway leading to your secret spot. You instantly relaxed at the sight of your father's ward, maneuvering through the tangled shrubbery with practiced ease, careful to avoid thorns.
"What are you doing out here?" He sounded amused as always. "Trying to see how fast you can freeze a tit off?"
You smiled. "You know Robb would have a fit if he heard you talking about my—" the word wouldn't come out. It was as if Septa Mordane herself had pinched your tongue between her fingers, lecturing you on indecency.
Unintentionally, you wondered about Roose Bolton's methods on dealing with indecency from his lady wife... and prayed it held no correlation to their sigil.
Theon laughed and finished your sentence for you. "Tits."
You nodded—and if your cheeks grew warm, it was only from the cold nipping at your skin.
"You're right," Theon sighed dramatically. He was through the bushes now, shaking stray leaves off his cloak; but you knew from the grin he failed to hide that you were in for one of his shows. "It's insulting actually, that Robb believes I'd actually dishonor—no, not even that: ravage," he corrected, "his baby sister. Honestly! Look at me: do I look like some doltish brute to you?"
You tapped a finger to your chin. "Well, not you, necessarily. But the kraken on your chest does imply some level of brutishness."
"Slander," Theon called out.
"Truth," you rebutted with a giggle. "Though if I had to select a word for you Greyjoys, I'd pick 'willful' over 'brute."
"Is that your way of calling me brave?"
"It's my way of calling you bull-headed."
He laid a hand over his chest. "You wound me, Stark."
"Less than my brother would if he heard your folly," you pointed out.
Theon waved you off. "What Robb doesn't know won't hurt him." Then, his eyes narrowed with playful intent: "Unless you plan on telling him, that is."
"And betray your trust?"
"Bold to assume I trust you in the first place."
You feigned a gasp. "Maybe I will tell him," you threatened, knowing you never would.
He paused, as if considering holding back whatever he meant to say next.
Ultimately, his ever-present need to jest won out.
"Wench."
You tossed your head back, laughing. "Oh! So a girl's a wench now if she likes watching her brother chase foolish boys around the yard with a wooden sword?"
It would be far from the first time Robb had tried to lop Theon's head off for saying something lewd about you. But the fights never ended in blood, nor any injury beyond what Maester Luwin could heal a bruise-salve.
The boys were too close to hurt each other, and you were too good at calming them down.
"First," Theon lifted a finger, shifting his weight to one side in what you, Sansa, and Jeyne privately called his sassy pose, "I am far from foolish, so go on and jot that down, will you? Second," another finger, "when you put it like that, the whole thing sounds awfully Targaryen."
Your nose wrinkled at the implication. The Targaryens were a queer House with queer kinks, infamous for their incestual practices. Some considered it their right, holdover from the days of Old Valyria.
You, however, considered it vile.
"You're disgusting, Greyjoy."
"Says the one who wants to fuck her brother." He grinned.
Leaning down to scoop a fistful of snow, you chucked it at your father's ward with all your might.
He dodged—barely, nearly falling in the process.
Playfully exhausted, you asked, "Are you going to sit?" gesturing beside yourself to an empty spot on the bench. "Or are you too craven to cross?"
Between you lay the same cobblestone path that weaved all throughout the gardens. The path was wide, covering all ground except the plots of frost-crusted soil, giving life to greenery and blossoms. Gardeners tended to the paths, salting and weeding, ensuring they were safe to walk on. But here, in your own private corner of wilderness, the stone had become tangled with ivy, coated in ice several inches thick.
Despite years spent in the North, Theon was still only as good at crossing ice as Grey Wind would be at competing in a joust.
Actually, you thought with amusement, Robb's direwolf stood a better chance at winning a joust than Theon did at not breaking his own ass.
Never one to be another's fool, Theon confidently took his first step onto the path...
...then slipped, catching himself only by throwing his arms out to each side, finding balance only by a stroke of luck.
"I'm growing tired of Stark arrogance," he called out over your laughter. Except he didn't sound tired. He sounded like he always did: a breath away from a smile that could cleave your heart in two.
Unsure of what to say, you turned his earlier question back around on him.
"What are you doing out here? If you think it's too cold for a Stark, then surely it's lethal for an Island boy like yourself."
Theon paused his careful steps to glare at you. "I've lived over my life in the North, and the Iron Islands aren't much warmer." Determined, he said, "If a Stark can survive the cold, so can I."
You believed him.
But you didn't miss how he hadn't answered your question—no more than you answered his, you supposed, when he had asked the very same thing.
You and Theon were good at that. Half-truths and half-answers, dancing around questions like lovers in a private ballroom.
Miraculously, Theon reached the end of the path with all his bones still intact. He dropped beside you with a huff. His breath became a cloud of fog, and you watched as it drifted into nothing.
"Your presence is missed." He nodded towards the great hall, still buzzing from the grand feast within. "Not by me, of course. But your lord husband–" he cut himself off with an exaggerated cry as your elbow jabbed into his ribs.
"He is not my husband."
Yes, the Lord of the Dreadfort had made a bid for your hand.
Yes, your lord father was weighing the benefits such an alliance.
And yes, you knew it was your duty as a noblewoman to wed whichever lord most benefited your House.
But, for now at least, you had spoken true. Roose Bolton was not your husband. And if the gods were good, perhaps he never would be.
Rubbing his side, milking his "injury" for all it was worth, Theon argued, "May as well be."
"We're not even betrothed," you shot back, grumbling.
"Don't tell Lord Bolton that." He snorted. It was hard to tell if he was vexed or amused. "I've seen the way he looks at you. The old man's likely already spent in his breeches just thinking about your bedding ceremony."
Blugh...
As you fought to keep down the lemon cakes you'd had the feast, Theon brushed two knuckles down the soft velvet cloak covering your arm. His touch was light—but you felt it in your bones.
"Do you think Lord Bolton will buy you such finery?" he teased softly. Then, even softer, with a humor that frayed and cracked: "Or perhaps he'll have you dressed in the skins of his enemies."
The lemon cakes almost won.
"Is that true?" you asked warily. "The Boltons, they... they still flay men?"
In the recent past, your father had reaffirmed the centuries-old Stark decree outlawing flaying in the North. He took House Boltons silence on the matter for complaisance, but there were still whispers they continued the cruel practice from deep in the bowels of their castle.
It was all Theon could do to keep his grin from fully breaking. "Let me know if you find out," he ended up saying.
At some point, his knuckles had brushed all the way down near your hand. No longer was he feeling the velvet. Instead, he fiddled with the fur-trim near your wrist.
You weren't sure he realized he was still touching you—and you didn't dare mention it, didn't gaze too long at his fingers, for fear that if he realized, he might stop.
You sniffed. "Have I ever told you you're a nuisance, Greyjoy?"
His laugh turned to fog. "Often." He looked right at you; his eyes lit with something more beautiful than pale blue petals and twinkling stars. "Though I never tire of hearing it, Stark."
Ten years.
That was how long it had been since your father first brought Theon to Winterfell as hostage and ward. You had been prepared to hate him, at first. Between Robb and Jon, you felt you had enough pestilent older brothers around.
But Theon had never wanted to be your brother, no more than you could ever hate him.
Chewing your cheek, you gazed through the dark towards the sound of songless revelry. "I don't want to be made a Bolton," you told him.
Quiet, quiet, quiet—
—then: "Do women often get what they want in this world?" Theon asked.
They should, you wanted to say.
But like true love, a woman's ability to choose was just another thing that existed only in stories. Your fate rested in the hands of men; some honorable and some cruel, and others willful yet craven.
"What do you want?" Theon's question was unexpected—by the both of you, if his tone was any indication. "Out of anyone," he continued, "anything... what would you choose for yourself?"
The answer rested on the tip of your tongue, where it had lived for the past ten years. Simple, easy, one word and three letters, starting with Y and ending with U.
But that would be the full truth.
And all you knew how to give was half.
"Someone to get me out of this marriage mess," you said simply. You kept staring ahead at the winter roses, puffs of pale breath from your mouth and his, dissipating as one. "I'm not so witless as to think I can avoid marriage as a whole. I know my duty, and I swear to fulfill it—with misery in my heart, if need be. But is it so wrong to want a say?"
Theon said nothing. No japes, no jests. Just listening.
You sniffed and wiped your nose with the back of a hand—the one not graced with his fingers near your wrist, still fiddling with your cloak's fur-trim.
"I want someone brave and kind," you admitted quietly, "and just foolish enough to keep me laughing. Someone willing to go to my father and ask for my hand, but only after they're certain I want them to have it. Someone who will sing and dance with me, kiss me and place roses in my hair."
You closed your eyes. Envisioned that girlish dream and tried slotting cruel Roose Bolton into the role of the gallant, playful lord of your storybook fantasies. But you couldn't. You tried and tried, but Roose Bolton fit like a wrong piece in a puzzle, grossly out of place. The lord's face remained the same.
The lord's face remained Theon's.
Eventually, Theon took a deep breath. Removed his hand from our cloak, along with any chance of touching your wrist.
Your heart broke.
This was it, you thought. This was the truth of things.
Life wasn't like Old Nan's stories. There would be no song, no dance. Love wasn't strong enough to end wars. It wasn't even strong enough to spur bravery—truth—between two people who had known each other for nearly a lifetime.
You planned to get up. To leave, go back to the feast. Roose Bolton would be looking for you, you knew, and it was high time you stopped pretending, dreaming, thinking.
But then you heard the sound of rustling leaves.
Your eyes snapped open. You found Theon leaning halfway off the side of the bench, an arm outstretched toward one of the rose bushes. He appeared clumsy and awkward and determined as he tried snapping the stem of a particularly full bloom.
When he finally succeeded, he turned back to you with a boyish grin that made your heart soar.
Carefully, he tucked the winter rose behind your ear.
"You know there's about a hundred of these," he said of the flowers, voice softer than you'd ever heard it. He reached for your hand. Brushed a thumb over your knuckles. "I fear your standards are too low, Stark."
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
a/n | school’s kicking my ass five ways to tuesday, and i’ve got about 14 “finished” one shots sitting in my drafts rn that i am way too busy to edit. so i decided to just go ahead and post some of them, because we aim for readable around here, not perfection✊
besides, this one was a must because there aren’t nearly enough theon fics in the tags. so, here’s this! my contribution lmao. thanks for reading and hopefully you enjoyed!
(side note: wouldn't it be so unfortunate if reader still ended up marrying Roose Bolton? and Ramsay still takes Theon? and then they're just both in the Dreadfort, miserable and haunted and tortured by the incredibly hot awful Boltons? just a thought)
particularly love the dialogue and tenderness in this 🥹🫶🏾
thank you! i'm so glad you enjoyed it🖤
i don't have the words to explain how much i love theon. he's so fun (pre-Ramsay lmao) to write! i've got several one shots for him in my drafts still and a whole OC fic (not yet finished, but hopefully someday!).
Thank you again!
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
dizzy on the comedown
pairing | jonathan byers x reader
summary | late nights listening to music lead to late-stage realizations (aka, jonathan finally realizes you have a thing for him)
warnings | childhood best friends, reader likes pop music, minor steve harrington slander if you squint, don't fact check my 80s pop culture references, got this idea while listening to dizzy on the comedown by turnover, fluff
word count | 2.6k
Your gasp rivaled the too-loud volume of The Clash's latest album spinning in Jonathan's record player, sat up on the old vinyl shelf that always looked to be one ill-timed breath in its direction from collapsing.
Jonathan was on the floor beside you. He sat with his back against the side of his messily made bed, your socked feet resting in his lap as he read some comic Will had asked him to check out.
At your gasp, he immediately looked up.
You shot him a toothy grin from over the top of this month's Teen Beat. "You'll never guess what happened."
The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Try me," he dared.
Flipping the magazine around, you tapped excitedly at a blurry photo of Cher and Val Kilmer, caught locking lips in the back of a limo after some glitzy Hollywood party.
"They're dating!"
Jonathan dropped the comic, putting on his best I Love Gossip voice. “You're kidding."
You cut your eyes and flipped the magazine back around. "Don't mock me, J."
"Does that sound like something I would do?"
"Indubitably," you announced, dramatically turning a page.
"No," said Jonathan. "It's just, it's exactly like you said." It was obvious he was trying hard to stay serious, to keep that shy smile of his from taking over. "I can't believe it."
Laughing, you tossed the magazine at his face.
He dodged, but only barely, too busy laughing right along with you.
If Joyce was home, now would've been when she'd knock on Jonathan's door. Exhausted, yet kind as ever, she would've reminded you both that it was quarter past nine and she had work in the morning. Just...try to keep it down, okay?
If Will was home, then approximately five minutes ago would've been when he'd invited himself inside, settling on Jonathan's bed to hover sweetly over the top of you and Who's dating? while craning his neck for a better view of the magazine.
But they were both out right now. Joyce working a closing shift at Melvald's, and your favorite drama queen playing D&D at a friend's house.
It was only you. Only Jonathan.
And The Clash, of course.
"You're insufferable," you eventually told him, still glaring playfully.
Jonathan squeezed your foot. "Says the one obsessed with crappy magazines."
"Oh I'm sorry, J — am I too lame for you? Is my love for pop culture ruining your street cred?"
Another laugh framed his pretty brown eyes with the most precious crinkles. "Who says street cred?" he asked incredulously.
"Lame-os, apparently."
It was his turn to cut his eyes. "If either of us lame," he contended, "it's definitely me."
The urge to frown was unbearable, but you tried resisting it.
Jonathan talking down on himself was a frequent occurrence. He'd always been insecure, even back in elementary school when you were both too young to know why older kids picked on him for his too-big coat and out-of-style sneakers.
High school had made it worse, though. A lot worse.
Sometimes you wished all of Hawkins High could see Jonathan the way you saw him. Understatedly funny with impeccable music taste; a photographer NYU would be lucky to teach; smarter than half this damned town and caring to a fault.
Other times — selfish, greedy times — you were glad they didn't.
Hawkins didn't deserve Jonathan, anyway.
Gently, you nudged him in the stomach with your foot. "If you're lame, then I'm lame by association," you told him. "Which actually means you're not lame at all, because I—" you laid a hand on your chest "—am the coolest person to ever exist."
"Didn't you just call yourself a lame-o?"
"Have you never heard of a joke, J? A bit of witticism? An old chestnut, even!"
With a groan that was both embarrassed on your behalf and thoroughly amused, Jonathan tossed his head back against the bed. "Great," he said to the ceiling. "So we're both lame."
You had full intent to argue for argument's sake, to make some exuberant claim as to why you were the furthest thing from lame (as if you weren't spending a Saturday night on your best friend's bedroom floor raving over celebrity romance while wearing fuzzy socks with cat in rainboots on them) when the room went totally silent.
The album had ended.
Jonathan lifted his head.
The two of you shared a look.
And then—
You shrieked when Jonathan shoved your feet of his lap, both of you scrambling to get off the floor. His room became a flurry of limbs and shouts and shoves, each fighting the other to cross the mere feet that separated you from the decrepit vinyl shelf.
Jonathan beat you.
"No fair," you whined. He was already lifting The Clash record off the platter and sliding it back into its sleeve. "You picked the last two albums. It's my turn, Byers!"
"You know the rules," he teased. "You snooze you lose."
"We should play rock-paper-scissors for it."
He dragged a finger over the records on his shelf, deciding which to play next. "You wouldn't say that if I was the one who lost."
"It's not losing if the competition's rigged!"
This whole Race to the Record Player thing was an unfair challenge. Not only were his legs longer than yours, but he had home-field advantage! His room was in such disarray that if you ran too fast, you were likely to twist your ankle on a lone Converse living under a denim jacket.
Jonathan turned his head to smile at you. It was so boyish and sweet, so unknowingly adorable, that you almost forgot to stay mad at him.
"You know," he said, "no one likes a sore loser."
An Oh, phooey! was already halfway up your throat when he slid a record out and showed it to you for approval.
One look at the cover and your Oh, phooey fizzled into a gasp.
"You're kidding!"
Jonathan's taste was eclectic but leaned into post-punk rock territory. Talking Heads, Joy Division, The Psychedelic Furs. Spending so much time with him meant you had come to love all those bands too — but unlike him, you weren't immune to the bubblegum bite of the pop-music bug.
Cyndi Lauper was your new favorite artist.
And now — in Jonathan's beautiful, beautiful hand — was her first ever studio album, She's So Unusual.
Released less than a week ago, there was no way he'd gotten it without spending a pretty penny. A valuable penny. One that could've been given to Joyce for extra groceries or put aside to replace the starter in his car. He could've even bought himself a new record, instead of spending hard-earned money on an album he wouldn't even listen to outside of your presence.
"Remember when I called you insufferable?" you asked.
He tipped his head to one side, pretty brown eyes crinkling as he pretended to think. "Vaguely."
"Well consider this my apology."
Before he could react, you lifted onto your toes and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft, a little prickly where he'd missed a few spots shaving. He turned red so fast you felt warmth bloom under your lips. When you pulled back, admiring his new cherry complexion, you decided you liked making Jonathan blush.
Trying to seem unfazed, Jonathan busied himself with putting the record on. "I'll take it under consideration," he said, but the awkward way he cleared his throat before speaking made it obvious: you were definitely forgiven.
He lowered the needle. Money Changes Everything floated through his room, a lively beat that made your bones tingle.
You flopped backwards onto his bed, sighing comfortably. It smelled like him, bar soap and laundry detergent. If he hadn't turned to face you, you probably would've buried your nose in the sheets.
"So." You needed to talk. Otherwise you'd spend too much time admiring how cute he looked, unsure what to do with his hands, unable to hold your gaze but incapable of looking away. "Will," you said.
Concern took him immediately. "What about Will?"
You laughed. "Calm your engine, sports car. I was just gonna ask if he was going to the Snow Ball."
The infamous middle school dance was next weekend. An old teacher of yours had reached out to ask if you'd help with snacks for it, and you maybe promised to bake and ice two hundred cupcakes by next Friday — a venture you fully planned on wrangling Jonathan into.
Jonathan shrugged. "I don't know...I think so."
"Good," you chirped. Because if he'd said no, you would've had to conjure a last-minute plan to convince Will that school dances were So Cool and not Life Ruining Awful. "What about you?"
He gave you a look. "I'm pretty sure I aged out of middle school dances."
You chucked a pillow at him. "Not the Snow Ball, dummy. Our dance."
Winter's Dream, they were calling it. They being Hawkins High's budget friendly planning committee consisting of cheerleaders and theater kids. According to the fliers, the whole gym would be transformed into an ethereal frozen paradise — cotton ball clouds strung from the ceiling along with papier-mâché snowflakes; plenty of twinkle lights; fake snow covering the linoleum.
They had made crowns, too, for whichever lucky students were voted to be the Winter King & Queen. Everyone was gossiping over who would be crowned queen.
There was no doubt who would be king.
Jonathan edged towards the bed. Sat, and immediately started fiddling with a stray thread on his black jeans. "I don't know. Probably not."
"Trick question." You shot up straight, knocking your shoulder into his. "You're definitely going. So, onto our next question: who are you gonna ask to be your date?"
You expected him to say 'I don't know' again.
Instead, he reluctantly replied: "Who's your date?"
You bit your lip against a smile. "No one."
"No one's asked you?"
"No one worth saying yes to." Truth was, there was only one person you'd say yes to. "Connie heard that Steve Harrington's gonna ask me on Monday, but you know Connie. You'd be better trusting a call-in psychic."
"You love call-in psychics."
"But I don't trust them," you said, bumping his shoulder again.
Jonathan kept picking at the thread on his jeans.
On accident, he snapped it right off.
"Well...if Steve asks," he started, still focused on his lap, "will you...I don't know, say yes, or..."
Do you want me to say yes?
"I'm offended," you said solemnly. "Honestly, you're supposed to be my best friend, J! If you don't know that I'm gonna tell Steve Harrington where to shove it, then who will?"
He forced a chuckle. "I don't know...I mean, it wouldn't so...strange, I guess, to think maybe you'd actually want to go with him."
"Why? Because he's got nice hair and a BMW?"
Brown eyes flicked to yours in a sidelong look that said Uh, yeah?
Your jaw fell. "Don't tell me you really think that a BMW is all it takes to win me over."
"Of course not," defended Jonathan. Then, with a too-shy smile: "I think nice hair is all it takes to win you over."
You reached back for his other pillow and whacked him in the face with it. He burst out laughing, stole the pillow, and tossed it clear across the room.
That didn't stop you.
You swatted his arms, his chest, shouting I can't believe you! and Take it back, dummy! Jonathan just kept laughing, dodging hits and trying to catch your wrists, failing and resorting to tickling your sides.
You didn't know how you ended up on top of him. Only that you were, both of you smiling and breathless, your hands pinning his wrists to the bed on either side of his head.
In the background, Time After Time hummed so softly you worried he could hear the sound of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.
"I take it back," you mumbled, making his brow furrow. "Turns out you really are insufferable."
"Because I don't think you're immune to King Steve's charm?"
"Because you're an idiot." You let go of one of his wrists. His chest froze mid-breath, your fingertips grazing just above his eyebrows, brushing a strand of hair to the side. "Steve Harrington's not the only boy with nice hair, y'know."
Pretty brown eyes were blown wide, his throat working around a swallow. "My hair is...bad."
"To you, maybe." He never complained, but you knew he'd never liked that they didn't have enough money for his hair to be anything but a product of love and kitchen scissors. "I think it's perfect," you whispered, when what you meant was I think you're perfect.
Because he was, wasn't he? Always playing along with your silly Hollywood gossip, buying records he wouldn't like because he knew it'd make you happy.
How could I ever want Steve Harrington, you wondered, when Jonathan exists?
Stupidly, you murmured, "Hey."
He said it back, just as stupid.
"I've got an idea," you said. "What if we go to the dance?"
You weren't sure his eyes could get any wider. "As...friends?" he asked.
"Or a date," you suggested too quickly. "Unless you think it'll hurt your street cred, being spotted with some pop culture lame-o."
"What happened to being the coolest person to ever exist?"
"Depends on the moment." And right now, you certainly felt like a lame-o.
Jonathan considered a long moment, gazing at you all the while.
Finally, he said, "I don't have anything to wear."
"I'm sure we could find something."
"I don't have a BMW, either."
You cut your eyes and leaned in so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched. "If you allude to Steve Harrington even one more time," you threatened, "I promise to smear blue icing all over your face."
His brow furrowed. "And you just...keep icing on you, or...?"
"Did I not tell you?" you asked, knowing full well you hadn't. "I signed us up to bake two hundred cupcakes for Will's dance."
"Two hundred?!"
"Oh, c'mon! It's for your brother," you told him. "I'll even let you lick the whisk!"
"Is that supposed to convince me?"
"Convincing implies choice, which last I checked, I didn't give you."
An easy laugh tumbled from his lips. Without thinking, he brought the hand you'd freed up to your waist, squeezing light enough to make you squirm at the tickling sensation. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're the insufferable one?" he asked.
You shook your head. "Not even once."
His gaze flitted to your lips. You thought of all the times you'd wanted kiss Jonathan over the years, imagining what it'd be like to feel the warmth of his mouth and taste his toothpaste on your tongue, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd been wanting to do the same.
He brought his hand to your face. Grazed his knuckles along the curve of your cheek, so soft you could barely feel it.
He swallowed. Asked, "Can I—"
The door swung open.
Will stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, a cheerful "I'm home!" cut short when he caught sight of you straddling his older brother.
None of you spoke.
Then Will darted back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him as he shouted, "ABOUT TIME!"
You immediately started laughing.
"This isn't funny," Jonathan protested, cheeks flushed. "You know he can't keep a secret. He's gonna tell Mike, who's gonna tell his sister, who's probably gonna tell the whole school and then—"
You shut him up by running your fingers through his hair.
"So. About that dance," you said. "Are we going?"
He looked at you like you were crazy. Like he was so sure this was all some mistake, a prank gone too far. You couldn't actually want him to be your date, and any minute now he was counting on you to remember that, to say so and send all the surreal beauty of this moment crashing down around him.
But that never happened.
So he gave you a faint teasing smile and said, "Pick me up at eight."
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
a/n | don't mind me, just thinking of all the ways the Winter's Dream dance could go (+ making cupcakes with Jonathan). ugh.
thanks for reading!
big jancy truther (letsgo holy byler trinity) YET THIS IS MAKING MY TEETH ACHE. SO FREAKIN CUTE!! Mama me want more movie...
🖤!THANK YOU! SO MUCH!🖤
my ac went out.
sweaty. suffering. shunning misery by imagining how fictional men would help me out in this scenario.
frank castle, come fix my ac pls
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
reblogging it twice cause it’s that good
thank you. i love you. to show my thanks, here's shirtless matt murdock
i hope you enjoy
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
CLOUDBUSTING
for a flea bottom girl, there's nothing more dangerous than having a dragon prince catch you playing at knighthood
౨ৎ valarr targaryen x lowborn!reader ౨ৎ 3.7k ౨ৎ slow burn tension, banter, power imbalance, flustered!valarr, mentions of grief, asoiaf typical classism, asoiaf typical misogynism, reader call dunk her brother but they're not related, valarr is perfect, you can't read, grumpkins are coming from your liver ౨ৎ
MUD SPLASHED UP AT YOUR PANT LEGS. Torrents of rain crashed down from a sky so thick with storm clouds that they obstructed what little light the sickle moon tried to offer. A straw man waited across the across the training yard, ever-brave in the face of your brutal charge.
Running faster, closing the distance, you wondered: Are the gods on my side tonight?
Ser Arlan of Pennytree responded. Sword up! Shield!
You had no shield. So you lifted your sword with both hands and pushed harder, ran faster, splashing footfalls bringing the straw man closer, closer.
A bellow clawed from your throat, a vicious monster starved for glory and rife with grief.
Ser Arlan shouted: STRIKE!!!
You launched into the air, still bellowing, to slash down upon the delicate junction between the straw man's shoulder and neck. A killing blow, if he were human.
And if you hadn't fudged it like some amateur clod.
The heedless blow snapped your sword in half. Coming down from the jump, your bare feet failed to find purchase on the slick ground. Mud exploded as you crashed down onto your ass. It joined the rain on its way back down, spattering you head-to-toe in filth. You tried to wipe a thick glob of it from your eye, but little good that did — your hands were as muddy as the rest of you, so you only succeeded in smearing it down your cheek.
Ser Arlan added to your misery. Dead, he declared.
You huffed. "Oh, bollocks to that!"
What gave Ser Arlan the right to declare your fate? Irony? The old hedge knight was the only dead one here, his body decomposing in an unmarked grave several miles from here. You'd been there when Dunk — your brother by circumstance if not blood — laid Ser Arlan in the hole he'd dug him. You'd kissed your fingertips before smacking the old man on his colorless cheek. Dunk had shook his head, asked, Do you have to be so rough? as he shoveled loose dirt over Ser Arlan's body. You'd only been able to shrug. Watch the dirt pile up. Then collapse into your brother's arms.
Ser Arlan's voice was not real.
He had never taught you to wield sword and shield or how to execute a proper strike. He had never instructed you to rise from a fallen state, to dust yourself off and try again and again. He had never declared you dead, either, though you were certain there had been a number of times where he wished he could've, if only so he'd have a second to breathe without questioning what sort of trouble you were getting into. Might be I can't make you into a lady, he'd grumble through a chewed-up wad of sweetgrass, but I can make damn sure you don't become a man.
Only for Dunk had Ser Arlan played teacher. And even then, he hadn't been so good at it.
You tipped your head back to stare up at the storm clouds. The rain felt warm on your cheeks, and if you closed your eyes tight enough, it was almost as if Ser Arlan were sitting next to you, nudging your ribs with an elbow. Skies really pissing, eh?
You smiled.
"You did a shit job," you told Ser Arlan. Maybe an unfair statement given he had never truly consented to raising two Flea Bottom brats and — in his own words — owed you nothing in regard to the amount of effort he put into raising you. But it felt good to say it. And you knew that if the old man could hear you from whichever of the seven hells he'd ended up in, he was probably choking on his own laughter.
Ser Arlan had always liked hearing women curse.
You squeezed your eyes shut tighter. How was it possible to love Ser Arlan like a father while also hating him with your whole heart? Was that normal? You had no clue. Aside from Ser Arlan and Dunk, you had no experience with what having a family was meant to be like. Maybe all daughters hated their fathers. Maybe there was something wrong with you.
It didn't matter.
Never one to stew in self pity, you opened your eyes and pressed both palms into the mud on either side of you. You needed to get up, find a new sword, get back to playing hedge knight.
Soon as you went to stand, a prim male voice made you freeze.
"Perhaps it is not my place to intervene," the voice said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the downpour, "though I feel inclined to say that 'shit job' is a harsh judgment yourself, especially when the problem lies not with you, but your sword." A breath of a laugh, so faint you should not have heard it over the rain. "Could you imagine how many lives we would lose if men marched into battle with twigs in place of steel?"
Could be none, you wanted to say, so long as the enemy's as poorly armed.
"It was a stick," you said instead, glaring at your makeshift sword where it lay snapped in half before the straw man.
Curious, the voice asked, "Is there a difference between sticks and twigs?"
"Course." Twigs were too short and flimsy to make good swords. Sticks were superior, if still disappointing compared to steel. "Any boy who's played Knights and Maidens should know so."
"Ah," the voice said, "well therein lies our problem."
Mud squelched. Out of the corner of your eye, a pair of fine leather boots stepped into view. They circled round to your front, cutting between you and the straw man. Still sitting in the mud, you didn't dare look up. Ser Arlan might've done a shit job raising you — never teaching you to be a lady or a knight — but he'd taught you well enough when to keep your head low. And in a tourney camp crawling with highborn whelps — the kind who wore fancy boots in stormy weather — it was always safer to study the ground.
Lowly, you asked, "And what problem's that, m'lord?"
He answered simply. "I've never played Knights and Maidens."
"What?" That was insanity! "What boy's never played Knights and Maidens before?"
"A boy kept too busy."
"No boy's too busy for play," you argued, thinking how you and Dunk used to turn even the most mundane chores into games. Grooming horses meant you'd become stablehands in some high lord's household. Preparing supper turned you into hopeful chefs seeking prestige in the Free Cities. Even bathing could become a game whenever Dunk's spirits were high enough to indulge your desire to be an ironborn sailor seeking proof of merpeople.
"Some are," said Fancy Boots.
You scoffed without thinking. "What a load of bollocks."
Quiet, barked Ser Arlan. The words he spoke next were harsh yet mournful, etched into your mind over a thousand times. Do you know all it takes to be rid of a flea like you? A lordly hand slammed down on it. Insignificant as they find you, they probably won't notice the schmear of blood you leave behind.
Fortunately for you, the prim voice seemed to find your rashness amusing.
"Play was a rare commodity when I was a boy. There were not many children in the keep where I was raised. My cousins lived well away — a blessing and a curse. My choice in playmates had been limited to those charged to shape me into a master swordsman by the age of two-and-ten."
How tragic, you almost said.
But the voice went on. "I suppose there was always my father, though I cannot say a man who has earned the name Breakspear would've had much interest in teaching his heir to wield sticks."
Thunder boomed, rattling the world.
"Breakspear," you repeated dumbly. "As in…"
"Baelor Breakspear."
Prince of Dragonstone. Hand of the King. Protector of the Realm and heir to the Iron Throne.
Oh, Seven fucking—
Was it too late to urge the gods to your side? You were willing to forgive them for casting misfortune upon you in your fight with the straw man so long as they would now command the ground to open up and swallow you whole. You said a prayer in your head. Prayed hard, hoping to gain their attention.
But the gods were not kind. Or perhaps it was simply that you had never been anointed in holy oils and named in their light, so they didn't know who the fuck you were or why you were speaking to them.
Whatever the reason, the ground beneath you stayed disappointingly solid.
"My prince!" You slipped and slid in an attempt to get on your feet. When it became evident that the mud and your limbs had no plan to cooperate, you kept your head low out of embarrassment now and bleated, "Forgive me, I—…I'm such a dunce sometimes! My guardian always said so, my brother still says so, and clearly they're both onto something because now I've went and made a complete idiot of myself in front of—"
Prince Valarr Targaryen, heir to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, chuckled softly at you.
"At ease."
You would've scoffed if you weren't so terrified.
At ease. Didn't he know? Ease was an impossibility now. The rest of your life was like to be spent with this damned anxiety roaring in your veins. At ease. Was he godsdamned idiot? Ease was something no lowborn girl could afford in the presence of a highborn lord — let alone a dragon prince!
A bit of motion stole your attention.
Looking up — just barely, not enough to see any higher than his hips — you caught the prince removing one of his gloves. He tucked it into his belt. Extended his bare hand down to you, offering, you realized with a strange tightening in your belly, to help you up out of the mud.
You studied his hand with the cautious consideration of a feral dog.
His nails were short, strikingly clean. His fingers were long and slender, captivating in such a way that made you linger on them, teeth worrying your bottom lip. His moon-white palm managed to appear velvet-smooth and rough callused at once, accustomed to luxury yet familiar with the leather bite of a sword's hilt.
Your eyes went higher.
Blue-toned veins — filled with dragon's blood, you thought wondrously — traveled upwards beneath the skin of his wrist to disappear beneath the neatly cuffed fabric of a black tunic. The rain had soaked the fabric. It clung to his forearm, accentuated the lean muscle of his bicep. Stop looking, you told yourself. But you couldn't.
At his shoulder began a sleeveless leather coat that had been etched to give the appearance of dragon scales. A simple silver clasp fastened the coat low on his throat. His throat was as moon-white as his palms, appearing soft and elegant, yet spattered with…mud? No, not mud. The gods touch, you thought, undiscovered constellations blown delicately over flesh.
Freckles.
You begged your eyes to look down, then. To stop traveling any higher.
They did not listen.
Wet hair the color of dark caramel lay plastered to the prince's forehead. Raindrops glided over neat brows, down an artfully carved nose, cheeks that possessed enough of youth's roundness to give him a slight boyish appeal. His lips were the dusty pink of spring roses. His jaw was strong, confident.
You disliked him for every detail you couldn't help but notice.
Making peace with the fact that it might be taken for an insult, you ignored the prince's offer to help and once again pushed your palms into the mud. Mercifully, the mud and your limbs seemed to have reached a temporary truce. You stood with minimal struggle.
You could've sworn Prince Valarr frowned as his hand fell back to his side. But the expression was gone before you could be certain, replaced by regal composure that — frustratingly — was not at all unkind.
You forced a proper tone and chose words that wouldn't make you sound like the Flea Bottom scum he surely recognized you as. "Truly, my prince, I must ask for your forgiveness—"
"Freely given."
"—I hadn't expected anyone else to have use of the yard this late—"
His brow furrowed. "I fear you're mistaken," he tried saying.
But you kept on speaking over him. "—I'll take my leave now, " you said before remembering the scraps of etiquette the old man had tried drilling into you, adding, "If it please you, that is."
Prince Valarr blinked at you, his lips parting. With the first wordless sound that came out — shocking, in retrospect, since you hadn't known that a prince could be made speechless, nor what it said about you that you had been the one to make him so — you expected to be aptly dismissed. After all, the prince surely had better things to do than stand in a downpour listening to some girl in roughspun spew poorly memorized courtesies at him.
But then his gaze flitted downwards, neat brows furrowing.
"Where are your shoes?" he asked.
Your cheeks caught fire. "I must go," you squeaked.
He commanded you to stay — though perhaps begged was a more fitting descriptor.
No matter, the irrefutable law that was a prince's word kept your bare feet firmly planted, the mud between your toes suddenly wetter, squishier, more shameful.
"I assure you," Prince Valarr said, still gathering his bearings in this unusual interaction, "I have no use of the yard. I was on a walk, clearing my head, seeking a break from— Never mind that. What is important is that I was headed back to Lord Ashford's castle when I heard your…" amusement twitched at the corners of his mouth "…battle cry, I suppose you'd call it. I wrongly assumed it belonged to some squire putting in extra practice to impress his ser. I had thought to offer a hand, if they wished it." His eyes — so strange, the prince's eyes, one brown and one blue — flicked briefly toward the bare hand you had refused, hanging wet and useless at his side.
His voice remained kind, if slightly smaller than before. "My gut tells me that you are no squire, however."
"What gave it away?" you asked too quickly. "That I was fighting with a stick or that I've got tits?"
Muscle memory made you wince, expecting a clout on the ear from Ser Arlan. Was it a crime to say tits in front of a prince? Surely not!
Although…
You dismissed your fearful thoughts before they could fully form. Even if it were a crime — which it wasn't — the royal family wouldn't have brought a headsman with them to a simple tourney, would they?
You could almost see Ser Arlan thoughtfully stroking his beard. People can be hanged anywhere, he would've told you.
Oh, Mother, Maid, and Crone! you silently cursed yourself. You really needed to mind your tongue. Dunk would never let you live it down if you went and got yourself hanged over something so stupid as saying tits. Just couldn't put a lock on that big mouth of yours, could you? he'd grumble while pulling Ser Arlan's sword — his sword, now — from its scabbard to resentfully challenge the sentencing passed by the most powerful House in Westeros.
If Prince Valarr had interest in seeing you with rope around your neck, however, he did a good job at hiding it.
"The stick," he blurted out, then lowered his head, shaking it. "I beg you take no offense." What? You were the one with the fool's tongue — shouldn't he be offended? "Were it not so dark and the rain not so heavy," he continued rambling, "then surely I would've noticed that—"
"I have great tits?" Fuck.
A flush spread over Prince Valarr's moon-white cheeks. He fought hard to suppress a boyish grin. "That you're a lady," he corrected.
Oh.
Well.
That was decidedly more courteous than what you had said, wasn't it?
"No offense—uhm—taken, my prince. But I should correct you: I'm no lady."
You had played at being a lady before, on the rare but joyous occasions when you, Dunk, and Ser Arlan would spend a night or two in some lesser lordling's modest keep. You would meander through the halls, yammering about silks and jewels, making up complicated names for what you had convinced Dunk were real embroidery terms. Should I not perfect my curtswythian knotable before the next women's court, you'd tell him in a posh accent, Septa Schmooly will have my hide.
Sometimes, if the keep was fancy enough and no one was around to laugh at you, you would even play at being queen.
You cast your eyes downward. Absently began to scrape muddy filth out from under your fingernails.
Those were only ever games, as stupid and pointless as Knights and Maidens, pretending a stick could be a sword. The lords and ladies that ruled this world had the blood of mighty stags and howling wolves. What was in your blood? you wondered.
In the back of your mind, Ser Arlan sorrowfully answered: Fleas.
Prince Valarr paid no mind to your correction.
"Why use a stick?" he asked suddenly. "Are the practice swords not to your liking?"
"No, my prince, that's not— I'm sure the practice swords are fine, but…" You debated telling him the truth. Sighed. "My brother asked the 'prentice of Lord Ashford's master-at-arms if I could use them, but Lord Ashford… His master-at-arms said his lordship would prefer I not touch the weapons, even the practice ones."
"Did he say why?"
Your answer was stiff. "A woman's softness. Apparently Lord Ashford thinks it taints the grip, casting bad luck upon learning knights."
You expected the prince to agree. Why wouldn't he? Prince or lord, one highborn was as bad as the next.
But Prince Valarr snorted.
"Now there's a true dunce," he said. "Taints the grip! Have you ever heard something so ignorant? I suppose Lord Ashford also believes that grumpkins will eat his liver if he drinks cow's milk past midnight, hm? What a fool," he laughed. "My cousin Aerion has quite the talent for saying preposterous things, but I fear Lord Ashford may now have him beat."
Amusement bubbled out of you. You clamped a muddy hand over your mouth before it could become a fit, but your grin remained.
Prince Valarr seemed pleased to have earned this reaction.
He gestured to the covered weapon's area on the other side of the training yard. All the good steel had been loaded up in a wagon several hours before the storm had rolled in, taken to the armory so they wouldn't rust. But several wooden short swords remained, hanging on a weapon's rack alongside a busted bow and a morning star that had had several of its steel spikes broken off.
"Take your pick, my lady."
It was your turn to be speechless.
"But…Lord Ashford said…"
"If Ashford takes issue with my decision, I'll pay him in silver for each sword you taint. I'll even throw in a golden dragon for any knight who can prove he's been cursed by your softness." He gestured again. "Take what you wish. You have my word that no harm will come to you for it."
You chewed your bottom lip, questioning how much a prince's word was really worth.
Prince Valarr turned to leave.
"Wait!"
His back was to you, though mismatched eyes watched you from over his shoulder. At this angle, you noticed that a pure white streak slashed through his dark caramel hair.
"I…" don't understand, you wanted to say. Princes were supposed to be cruel and selfish, disgusted by barefoot girls with poor manners, who played at being a knight and failed at being a lady. Why are you not cruel? you wanted to ask him. Why are you making it so hard for me to dislike you?
You settled on saying, "Thank you, my prince."
Prince Valarr smiled. Thunder rumbled at the same instant, the world flashing pale blue as lightning forked through the clouds. It painted the prince in a most lovely light. You had a feeling the prince looked lovely in most lights.
"Call me Valarr."
YOU AWOKE LATE the next morning, a pleasant ache in your muscles that could come only from a night spent swinging wooden swords at a straw man and pretending to shoot a broken bow.
Even with your eyes closed, you knew that Dunk and his little squire had already left the elm tree camp that was to be your home for the duration of the tourney at Ashford. Not because you possessed some innate sibling bond through which his absence could be felt — because you didn't, which was well enough since you weren't so sure you'd even want to be so thoroughly bonded to the clumsy oaf — but because Dunk had actually tried waking you hours earlier to join them in going to watch the day's first tilt, a kindhearted invitation that you had met with a loud groan of displeasure and a blind hand swatting at his face.
Dunk wouldn't hold the near assault against you. He knew you weren't a morning person.
If anything, Dunk was a kind enough that, if you were really lucky, you would sit up, open your eyes, and find a delicious breakfast sandwich waiting for you. Your mouth watered just thinking of it: thick pumpernickel bread stacked with a fried goose egg, extra goat cheese, onion sliced incredibly thin, and some of that garlic flavored sauce that the colorful Baratheon lord had let Dunk take from his party.
Gods…if Dunk had made you one of those, you might just run off to the tourney grounds to give him a big fat smooch.
Except not really. Because then you'd both start retching and your glorious breakfast sandwich would become predigested mush to be scarfed down by some unworthy opossum.
There could be no crueler fate.
Stretching arms-over-head, you sat up and forced your eyes to open.
Your heart stopped.
Waiting near your bare feet, which were still coated in dried mud from the night before, was not the breakfast sandwich you'd been hoping for.
Boots.
Black leather with scale-like details, silver accents that shined in the sunlight. Boots, that looked just about your size. Boots, finer than anything you had ever owned in your entire life.
A scrap of parchment lay beneath the toe of one of them. You scrambled for it, squinting at the pretty handwriting, doing your best to sound out the words.
Knights and ladies all have one thing in common: a need for proper footwear.
—V
a/n | i actually really liked writing this reader, she was a hoot. and valarr <3 thanks for reading and i hope you liked it! as always, comments and reblogs are massively appreciated, and sending me asks with earn you one of those breakfast sandwiches dunk makes <3
targaryen divider made by @/targaryen-dynasty
FRUIT FALL
౨ৎ valarr targaryen x twin!reader ౨ৎ 1.3k ౨ৎ MDNI 18+, adult themes, sexual content [touching over clothes, implied oral both receiving and giving], targcest, established semi-complicated relationship, secret relationship, light banter, aerion mention, valarr's a munch that shoots too soon but we love him ౨ৎ
THE CHILDREN OF BAELOR BREAKSPEAR were destined to usher in a more honorable age for House Targaryen. Gone were the days of senseless cruelty! No more blind demands for Fire and Blood, nor adherence to the blasphemous custom that Valyrian blood must remain pure through incestuous relations.
Breakspear's children would be different, the people believed. They would be better.
The hour was late. No sooner had your twin brother Valarr entered your chambers than he had you pinned against the woven tapestry on your wall — an old one, though no less beautiful for its age, intricate threads depicting the Conquerer and his sister-wives embracing before their dragons.
Valarr's lips were soft and desperate against the side of your neck, giving way to murmured sweet nothings.
Missed you — kiss — Need you — kiss — Tried to get away sooner — kiss.
You tsked at your brother's impatience, even as you hiked a leg up his waist so his hands — which had been fumbling uselessly, too quick to be deft as they tried bunching the silk fabric of your nightgown — would have an easier time reaching your smallclothes. He cupped you instantly, applying perfect pressure through the thin garment covering your already aching core.
"Did Aerion ask if you were off to see your whore?" you teased.
Valarr nipped your neck, mumbling, "Not funny."
"Not a jest." A moan strangled your words as his long, slim fingers settled on a firm rhythm against your clit. Your back arched instinctively against the tapestry. You bit your own lip, refusing to let another moan slip free.
It drove Valarr mad when you suppressed your pleasure. What's the point of making you feel good, he'd often pout, if you won't let me enjoy the fruits of my labor?
Until you were old enough to begin fraternizing with the women at court, you had never thought anything strange of your twin's insatiable desire to pleasure you. It was simply what a man did for his woman — except it wasn't according to the stories spun by dissatisfied wives, grumbling about husbands who stuck it in dry and finished too soon.
Their stories horrified you. You pitied those wives, though you couldn't dare tell them why.
How many times had Valarr found his release simply by humping your featherbed, still clad in his trousers, head caged between your thighs? Sometimes it was the taste of you — sweeter than summer berries, the fool romantic claimed — that pushed him straight over pleasure's edge. Other times it took as little as the feel of your fingertips raking through his hair, tugging his silver streak, to make him come far sooner than anticipated.
Valarr was never embarrassed. Why should he be? You liked the effect you had on him, and Valarr liked whatever kept his sweet sister crying out for his tongue, his fingers, his cock.
"I can feel every inch of your manhood pressing against me." You fought to keep an even tone as his fingers worked. "And if I can feel it," you panted, "then I have no doubt our dear cousin glimpsed evidence of your lust as you left the council room."
Valarr nipped you harder this time, right on the earlobe. "Love," he corrected.
He hated the word lust. We've been at this for years, he always said. If it was merely lust, it would've been satiated before I was even a man grown. Then he'd stroke your cheek, brush his thumb over your lip while smiling. I will never have enough of you, understand? I could eat my whole life and never find myself full.
Perhaps that was the problem.
Perhaps that was your fear.
You and Valarr were not betrothed. Your father — your whole family — had no clue how deep your…fondness for one another truly went. Already there had been talks that he would wed a woman from Tyrosh, secure the alliance of the Free City and further impede Blackfyre influence beyond Westeros. And you…you...
Valarr had said he wouldn't let it happen. He wouldn't wed the Tyroshi, wouldn't let Father give you to any man but him.
Frustrated by your silence, perhaps, Valarr nipped your earlobe again — gentler, now — and said, "And why should we care what Aerion glimpses? Let him see. Let him follow and watch if he so pleases! Our cousin should know the ways I best him go below the belt, too."
You scoffed; Valarr was better than Aerion, but the blood of the dragon ran hot and stupid. Possessive nonsense would help none with the precarious nature of your future.
"Should we send for him, then? Have him bring a measuring stick since you're so confident—"
Valarr's hand went still against your center.
He leaned back enough for mismatched eyes to search yours, his neat brows pinched with confusion and a hint of preemptive hurt.
"Do you doubt me?"
"Oh, is it your turn to jest now?"
"Answer honestly," he said.
"Then ask your question plainly! Truly, Valarr, you cannot be so childish as to be asking if I think our cousin's cock might be bigger than yours."
He withdrew his hand from under your nightgown.
Apparently he was that childish.
"Well pardon me," he said with the clipped propriety of a mistreated son of Breakspear. "I was unaware you thought I'd take it as a compliment that our cousin's cock occupies your mind."
"You're the one who mentioned his cock!"
"I alluded," said Valarr. "You're the one who brought him up — and suggested a measuring stick!"
"In jest," you cried. "And I only brought him because you—" you jabbed a finger against his chest "—have an awful habit of carelessly sneaking into your sister's room with lewd interest straining against your trousers."
Valarr tossed his head back with a whine. "Who cares?"
You gave his chest another jab. "You should! You will be king someday, and it is not proper for a king to go about sticking his cock in his little sister."
"You're only younger by two minutes." He glanced pointedly at the tapestry behind you. "And I can think of several people who would disagree that statement." Not only the Conquerer and his queens, you knew, but a long line of Targaryen brother-sister pairings, stretching back to the ancient days before the Doom.
Neither of you held much attachment to the customs of Old Valyria. Your House was changing — since the death of the last dragon nearly eighty years ago, House Targaryen had found itself with less reason to champion incestuous relationships; why must the blood of the dragon remain pure if there were no longer any dragons to bond with? Why continue to breed unrest throughout the realm by continuing with such queer practices?
If you asked Valarr that question, you knew exactly what his answer would be.
Love.
Sensing it in you — a willingness to acquiesce, at least for now — Valarr began to smile. He had a dragon's smile. Deceptive, white teeth flashing like finest pearls to distract you from the knowledge that they could tear you apart. But perhaps you didn't need the distraction. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if Valarr tore you apart.
"I don't care what the realm thinks," he whispered, trailing a flattened palm up your stomach, moving sideways to cup your breast. "I don't care what father thinks, what grandsire thinks, what Aerion or the gods them-fucking-selves think." He pressed his forehead to yours. His one blue eye shined with promise, while his dark eye swirled with hunger. "You will be my queen."
There was no going back now.
You dropped to your knees, your own hands doing the fumbling now as you tugged at the laces on his trousers. Valarr helped you. Then he gathered your hair and held it back from your face as you set to the easy task of making him moan so loud that even the rats in Flea Bottom would hear. He lasted a minute before pulling you up, kissing you, stumbling backwards to the bed so he could take his rightful place between your thighs, unwilling to come without first tasting you on his tongue.
The people would be disappointed to find out that Breakspear's children were not so different after all.
a/n | i'd get on my knees for pretty much every character in this damn show, but valarr takes the cake. anyways, here's a little something short. thanks for reading!
targaryen divider by @/targaryen-dynasty
click here for part two
