#daredevil x f!reader

[ssvbse]

Scars Across Your Body

Matt Murdock x F!Reader | 1.7k

Summary: Matt gets hot and bothered when you start touching his scars.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), biblically accurate whiny Matt, scratching, scars, no choking but Matt puts his hand on your throat to feel you moan, mentions of past violence, sorta overstimulation.

"What happened here?"

Matt dragged his hand down your naked thigh, and a shudder overwhelmed his already overstimulated body as your fingers absentmindedly danced across his slick shoulders. He slowly raised his attention from where it had strayed between your knees, and his swollen lips parted with a shaky exhale.

"What?"

You cocked your head, and your warm cheeks pulled tight with a smile as you traced the same line again.

"Your scar," you said, idly stroking the skin. "I've never noticed this one before." He could hear your eyes shift back to his face. "What happened?"

A breathy chuckle left his mouth, and he hung his head, a lock of damp hair sweeping past his flushed cheek.

"It's hard to remember," he admitted, skimming his lips over the inside of your knee. "They've all started to blur together at this point."

You pressed your lips together in amusement, and your hands shifted to tickle his delt, tracing the silver lines littering the flexing muscle as he shifted above you.

"I like looking at them," you murmured as his mouth wandered back to your knees, the sound of your drumming pulse drowning out most of your audible sentiment. "I like looking at you."

"I like looking at you, too," Matt murmured, a smile splitting across his busy lips at your following giggle. His eyes flicked in the direction of your face, and he raised a brow. "Can I continue now?" he asked, already beginning to trail kisses down the inside seam of your thigh. You hummed in confirmation, but your hands continued to wander.

The warmth of your scent overwhelmed his senses as Matt lowered his face between your parted legs. Heat radiated from your parted folds, and the resounding sound of your hammering pulse had his eyes rolling back into his head. He took you by the ankles when your legs threatened to close, grounding himself as his thoughts grew hazy. Your body twitched with anticipation, and your breath hitched as his lips skimmed your slick skin. The sheets shifted beneath you as your shoulder drew together.

And yet, despite gripping your thighs as they quivered with pleasure, despite smelling your arousal as it flooded your slit, despite listening to the high-pitched noises as they freely left your parted lips, and despite sensing all other clear signs of your obvious, mind melting pleasure, you still managed to ask, "And this one?"

He blinked, and the sound of your steady voice had his working mouth pausing.

"What?"

A full laugh rumbled through your body, and he listened to the friction of skin against fabric as you relaxed back deep within the ruffled sheets. You brushed your thumb over a thick, raised piece of healed skin stretching from the tip of his bicep down to the junction of his elbow.

"This scar, Matt," you said, the sensation of your fingers sending goosebumps erupting across his upper body. "How'd you get this one?"

Matt's face contorted out of confusion—brows rubbing one another and nose wrinkling—and audible evidence of his perplexity escaped from his throat as he opened his slick mouth.

"You're still talking about the scars?" he asked, and the heat of your cheeks moved as you nodded. "Really?"

"Afraid so," you teased, and you must have noticed his face falter because you quickly added, "I'm curious!"

"But why now?" Matt asked. "I'm sort of in the middle of trying to do something with you, and you—" he began, frustration apparent as he shifted, "—and all you want to do is... is—what?" he asked, shadow swallowing you as he buried his anchoring hand into the sheets besides your head. "Listen to me talk about all the times I've been stabbed?"

It was difficult to differentiate between the beat of his own irritation-fueled, escalating pulse and the excitement of yours. One of your wandering hands smothered itself over his heart and the other cupped his heaving side, and the effect of your hot palms on his skin was immediate and obvious; his jaw fell open, his eyes practically crossed, and his entire body jolted under the touch of your nimble fingertips as you played his protruding abs like the strings on a guitar.

Matt couldn't hold back the strangled mewl that fell from his numb mouth as his dick twitched against the smooth skin of your belly.

"I thought you liked it when I touched you, Matthew," you murmured, and he grit his teeth at the clear amusement in your voice. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," he said quickly before snapping his jaw shut and hanging his head. "Don't."

"Then tell me about this one," you said, and he felt the tip of your finger encircle a prominent scar on his lower ribs. A whine left his throat at the sensation, and he struggled to keep his answer steady.

"Bullet," Mat bit. "'Just grazed me. I—" he began, but the words fell out of his wide open mouth as you palmed his twitching pec. "I can't remember who shot it."

He felt your hand wander from his side, and you repositioned your arms to rest over his shoulder, your fingers continuing to explore the expanse of his quaking back.

"You've got a lot over here," you murmured as he managed to slowly lower himself to his elbows. His hips moved at their own accord, smothering his dick between his own quivering stomach and yours. Matt had to bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as you poked and prodded at his back. "You should watch your back more often."

"I'll keep that in mind," he grunted only for his entire body to seize as you dipped two fingers into the cavern of muscle that trailed along his spine. You hummed and followed the wide scar all the way down to his lower back which arched into your touch. His hips twitched out of instinct, and Matt moaned as his dick pulsed.

"What happened here?"

"Jesus, woman," he whined, fisting the sheets beside your face. "Knife—no—hook," he said, swallowing. "It was—uh—Japanese mobsters—the Yakuza."

"Did they catch you by surprise?" you asked, and his breath hitched as you dug your fingers into the superficial skin. "'Seems like it was deep."

"It was," Matt wheezed, audibly out of breath. "It was very," he murmured, and thrusted his hips against your stomach, desperate for friction, "very deep."

Your fingers danced over the healed-over skin, gently massaging the growing ache in his tense muscles.

"Do any of them still hurt?"

He huffed into your neck, and his jaw felt like it was permanently hinged open.

"That one does sometimes," he murmured into your skin, lips wet with his own saliva and your slick, "but it's better when you—" he tried, and his back arched like a cat's into your palm, his dick bobbing against his stomach "—when you touch it like that."

"Maybe I should touch you more often," you said, and his eyes rolled back into his head as your hands flattened out across his lower back and sunk his hips into yours. The tip of his dick ground into your folds under the pressure of your hands, pushing roughly against your slit for somewhere to go before clipping your hole and slipping inside in one swift motion.

Matt's entire body shuddered, already overstimulated as he wetly moaned your name in your neck. You hummed, and your smile brushed the shell of his ear. "It seems like you enjoy it when I touch you, Matthew."

No longer able to think clearly with the horny haze fogging up his mind, Matt's hips moved on their own accord. His own slick, trembling skin slapped against your composed hips, and his cock chased its own high while the rest of his body found overwhelming stimulation from your prodding fingers. Every swipe, smother, and stroke of your hands had his body jerking and twitching like a man possessed.

Matt desperately mouthed at your pulse, and he swallowed around the pound of your heartbeat to muffle his whines when the signs of your whittling composure flooded his senses; your breathing had grown erratic, the rise and fall of your hips threatened to fall out of time with his own rhythm, and the most wonderful sounds vibrated the box deep in your throat.

"Matt," you gasped as his hand reached up to rest around your throat. A strangled cry left his wide open mouth as your vocal cords hummed like electrical wire beneath his palm, the signs of your need overwhelming his system. Your hands grasped his shoulders to ground yourself as his pace began to falter. His mouth moved against your neck, but he couldn't form words. "Oh, Jesus, Matthew."

The noises fell freely from his mouth as he felt your slick legs lock around his tilted hips, and your hands desperately clawed at his back for something to hang onto. Matt's entire body convulsed as your nails dug themselves deep into his middle back and dragged themselves all the way back up to his shoulders. And as your body seized around his, the pressure inflaming the burn of the long scratches marring his back, for a moment, Matt swore he saw God. His hips chased the internal pleasure as a hot, white, overstimulated shock overwhelmed him, and his dick jerked within your mutual release.

It sounded like he was underwater, and only the thunderous, slowing pulse of your heartbeat broke through his waterlogged ears. His whine was muffled as he slowly pulled his hips from yours, his core quivering and his thighs trembling, and he lazily reached up to wipe the mess of drool from his lips as he raised his head.

One of your hands cupped his jaw, and your thumb smeared the remaining spit on his lips.

"What's this one from?"

Matt hummed as your voice broke through the obstruction in his ears, and he leaned into your palm as your thumb passed over his top lip to follow the ridge of an old scar. An exhausted chuckle ripped through his spent lungs.

"You really are somethin' else," he grumbled, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. You grinned against him and lazily threw your arms around his neck, brushing the fresh marks lingering in his skin.

"I think you might've given me some new scars," he murmured, rolling his shoulders back. Goosebumps erupted across his body as you tickled the fresh area of sensitivity.

"Won't that be a fun story to tell!"

[foli-vora]

cowgirl

matt murdock x f!reader

A/N: i’m just glad to be here tbh. I’ve missed this horny shit. Enjoy angels! x

Summary: title sums it up—riding Matthew Michael Murdock right off into that sunset. As we should.

Word count: tis but a drabble, just a little something to get out of my system

Warnings: swearing, GO EASY ON ME i'm exercising my smut muscle as it feels like it's been forever and a day since i've written it, SMUT 18+ ONLY, p in v, bit of a thumb suck, bro almost cums from hearing i love you idc its canon take it up with god

other matty stuff | main masterlist

—

His hands make a home on your hips. Not to control, not to guide, but to feel. The press of hot sweat slicked skin burning his palms, the measured roll and flex of muscle beneath his touch as you grind back and forth, the way your flesh yields when his fingers begin to dig in just that little bit harder.

You like that.

You like the threat of his strength lingering behind his each and every touch, the sheer brute power that had broken bones and split flesh, only to tremble and soften and smooth over you in a way that feels like utter devotion, pure worship.

The feared Devil of Hells Kitchen, so relentless and fierce and strong yet yields oh so easily under your sweet caresses, his bruised face turning to chase the hand that trails along his cheek, his breath leaving his parted lips in soft sighs and broken whines.

His chest jumps as the tips of your fingers trace his built frame, ghosting over the twist of solid muscle and each pucker of freshly broken skin and healed scar.  Though it feels like fire, it heals like absolution, forgiveness pressed from your fingers to the very core of him.

The heat building in the pit of your stomach stirs with each pass of your hips over his, your clit, swollen and throbbing from his previous assaults, catching his pubic bone at just the right angle time and time again until you feel fucking dizzy from the high building within you.

Just a little more, just a little—

It’s all for you, the way you move. He’s not complaining. Not ever. Feeling you work yourself on him, taking what you need, practically using his body for your own benefit—he’d gladly beg for it, suffer for it. It's both his damnation and eternal glory rolled into one.

“Fuck Matty,” you whimper, the wild beat of your heart like thunder in his ears. “Feels… so fucking good. I love you.”

The hushed words dripping with ecstasy melt over his skin, run molten through his system. His stomach tightens and his hips can’t help but jolt, the slick hot walls of your cunt fluttering around him in response. 

His hand cups the side of your face in an effort to see you, his thumb brushing over the familiar curve of your cheek, the flutter of your lashes, the tip of your nose, the parting of your lips and the ghost of your hot breath against his skin. He studies your features, paints your face in his mind, brows pinched and eyes rolling as you move on his cock.

“I love you.”

The wet feel of your lips close around his thumb and his tongue ducks out to run across his lips, his own features creasing when you suck gently at his calloused skin. He presses his thumb down into your tongue, fingers curling under your chin and pulling you down until he’s able to messily find your mouth with his own.

He swallows your sweet little moan, tastes your want and desperation right from your tongue. You’re almost there. He can hear it, feel it build in your body, muscles twisting and tensing under his hands, a tight coil on the verge of snapping completely in his hold. 

There’s a creak of wood as your hand finds the top of the headboard, the blunt edge of your nails dragging over its hard surface as you brace against it and begin to pick up your momentum, your hips moving faster now, desperate to see him to finish line as the slap of skin echoes in your bedroom.

God, just a little more—

[pastafossa]

Heat Wave (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, SFW)

Had this one sitting in my docs folder for a while, decided to edit it and finally drop it in honor of the hot summer.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings for this fic: SFW, no use of y/n, lots of descriptions about how hot it is but it's fine cause Matt still thinks you smell nice, Reader is AFAB, Matt is a brat

Fic Summary: Just a short, humourish drabble-ish bit about you and Matt dealing with the heat as I try to get back into writing.

Or: in which Matt is still somehow cuddly in triple-digit weather.

You were going to kill someone. 

Matt would claim you were exaggerating, but you knew the truth. These were living conditions meant for lizards, not mammals, and when mammals—one particular flavor of mammal, especially—were forced out of their proper biome, murder wasn’t out of the question. You were pretty sure that was how it worked, anyway, according to Genesis. It was hard to remember when your brain was sizzling inside your skull like a wad of bacon. 

One-hundred-and-fucking-six degrees. 

You could have dealt with it if it had been a bit drier. Really. But during New York summers, the only thing more reliable than the honking of horns was the humidity, which had sent the index soaring up into the category of absolute hellscape. The rickety old air conditioning unit in the apartment had done alright until the heat index had hit triple digits. Then it had coughed, sputtered, and settled for, ‘Sure, you’re still a sweaty puddle of melting meat juice, but the outside is worse if you think about it, right?’ The A.C. at Nelson and Murdock had waved the white flag even sooner than that, to the point they’d closed the office four days ago and reverted to working from home. Matt hadn’t even bothered to go out as the Devil the past two nights, not when the very act of putting on the suit had become dangerous. 

Not that there was anyone out there for Matt to fight right now. Apparently even the criminals had a temperature limit. Turns out the real secret to stopping crime wasn’t a Devil suit, but instead just cranking up the setting on the giant ball of fire in the sky until the very act of crime meant you might wind up with a chance to meet the real Devil first hand.

The fact that you were living in Hell’s Kitchen had never felt more accurate. 

Matt, ever the practical masochist, was out in the bad air doing… something. Errands, you vaguely remembered, since it was after dark and thus moderately less like a pot of boiling soup outside. You didn’t much care, though. You were currently in the bedroom sprawled out on the floor where it was just a touch cooler, a few thin sheets and a pillow thrown down for padding. You’d stripped down to your underwear, five different fans whirring away around you in an attempt to stir the stagnant, sticky air in the room. If you were lucky, they’d help you retain the brief snatch of heavenly cold your body had greedily absorbed sitting in the shower for the past hour. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better, and at this point you’d take it. And as much as you loved Matt, it was far more pleasant without him here. That man was a furnace and the heat had only reduced his cuddling needs by about forty percent. On top of that, if he knew you’d cooled your body, he’d want in.

The bedroom door slowly rolled open with an ominous… 

…squeak. 

You blearily turned your head.

Matt had already stripped out of his shirt, his body so soaked in sweat he almost seemed to shine. On a good day you’d have compared him and his damp, pale skin to a beautiful marble sculpture, to classical paintings of gorgeous Greek Gods emerging from frothing rivers. Now, however, all you could think of was a hot dog pulled straight from the hot, cloudy water at that one food cart you didn’t really trust: 

Shiny. 

Questionably wet. 

And not something you particularly wanted laying on top of you in triple digit weather. 

Matt blinked innocently at you as he slowly shucked his shorts—shorts you hadn’t even realized he owned until this heat wave. It left him in nothing but damp boxers still clinging to his thick thighs. His intent was clear. 

“Shoo,” you croaked. “My cold body. Go away. Go sit in the shower like I did.”

“Everyone else had the same idea. The water pressure’s too low now.” He took a creeping step, and then another, bit by bit making his way around the bed towards you like an overheated panther. “Share it with me. I want it.”

“Come back when it’s ten degrees cooler.”

“I love you,” he sighed sadly, aiming those big, dark, mournful eyes in your general direction as he rounded the bed. Foggy called it Matt’s ‘abandoned kitten in the rain’ look. It was far more effective on you than you’d ever admit to, and on a colder day, it would have worked. But you were quickly reminded of Matt’s true goal when a droplet of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked it away with a grunt, nose scrunching like a cat’s as he paused just long enough to wipe it away. Then he was back at it. He sank smoothly to his knees, crawling menacingly towards you across the floor on all fours. “I love you so, so much. Let me hold you, sweetheart. I need you.”

“Fuck off, you goddamn cold thief.” You kicked lethargically at him with one leg the moment he was in range, dodging his grip when he snatched at your ankle. You quickly shifted to your backup plan, which was mostly just rolling like an overcooked rotisserie chicken to the far side of the small cloth nest on the floor. But even after an hour in a cold shower, you still wound up partially stuck to the sheets where sweat had pooled against your lower back, bringing half the fabric with you, making you groan. “Do some Devil meditation to cool down.”

He’d made it fully onto the blankets now, inching towards you, that familiar predatory hunger radiating from every inch of him. He slowly tilted his head, honing in on you, on the exact positioning of his body. Then he flashed you a grin. “This is faster.” 

“I’m not your cold pack—” 

“You’re about to be,” he purred. 

Before you could blink he’d flung himself across the blankets, twining himself around you, trapping you in his sticky grip. You squirmed and rocked weakly in an attempt to escape, a flopping wet fish caught in the clutches of your beloved cuddle octopus, but it was no use, and fighting him off would only heat you up further. You let out a miserable groan, sagging against the floor, and the sound was almost lost beneath his equally loud moan of relief. 

The struggle clearly over, he made his final move, throwing one of his fuzzy, muscular legs over your waist and dragging you back in tighter against him, shoving his hips up against your ass without so much as a, ‘you want some dinner first?’ Just like that you were trapped against a mountain of sweaty, burning Devil. His contented, admittedly-mildly-heat-exhausted little purr into your hair was only matched by your grumble of irritation as his body eagerly began to drain you of every last drop of cold you’d managed to suck up in the shower.

“Why?” you moaned, his sticky, wet skin sliding against yours with every breath, the sweat already pooling between you. You felt like you were trapped against a slip-n-slide. “Why, Matthew?”

“You don’t want me to get heat stroke do you?” he mumbled sadly, though he wasn’t sad enough not to rub his great, big, obnoxious, sweaty head against your damp hair. There must have been some cold left up there, too. “Who will keep you warm in the winter? As if you don’t do this to me when you’re cold. Fair’s fair.” 

“The pot is uncomfortable being called the fuck out by the kettle,” you muttered, reluctantly lifting one arm so he could more easily wrap himself around you. Which he did, with no small amount of pleasure. “This sucks, and I hate it.”

“There is one upside though.”

“What’s that?”

He dragged his head sleepily down to your neck and faceplanted against your damp skin without any hesitation, taking a few long, drunken inhales. When he spoke again, his voice had grown just a little slurred, glutted and thick. “You smell amazing, sweetheart.” 

“No, I smell like I’m a bag of meat that’s marinating,” you said grimly. “Because that’s what I am right now thanks to this heatwave. I am God’s sentient bag of marinating meat.” “Mm, but the bag smells good at least.” Matt rubbed his cheek fondly against your slick shoulder, no doubt luxuriating in all the pheromones bogged down in the sweat clinging to your skin. “We can marinate together.”

Who said romance was dead?

“As flattering as it is that you’re not turned off by how I smell soaked in my own sweat,” you told him tiredly, though not unkindly, “I regret to inform you that Club Vagina is closed until the air stops trying to kill us.” “Fair. Just thought you should know how good you smell.” He yawned, adjusting himself against you. You grimaced when your skin and his stuck together awkwardly for a moment before sliding slickly against each other, only to seemingly glue itself back together a moment later when he settled.

Once he was cooled off, you were absolutely leaving him on this side of the floor nest and making an escape for the other side. Hell, you might be able to talk him into giving you a good six inches of space if you could convince him that a single pinky toe touching qualified as cuddling in spirit, if not in form. 

That he still wanted to cuddle at all was the bigger mystery.

“What I really want to know is how you aren’t dying right now.” You furrowed your brow. “You’re tolerating this and the heat a lot better than I thought you would.”

“Let me put it this way.” He tapped one finger against you almost playfully. “Ninety degrees in the suit feels roughly equal to triple digits when not wearing it. At least this way the sweat has somewhere to go. Some nights I’m surprised I don’t make sloshing sounds when I move.”

Your brain unhelpfully offered up an idea of what that might sound like: a wet squish caught somewhere between the splashing of water in a bucket and the muffled squeak of a water balloon when you squeezed it in your hand. 

You really wished your brain was a little less imaginative. Or specific.

“Oh god.”

“Mhm. Now you know why I sometimes avoid you until I shower after patrol in the summer.”

“That is very much appreciated. Speaking of showers, I could already use another one, but that’s not doable until the water pressure’s back.” You blew out a breath, staring at the wall, the only shield between both of you and the tacky, carnival taffy-thick humidity desperate to find a way in. One of the fans sputtered as if in sympathy, though that likely had more to do with the way it had been running almost non-stop for twelve hours. For all you knew, this was the fan threatening a lawsuit over unpaid overtime. “Until then we just survive. Or evolve into lizards.”

“I choose survival. Might be hard to keep the streets safe if I was a lizard.”

“Unless you were a really big, scary one. A Komodo Devil.” You groaned, flopping your head back against his shoulder. “Then you could chase people off before they take all the ice cream at the store. I don’t suppose you found some?”

“I could only find a box of popsicles.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Except they melted on the way home. So fruit-flavored, room-temperature water in a tube is the best I can offer until they solidify in the freezer again.”

Fuck. 

This wasn’t fair. You bet Turk had ice cream. Somehow. Why couldn’t you have some of that

Actually…

“I don’t suppose,” you said innocently, “I could talk you into stealing an air conditioning unit, and maybe some ice cream, from a bad guy?”

Matt was quiet for a long, thoughtful, Catholic moment as he presumably considered the sin of thievery, especially if that thievery involving taking something from a very, very bad person who surely didn’t deserve the cold air and sweet, sweet relief of ice cream as much as you, the love of his life, did.

You pointedly leaned forward, your wet, sweaty body peeling away from him like the hands of a kindergartner who’d coated his palms in Elmer’s glue. 

That did it. “The second I’ve drained all the cold from your body, I’m willing to discuss it.”

“Excellent.”

[giltedbones]

Late Night pt 1

Summary: After coming home later, Matt is waiting for you, and is not happy. Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader Word count: 728 Warnings/tags: Mad Matt, No smut in this maybe later, Emotionally constipated characters.

Part 2 Here

Matt had been sitting in the dark for two hours.

Not unusual, for him. The dark was where he lived. But tonight the apartment felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with the billboard light bleeding through the windows or the low hum of the city ten stories down.

He'd called you seven times before 2:30…. left voicemails he already regretted, his voice getting tighter with each one, cycling between anger and something closer to... begging. You hadn't picked up once.

He could reconstruct your evening from what you'd left behind. Shower after work. Half an hour in front of the bathroom mirror, the lingering traces of hairspray and perfume still hanging in the humid air. Your good shoes gone from the closet. You'd planned this.

The knowing didn't help. If anything it made it worse, because it meant you'd thought about it, decided, and walked out the door without a word while he was out bleeding for Hell's Kitchen…. Again.

That was the thing Matt couldn't quite sit with. He knew why you'd done it. Three weeks of canceled dinners and empty promises. Three weeks of stumbling through the front door at 3am reeking of blood and concrete dust, falling into bed beside you already asleep because he couldn't keep his eyes open long enough to have the conversation you kept trying to start. Three weeks of Frank Castle's face burned into the back of his skull, the case files piling up at the office, the certainty that if he could just find the thread connecting Castle to Fisk, he could...

He could what. Save everyone? Fix everything? The math never worked, but he kept running the numbers anyway.

So yes. He understood why you were gone. He could even, in the part of his brain that still practiced law instead of violence, admit that you had a point.

But understanding it and accepting it were different things. And Matt Murdock was not a man who shared well.

His fingers dug into the armrest of the loveseat. He listened to seconds tick by on the kitchen clock. He catalogued the silence and let it feed the cold thing coiling in his chest.

The front door opened at 4:07.

He heard you before you were through it. Keys fumbling against the lock, one attempt, two. The uneven rhythm of heels on someone who'd had too much to drink. You tripped on the top step and caught yourself on the doorframe, and the stumble sent a wave of scent rolling into the apartment ahead of you. Vodka. Sweat. Your perfume, hours old now... fading underneath something else.

Matt didn't stand. Not yet.

He let you see him. He knew what he looked like in the billboard light, all sharp angles and shadow, jaw set, eyes fixed on nothing. He let the silence stretch until it became unbearable.

"Four in the morning." His voice was quiet. Controlled. "You smell like vodka, sweetheart."

He rose slowly, hands sliding into the pockets of his sweatpants. Casual. The opposite of what was happening behind his ribs.

"Does your phone not work? Or are you going to have the decency to admit you were ignoring me."

He stepped closer. Another step. Another. Listing charges the way he would in a courtroom, each word landing with the weight of its own footfall. "Immature. Reckless. Inconsiderate."

One more step, and he was close enough to touch you. Close enough to catch it.

Cologne.

Not yours. Not his. Something cheap... musky... sitting in the collar of your dress like a hand print.

His hands found your hips before you could step back. He leaned in, his nose tracing the curve of your neck, and the hair on his arms stood on end.

"Christ." The word left him on an exhale. "I leave for one night and you find another man. That's what this is?"

He pulled you flush against his chest. Dragged his jaw along the line of your throat, slow, feeling you shiver under the scrape of stubble.

"Couldn't handle one night alone?" He spoke against the shell of your ear, his lips barely moving. "Had to go get drunk and let some stranger put his hands on you?"

His grip tightened on your hips. His mouth pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"You're going to regret that."

Part 2 Here

[filthgf]

⠀⊹ patchin’ up ; 𝓜𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝓜𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐤 ࿐ ׂ 

⠀𓂅⁩⠀ 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 ⁺ ꒱⠀fluff, est. relationship, implied nurse!reader.⠀⠀⠀wc,⠀364%.

⠀©⠀𝒇𝗂𝗅𝗍𝗁𝗀𝖿⠀᭝⠀2026.

blood coated the blue latex gloves you wore on your hands, medical supplies from a first aid kit littered the coffee table and couch around you. you placed the last few stitches into matt’s skin, cleaning off the area of his wounded abdomen again before placing a gauze pad over it.

“thank you, nurse,” he glanced up in your general direction, eyes shifting behind his glasses to find the mark in the air where your chest rose and fell with your breathing. “how will i ever repay you?”

you chuckled at that, removing your gloves and placing all the leftover supplies back in the box. “depends, what’re you willing to give me?”

“oh, well, i can give you a lot, actually. just name your price.” he smiled while you rolled your eyes, understanding the nod of an innuendo he was pitching.

“you barely survived last night, matt. and you’re lucky you have a sweet enough girlfriend in your bed to patch you up,” you shut the first aid kit and stood up after collecting all of the trash, discarding it in the trashcan in the kitchen.

“sooo, that’s a... no? to the innocent thanks i wanted to give you?”

“yeah, what you wanted was totally innocent,” you snorted. “c’mere,” you whispered as you made your way back over to the couch, bending down to place your lips on his.

two quick smacks of kisses is what you gave him before standing back up and pulling away, giving him a light slap on his shoulder. “oh– come onnn!” matt groaned at the loss of you, trying to grab your arm to pull you down, but you were quicker.

“get up, we’re already late,” you grinned. “let’s try to actually make it to the office before you bleed through your shirt and i have to repack your gauze.” you tossed his blazer towards him, watching him catch it with ease before walking to your shared bedroom to grab your heels.

all matt did was sigh, listening to you click clack around the apartment as he reluctantly stood up and buttoned his shirt, wishing you could’ve spared him at least another minute for some more ‘innocent’ kissing.

[pastaxandria]

The Red Thread: Chapter 164

The Library of Pastaxandria has recorded for its archives: Chapter 164 of The Red Thread.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

"I mean, you can tell them who you are if you want everyone in a five-block radius to mob you for photos like a flock of seagulls going for a toddler's french fries." You peered at him over the top of your sunglasses. "And then I'd have to try to run away to avoid said photographers." "With how you've been moving all morning, I'm not even sure you can run." He arched a brow. "You look more like someone I should carry off the battlefield while calling for a medic." "Are you mocking me, flag man?" "Only a little." Or: In which you and Steve Rogers discuss a few things, and a deal is made that absolutely won't come up later.

Wordcount: 5.1k

Warnings for this chapter: Lack of Matt in this chapter, so sorry! But he'll be back in the next one!

Read me on AO3 where Steve is at the beach and wondering when corndogs became so expensive

[loves0phelia]

Hello!

I got another idea which may be a little sad (but it is okay we can handle it)

Since we all know about Matt's super senses I was thinking of a scenario where he discovers that reader has a heart problem

Hope you consider and like the idea!

❤

Unsteady Rhythm

Summery: The request (maybe more fluffy than anticipated)

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: heart condition, grammar mistakes.

A/N: Thank you for requesting and once again I'm sorry it took so long for me to write, hope you enjoy regardless xx

Matt didn’t mean to notice it. Not at first.

You were curled up on his couch, legs tucked beneath you, and talking about your long day at work. Telling him about the various events of your day. He was listening to your every word until his attention drifted to something else. 

The rhythm of the noise made his brow tighten.

Your heart was… off.

He didn’t say anything at first. Maybe it was just the way you were sitting, maybe you'd had too much coffee again.. Your heartbeat often changed rhythm —when you were excited, tired, anxious or even just when you were in his presence. He knew every variation.

But this? This wasn’t one of those situations.

There was a flutter. A soft pause that didn’t sound like it belonged. Then a jolt—like your heart realized it missed a step and tried to catch up.

Once. Then again. And again.

“…Matt?” Your voice brought him back.

You were watching him now, head tilted. He hadn’t answered the question you’d asked.

He wet his lips, sitting up straighter. "Say something again."

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Uh… okay. What should I say?”

“Anything,” he said.

“Are you okay Matt? Did my day at work sound that atrocious?” You paused, then smiled nervously with a small giggle.

But he wasn’t smiling.

He leaned in slightly, tilting his head as if trying to catch a sound beyond the wall. But the sound was right here— in you.

He heard the beat again. Your heart was beating too slow. and then in a second it was beating too fast. It made his stomach twist.

“…Have you been feeling okay?” he asked, voice lower now.

“Yeah. I mean—tired, I guess. Nothing too bad you know? Just life.” You blinked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gently took your wrist, fingers brushing your pulse point.

“What is it?” you asked again, your smile slipping. “Matt?”

“Your heart,” he said quietly. “It’s not right.”

You pulled your hand back like you’d been burned.

“I—what? Matt, come on.”

“I can hear it,” he said, sharper now. “The beat’s irregular. It’s been skipping since you came in.”

You stood up, folding your arms across your chest.

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered. “It’s just stress. I’ve been dealing with some palpitations. It’s not—it's not serious.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

Silence.

“Have you seen a doctor?” he repeated, more firmly this time.

“No,” you said, looking away. 

“Why not?” Matt stood now too, towering beside you, his expression somewhere between fear and frustration. 

“Because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You think that doesn’t scare me?” His voice cracked at the end, jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t lost enough already?”

That stopped you..

“I hear a thousand heartbeats a day. And yours—yours—is the one I tune in to without even trying. So when it changes, I know. I can feel it. Like it’s warning me something is wrong.”

Your throat tightened.

“…Matt—”

“You can’t hide this from me,” he whispered. 

He reached out again, slower this time, and you let him. His fingers laced with yours, his thumb brushing your pulse again. He was listening. He always was.

“I just didn’t want to be… a burden, I don't want to complain about small stuff like this when you go through so much more every day.” you whispered.

“You’re not.” His voice was firm now. “You’re never a burden. You’re mine. And if something’s wrong, I need to know. I need you to let me help you.”

You nodded slowly, a tear sliding down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

“Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll go to a doctor.”

…

It had taken less than twelve hours for Matt to make the appointment happen.

You weren’t sure if it was Catholic guilt or pure Murdock-level stubbornness that made him so relentless, but by morning he’d found a walk in specialist, cleared his schedule, and insisted on going with you to the clinic.

The air was sharp with antiseptic, cold and sterile in a way that made your nerves jangle. You hated waiting rooms. Hated the white noise hum. Hated your own heart most of all for being the reason you were here.

Matt hadn’t let go of your hand once.

His thumb moved slowly over your knuckles as you waited but his attention was elsewhere like he was still listening. Like he couldn’t stop.

“Please stop worrying so much,” you begged silently.

“Im sorry, sweetheart” He lifted your knuckles to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss.

When your name was finally called, you stood up too fast. The world tilted slightly. Matt’s arm was there in a flash, steadying you without a word.

He didn’t come into the exam room at first—respecting your privacy—but the minute the doctor stepped out, Matt slipped in like a shadow.

You were sitting on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling beneath you, heart pounding in your chest like a warning drum.

The doctor returned soon after. She ran an electrocardiogram, took blood, scheduled an echo for the following week and gave you a portable heart monitor to wear for 48 hours.

“You’re not dying,” the doctor said gently as she handed you medical papers and you felt Matt's shoulder relax drastically. “But this isn’t something to ignore. Your rhythm is irregular enough that I’d like to rule out early signs of arrhythmia. But we’re catching it early so there is nothing to worry about.”

You nodded, absorbing it like a punch to the stomach. 

…

That night, he didn’t go on patrol.

You didn’t ask him not to. He just didn’t.

You fell asleep around midnight, monitor leads still attached to your skin.

Matt sat in silence across the room at his desk, laptop open, glasses off, headphones in.

He wasn’t listening to case files.

He was researching deep into medical websites, looking up diagnoses, remedies and even interviews with people who had your condition. Mapping it all out like a case.

You stirred later in the night around 2 and saw the blue glow of the screen. Heard the soft sound of keyboard clicking. Watched him with his brow furrowed, hair a mess from running his hands through it over and over.

“Matt,” you murmured, voice hoarse, “come to bed.”

He didn’t look up. “I will. Just give me a few more minutes.”

“…You’re trying to solve me like I’m a case.” you sighed.

That made him stop.

He finally looked over, and for a moment, he felt guilty.

Then he crossed the room, sat beside you on the bed, and ran his hand gently through your hair.

“I’m sorry ” he whispered. “I should’ve heard it sooner. If it gets worse—if I miss something—”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You heard the doctor matty, i'm not dying” you pressed.

“But I can't help but think that if i don't do anything—”

“You catched it though, right? Isn't that enough?” your thumb brushes the small stubble on his cheek.

“I wish I could stop it entirely now. I wish I could have super powers to heal you.”

“But you do have super powers. That's why we're here right now talking about this.” You sat up straighter in bed. “You're my very own hero with crazy super hearing” you laughed and a small grin grew on his face.

“Please don't make me force you into bed” you said, voice getting lower “I miss you”

You leaned in and kissed him—slow and warm. He melted into it almost immediately, his hand moving to your waist, pulling you closer like he didn’t even realize he needed to.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“Come to bed,” you whispered. “Please. Just… come to bed with me. Let me fall asleep with you. Let me be okay, just for tonight.”

He didn’t answer right away.

But then he pulled you into his arms fully, before falling on his back bringing you down with him comfortably on your bed. You felt the tension bleed out of him bit by bit as you snuggled closer, face almost digging into his chest.

After that he finally let himself believe that you were safe.

[m4tthewmurd0ck]

my username is what it is for a reason hehehe, unfortunately i have 0 self control so these are now officially in my wip’s!

if you’d like to be tagged when i post any of them, let me know which ones!

the born again trailer made me feel things and i am so ready to see my favorite men on the screen again!!!!

titles —

the night a line was crossed (matt murdock x fem!reader)

── AKA . . . why matt stopped being a vigilante

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.

.

a city left unchecked (matt murdock x fem!ex reader)

── AKA . . . matt is faced with perhaps his biggest regret yet, and he finds out just what happens when he hangs up the red suit for good, despite your objections

.

.

.

when peace is broken // chaos will reign (matt murdock x fem!reader) ── this is 2 parts

── AKA . . . matt knew you were it for him from the moment you met. he didn’t believe in the idea of soulmates until you. for a while, things were perfect. but then one night he took things too far as daredevil, and then he lost you. matt tries desperately to fix things, but fisk gives him a call, and his whole world comes crashing down. he has you and only wants 1 thing in exchange for your life.

.

.

.

please don’t take her from me (frank castle x fem!ex reader)

── AKA . . . after losing his wife and kids, frank swore he’d never love anyone again. all of that went out the window the night he met you and you patched him up. but when your life is on the line, he decides it was too close a call and breaks your heart. he tells himself it’s for the best, but finds out it ends up being the biggest mistake of his life when he gets a call that you’ve been hurt, and he doesn’t know if he’ll get to you in time.