~ omg two posts in two days 😮 this is not edited at all so ignore my mistakes
~ Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, WC: 1,679
- Matt comforts insecure reader -
Dating a blind guy is very different from any other relationship you've had for very obvious reasons. Not only is it an adjustment going out with and even living with someone that can't see, but Matt is different. He has senses that other blind people don't which makes things even harder. You love Matt but that doesn't mean it's not an adjustment.
Obviously he can't see you but he knows everything about you. He knows the basics of how you look but not the details. Sometimes that's hard. Only because you fear he has some other idea of you in his head. Like the real you can't match up to the look of you he has in his head.
It's silly, you know, but it's not like you can just get rid of the thoughts in your head. Matt can tell something's wrong, a bonus of his super senses. So far though, he hasn't asked about it. He's learned over time to give you a little bit of time to process your issue before he tries to get involved.
It's not his fault, simply your insecurities getting the best of you. It'll be fine you tell yourself, wondering around the apartment you now share with Matt. Maybe that's where it's coming from. You guys have always spent a lot of time together but now your space is his, and when you want space to yourself, you don't have a separate apartment to hide in. You certainly don't want that but what if he does?
You turn on some music to fill your rattled brain. Nothing loud but enough to distract your thoughts. You soon turn from wondering to cleaning. It's become a daily habit since Matt rarely has time. You have no problem doing it because you know it makes Matt feel slightly better. Not as much dust and grime for his senses to focus on.
You're very ingrained in your scrubbing of the counter when you hear the door shut.
"Hey, Matty." You call out to greet him, not taking your attention off the counter for a second.
"Hi." His faces lights up as he sees you. "How was your day?" He asks, planting a soft kiss on your temple.
"Not nearly as eventful as yours I imagine." You smile, turning around to meet his beaming face. He has already taken off his suit jacket while walking towards you and has began loosening his tie. Giving him that slightly casual look that you know and love.
"I actually think that's true today, though the most amusing part of it was hearing Foggy fall out of his chair not once but twice within a twenty minute period." You listen intently to his words as you finish wiping off the counter. His words get quieter as he slowly makes his way to the bedroom for more comfortable clothes.
You know Matt feels a great pressure to keep the city safe by going out every night, but your favorite night of the week is the one where you've both agreed he stays in. One of the few requests you had when moving in.
"How the hell did he manage that?" You chortle, imagining it in your head. You can hear Matt's laugh from the other room.
"I have no clue, you'd think he'd learn after the first time." He comes back into the living space wearing black sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. After you got together, you had to take Matt shopping for new, plain, clothes considering most of the ones he owned had something stupid and possibly embarrassing on them due to Foggy, bright colors and big slogans. "I heard him whine about it for the rest of the day."
"At least your days aren't boring like the other lawyers."
"That's definitely a plus of partnering with him."
This is the best part of your day. Talking to him about your days and gossiping about the people you know, plus all the people Matt hears about during the day. The only problem seems to be the words that won't leave your head.
"How do you feel about spaghetti for dinner?" You ask him as he grabs a water out of the fridge. Usually, he'd grab a beer but out of fear for his liver you haven't bought any in a week.
"Sounds perfect. How can I help?"
"I can do it, you worked all day."
"Worked is a loose term." He laughs to himself. You and he both know a lot of their work consists of finding new cases.
"You can boil the pasta if you want to be helpful."
"Oh that's easy. It's almost as if you don't believe in my culinary skills."
You turn and give him a stare that makes him smirk. "Matthew, I know what you lived on before I moved in."
"Okay water it is." He gives you get another kiss before searching for a suitable pot.
You hum along to the soft background music as you and Matt work on your tasks. Once he's done with his, he stands right beside you in silence.
"So." He starts.
"So?" You repeat.
"I didn't want to bring this up but I think it's important-"
"That sounds scary."
"For me, yes. I talked to Karen today."
Oh fuck. To say Karen knows your deepest darkest secrets would be an understatement. For Matt to start a conversation like this about her, she told him something. Something you're know wracking your brain to figure out.
It's not that you think Karen would sell you out. But Matt is very charming and sometimes you find yourself telling him things without even realizing.
"I would hope so." You try to play it off like you're not immensely worried about his coming words. "She is your secretary."
"I don't think she'd appreciate that title." He laughs nervously. You know he's nervous because his glasses are still on. He's trying to make sure you can't read him at the moment.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't want it to seem like I was invading your privacy."
"Matt, you always do that. You hear literally everything I do."
"Yes but this feels different."
"You wouldn't have started this conversation if you didn't have something to say so please get on with it."
"I heard you talking to Karen the other day when she was over. And I tried not to read too much into it but then I talked to her today and I'm officially reading into it."
"Karen and I have talked about a lot of things, that doesn't really help me understand."
You try to seem nonchalant by stirring the pasta sauce.
"I heard you telling her how you don't think you live up the version of you I have in my head." He whispers the words as if that'll make it easier. Of course. Out of everything he could've heard, it was the one thing you really, really don't want to talk about. You know Matt isn't going to let this go until you answer all his questions.
"That was over a week ago." You whisper over the sauce.
"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. But I only heard a part of what you said and I couldn't handle not knowing the rest."
A heavy sigh escapes you. It's not his fault. You are still adjusting to how much he can hear from so far so you didn't even think about that when he came home that day. You also can't fault him for wanting to know more, if the roles were reversed you would've gone to Foggy to know more almost immediately.
"You obviously weren't supposed to hear that." You turn off the stove top and look at him. "I don't suppose we can keep acting like you know nothing about that?" Your words come out with a hopeful tone.
"No we can't. Sweetheart, how can you feel like that? Have I made you doubt yourself like this?" He pulls you away from the kitchen and pushes you to sit next to him on the couch.
"You have done nothing Matt. You're perfect. I just can't get it out of my mind that every time you're complimenting me, it's not actually me. It's the more beautiful version of me you have in your head." He already knows enough, might as well tell him the rest.
"I know what you look like. Maybe I can't see every detail but I know enough to know every compliment I've ever given you, has been for you. I can't see everything on your face but I can sort of see the shape of you."
You're just now realizing you've never actually asked Matt what he can see. Knowing he was blind you always figured he couldn't see anything.
"What do you see?" You ask now.
"It's difficult to explain. I see certain figures but not all the time. It's kinda like flames that prevent me from seeing things but they don't always stay in the same spot."
"So how are you so confident I'm the same that you think I am?" He moves closer to hold your hand and lean more against you.
"Because I've had everyone describe you. Foggy, Karen, even Frank at one point. And I've felt your face a lot, enough to understand the shape of everything. Your eyes, lips, nose. Everything that makes you, you."
"Feeling is different than seeing."
"For other people yes. For me, this is the only way I know a lot of things. It's the way I've learned to know things so I'm better at it. I don't need to see every detail when everything I've felt is beyond perfect."
You feel tears appear in your waterline. Leave it to Matt to know the perfect thing to say. Always.
"When I say you're perfect for me, I mean it. More than anything."
He wipes the tears off your face the second they begin to fall.
"You're perfect for me too, Matty."
"Good." He states. "You're gonna be with for the rest of forever."
The way Matt loved you was devastating. He ached when you weren’t near, and when you were he found his fingers were always reaching for you to come a little closer. His hands always found themselves wrapped around your midsection, the extra skin letting him steal an abundance of warmth and softness from you.
When you’d asked him if you could slip under the blanket with him on the couch, he told you you didn’t have to ask as he peeled away the thick fluffy cover.
“C’mere.” You try to slot yourself between him and the couch but he pulls you to lay on him directly, your head sinking into his chest as he tucks you in.
“Cozy?” You nodded, feeling his fingers caress your skin, his touch sliding lower and lower after starting at your waist.
“Watch the hands.” He laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He clicks resume on his podcast as you get comfy on his chest and scroll through your phone. Quiet domesticity takes over the apartment, your even breath mirrors his as the two of you soak in each other's presence.
“It should be a crime to be this soft and warm with that much muscle.” You say, poking his abs. He chuckles, pulling your body closer to his.
“Feel free to come steal some warmth more often.” You nuzzle further and he gasps at the feeling of your cold nose pressing against his bare chest. Your eyelids grow heavy and you glance up to Matt, who was listening to his podcast. He looked at peace, his fingers still moving, albeit slowly, across your skin while your head moved up and down gently from his breaths. You smile, your eyes shutting more and more as you finally succumb to sleep with comfort personified who is Matt Murdock.
His attention is drawn to you only when your phone lands face down on his skin, the glass screen chilling his body. He brings his hand up to thread through your hair, dull nails gently scratching at your scalp. With his other hand he pauses his podcast and drops his headphones to the ground quietly. He moves your phone away and pulls the blanket up a bit higher to cover your body.
Wanted to throw my hat in the proverbial ring and try out writing about St. Matthew Murdock. This fic is a little dark as it deals with what I go through with my chronic pain. This is why I am Leg and leg is Me.
Ship: Matt Murdock x GN!Reader
Rating: 16+
Wordcount: 1,733
Warnings: cursing, depressive thoughts, talk of doctor visits, talk of dealing with medical issues, an extremely comforting and loving matt murdock
It was half past 9pm when your leg started aching. You sat on the leather couch with a book in your hands and a blanket over your lap. The billboard across the street shined blinding yellows and blues in through the windows, shadows chasing each other along the edges of your vision. The scent of the dinner you’d shared with Matt, fettuccine alfredo with roasted chicken, floated through the air and settled around you. You could hear commotion in the apartment below you. You assumed there were some new neighbors moving in with how much foot traffic there was, but you weren’t quite sure. You, of course, didn’t have Matt’s senses.
At first, the pain was just a slight twinge, a dull ache. A deep rooted uncomfortableness that seeped from your hip socket and spread throughout your upper thigh. Knowing this was only the start of a quickly worsening night, you retreated to your and Matt's bedroom in an attempt to keep weight off your leg.
Matt was out on his nightly patrols. He had left at around 8, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead and promising to be back before 2am. At the time, the firm deadline appeared a blessing. Usually you would be left in the dark as to how late Matt would be out. Hearing him give you a set time made you breathe a sigh of relief. Now, however, you thought of how far away that curfew seemed as you settled into your shared bed, bracing for the pain to get worse.
You laid on your right side, gingerly placing a thin pillow between your thighs. The little bit of separation between your legs tended to help relieve some of the pressure on your hip socket. You let your knees bend naturally as you tried to get comfortable. The lights from the billboard were less bright in the bedroom. Partially due to the angle of the beacon in the night, but also due to the paper you’d taped to the windows in an attempt to block out any and all light. You could feel the silk sheets slide against your bare legs as your shorts hiked up beneath the covers. You plugged your phone into your, thankfully, long cord that stretched long enough for you to use it on your side.
You faced the bedroom door, the right side of the bed empty. Not intentionally, as you’d keep off your left leg anyway, but because Matt would lay on the side of the bed between you and any danger. He was sweet like that, always putting himself in harm’s way for you and others. You chuckled to yourself as you began scrolling aimlessly through your phone. You knew for a fact that if Matt could take your reoccurring pain and put it in his leg to give you relief, he would. He would in a heartbeat. Sacrifice his own fighting ability to give you a chance of being able to dance again.
God, you missed dancing. You used to go to dance classes every week, sometimes multiple nights in a row. Letting yourself flow to the music as you followed choreography, bouncing from foot to foot, swaying your hips, laughing when you would mess up. For years that’s how you kept active, kept busy, kept happy.
Until your leg decided to say “fuck you,” that is. The doctors assumed it was “just too much dancing” that did your leg in. What started as a tear in the cartilage in your hip joint spread throughout your thigh as other problems arose. Stress fracture in your femur, a worn ACL, torn muscles under your kneecap. A seemingly never ending list of problems made you debilitated, forcing you to use a cane and, in extreme circumstances, a wheelchair. The doctors tried physical therapy, medication, and even surgery. But the problems kept reappearing. You would have fine mobility and limited aches for a good few months, maybe even a year. But sooner or later that dull ache would find itself rooted in your hip. And you’d just have to strap in for a long ride.
About 10 minutes after you’d laid down the pain got worse. The ache turned into a sharp jab, like someone had stabbed you in the hip and kept the knife there, sliding and slicing to create waves of pain that lasted for minutes at a time. You clenched your jaw as you tried to remain focused on your phone. This wasn’t anything you hadn’t been through before. You could handle this. Of course it felt like a hot poker was stuck in your hip socket, but that was just a regular Tuesday for you.
Then the muscle above your knee twinged. A redhot spark of pain you could feel in your teeth. The pulsing shocks permeated throughout your entire leg, not just your knee. Stacked with the ache in your thigh it was beginning to be unbearable.
Your phone fell from your hands as your eyes squeezed shut. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shuddering and wincing. Nausea began to build in your stomach and your head began to spin. The muscles beneath your skin started to jump and twitch. You blew a sharp gust of air out of your nose.
“Fuck me,” you whispered. Why? Why, when things are going great, your leg practically lights itself on fire? Just last week you’d helped Matt take out a handful of bank robbers, dodging blows and landing punches like Black Widow herself. Matt had even been impressed at how well you maneuvered yourself. You kicked and squatted and jumped like there was no tomorrow. And not a muscle was out of place the next morning.
Laying in bed, arms wrapped around your trembling body, leg having a tantrum. All you could do was resign yourself to this neverending feeling of hopelessness. Will it ever get better? Is there some magical cure you just haven’t found yet? What are you doing wrong? You could feel yourself spiral in your depression, the minutes and hours blending together to become an ongoing existence of pain. It felt like a rock had sunk itself to the bottom of your stomach. Your heart was racing, anxiety coursing through your veins. Was this what would become of your life? You would be reduced to nothing, just a leg on fire attached to a motionless husk? Would you ever be able to dance again?
“Sweetheart?” a voice rang out from the living room. A familiar, tentative tone laced with concern. Your eyes snapped open to see Matt. Standing just beyond the doorway, all dressed in black, cloth mask in hand, chocolate eyes looking in your general direction. His dark hair was matted to his forehead from the exertion of his nightly outings.
You cleared the edge of pain from your throat, then said, “Yeah?”
Matt was kneeling in front of you on the bed before you could blink. His brow was so tightly furrowed you had the briefest thought it’d stay that way. Warm, large hands began flitting across your body.
“What happened? Are you hurt? Was someone here?” he asked in a flurry of questions. One of his hands landed on your jaw, fingers trailing across where your pulse flowed strongest. The other ended up tangled with your own as you tried to quiet him.
“Hey, hey, hey. I’m okay,” you breathed. You brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his bruised knuckles. Matt’s fingers held your hand tighter as he let his eyes fall closed, his breathing slowing. You knew this was what he did when he sent his senses out, listening and smelling and tasting and feeling your body better than you could. His awareness diving deep beneath your skin to seek out anything abnormal.
When his eyes fluttered open, his gaze landed on your chin and a frown settled across his lips.
“It’s your leg again, isn’t it,” Matt said, not posing the phrase as a question. He already knew the answer.
All you could do was nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You could feel the grief of decades of pain and sorrow build along the walls of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged as the tears broke free and slid their way down your flushed cheeks. What if he grew tired of you? Grew tired of constantly needing to take care of you, tired of dealing with the bursts of pain you needlessly endured. A man of his skill, his charisma, his fighting ability. Surely he wouldn’t want to stay with someone as encumbered as you.
No further words were exchanged between the two of you. Matt gingerly slid his arm beneath your head, letting you cuddle against his chest, as his other arm pulled your torso close to him. His body curled around yours, as if the pain you were feeling was an outside source and he was the shield that protected you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck and breathed his comforting scent, cinnamon and smoke, in. Hot tears trailed their way from your eyes and stained his shirt.
“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere,” he said, lips pressed to the shell of your ear, saying exactly what you needed to hear as if he knew. He slid one of his legs between your thighs, replacing the pillow that was there originally. At first the movement was a shock to your already agonized body. Then, the extra bit of space between your legs lifted some of the pressure on your hip joint. You sighed shakily against Matt’s neck.
The two of you remained that way, Matt’s leg between your thighs, his arm beneath your head, your face tucked against his neck, his free hand rubbing soothing circles into your side. He whispered sweet words of reassurance every now and then. Saying he loved you, he wasn’t going anywhere, he’d help you find a way to fix your leg.
You knew that soon he’d have to get up to go to work. You knew he’d unwind his limbs from yours, would give you the softest kiss you’ve ever felt, and promise to be back with your favorite foods.
But until then, you would stay tucked in against your Devil. Your guiding light. Your comfort when things were dark. Your relief from a fucked up leg.
Summary: You feel like utter death. Good thing you have a boyfriend whose mother-hen tendencies mean he’s the best at taking care of you.
Trigger warnings: None. Just my self-indulgent imagination of Matt taking care of me while I’m sick.
Masterlist
The sneeze you let out at seven in the morning is almost embarrassingly loud.
It wracks your entire body, the force of it causing you to jerk in your bed, and you barely have time to cover your nose with a tissue. Cringing, you blow your nose before tossing the tissue into the trashcan you’ve moved next to your bed, no longer having the energy to get up and walk each individual one over.
The feeling of sick came on so unexpectedly and savagely that you didn’t have time to make a grocery trip to grab any medicine, and you were currently stuck using almost-expired Benadryl for the congestion and a nearly empty bottle of ibuprofen for your headache and sore throat.
Seriously, you were mostly fine last night. Maybe a little stuffy, but nothing close to this.
With a loud groan, you call your boss on her cell phone to let her know that you won’t be in today, and the raspy tone in your voice paired with the sound of a stuffy nose was enough for her to tell you to take the rest of the week off.
“No, really, please don’t come in,” she tells you, and you can practically feel the way she’s shuddering on the other side of the line. You’ve worked with her long enough to know she’s a major germaphobe, and she’d rather miss a soft deadline by a day or two than have you anywhere near her. You’re not above using that to your advantage, and have done so in the past, especially in instances when you need an excuse to stay with Matt when he’s recovering from a night that’s rougher than usual.
“I am willing to bribe you to make sure you stay home. I will send you all the soup you need if you just stay away.”
“You got it boss lady,” you somehow manage to croak out, cringing at both the pain and the way you sound. “I’ll see you Monday.” With a sigh, you hang up with her, grateful for a large balance of PTO, and fully planning on taking her up on the soup once you have an appetite. She’ll splurge on good stuff, too.
Matt is next. Instead of calling him, you send him a quick text, knowing he’s likely already at the courthouse for the morning, and you’re unwilling to interrupt him at work. He’s less likely to check a message than take a phone call, for obvious reasons, so it's easier to escape the laser focus of his concern for just a few extra hours. Typing out the message, you let him know you’re not feeling well and unable to meet him for lunch, as you usually do on Wednesdays. Knowing him, he’ll call you the second he’s on recess, and will likely end up swinging by this evening anyway.
With a loud exhale that causes your throat to burn and offers an abrupt coughing fit, you lay back down against the pillows, and pass out.
---------
You wake up to the sound of someone pounding on your door, and it startles you enough that you nearly roll out of bed.
It takes you a few moments to get your bearings, grimacing at the way your body feels worse than when you’d fallen asleep, and you mentally curse the person interrupting your rest. It’s probably your obnoxious landlord who finds random excuses to check-in on you, much to your annoyance and Matt’s suspicion, but the man is harmless, guilty of nothing other than using far too much cologne to cover up the stale smell of body odor and of cigarettes.
You’d roll your eyes if the idea of the simple motion didn’t sound so painful.
If you weren’t already certain about having been knocked on your ass by the flu, specifically, there’s no doubt in your mind now. A throbbing headache. A throat that feels like it was being torn apart with glass. Congestion. It was all there, and all you want to do is pass out until you feel better.
The pounding on the door continues, combined with an extremely muffled voice, and deciding your body is too sore and too sick to get up, you roll back over in bed, burying your face under a pillow to drown out the noise. Another coughing fit hits you unexpectedly, and your body spasms with the force of your lungs revolting against you. When you’re done, you vaguely pick up on the silence when the pounding abruptly stops, and you sigh, grateful for the quiet once more.
Neil has given up, it seems, but you’re still bitter that your sleep has been interrupted, and the idea of sending the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen to rattle his fire escape at 1am has never felt so appealing.
You’re just about to drift off into sleep again when, not even five minutes later, the sound of your window being opened from the outside shatters the blessed silence once more.
…oh.
Guess that answers the question of who had been pounding on your door. You mentally apologize to Neil.
“Sweetheart?” His voice is quiet as he steps into your room, and you don’t need eyes to know the way he’s probably wrinkling his nose at the smell of sickness that’s wafting inside the cramped space. His sense of smell is so sensitive, and you definitely don’t envy him for it. You can only imagine how your sweat-damp skin smells, or the mouth that had only experienced half of the recommended amount of teeth brushing this morning, too weak to remain standing for long.
Nose wrinkling, you cringe on his behalf.
You feel him settle on the edge of your bed behind you, hand immediately reaching out to rub your back, and your body can’t help but instinctively arch into his touch, despite the fact that you feel like death. He trails his fingers up to the back of your neck, the touch soothing and offering comfort in a way only he can. His skin on yours is the most natural feeling in the world.
“Not feeling well, sweetheart?”
You shake your head miserably, a full body shiver shaking you all the way down to your toes, before coughing into your pillow, too sick to bother covering your mouth and trusting the pillowcase to stop the spray.
Gross.
Matt’s hand gently pulls you over with a light hand on your shoulder until you’re laying on your back, and he makes sure to adjust the blankets around you so that no warmth seeps out from underneath the covers. Your eyes remain tightly shut, unwilling to subject yourself to the bright light of your bedroom. Your head is pounding, borderline migraine material, and even the thought of sunshine makes it throb. “Just a cold?”
Shaking your head again, you open your mouth to answer. “I think it’s the flu.” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, your throat too sore to get much else out. He makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. If there’s anyone who understands the feeling of your entire body being sore and in pain, it’s him.
The man, even while he runs himself ragged, hardly ever gets sick. He averages four hours of sleep a night, ends his evenings with grazes and cuts that are likely full of all the various types of bacteria known to man, drinks way less water than he should, and he still remains relatively healthy.
Maybe it’s a good thing, though, you think wryly. He’d either be the worst case of man-flu you’ve ever seen, or he would end up in a ditch somewhere, out patrolling while delirious with a fever. Your man is a hot mess on a good day, and you can’t imagine adding sickness to the foray.
You feel him lay his hand softly on your forehead, and you shudder at how cold it feels in comparison to your warm skin. Your fever must have returned with a vengeance, and you acknowledge it with a barely restrained groan.
“You feel pretty warm,” he tells you, his voice quiet and one of concern. You appreciate that he’s using a gentle tone that is kind on your ears, not wanting to add anything loud and overwhelming less it makes the headache worse. “Have you taken anything?”
“Ibuprofen when I woke up.” Finally opening your eyes, you blearily watch as he frowns, red lips tilted down at the corners. His hand is still on your forehead, but he moves it to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.
“When did you wake up?”
“Seven, I think.”
He sighs, moving his hand so that it rests on your cheek. “Sweetheart, that was almost six hours ago. Have you been asleep this whole time?”
“I think so,” you whisper, watching as he shrugs his suit jacket off. He tosses it on the chair that’s in the corner of the room, face still tilted towards yours. You always seem to be his sole focus when he’s around you, and it never fails to make your heart stutter. “I fell asleep after I texted you.”
Matt leans over to place his glasses on your bedside table before he returns back to you, his face one of confusion, and his eyes looking more hazel than normal in the sunlight as they roam blindly over your form. “You didn’t text me.”
Your own eyes briefly flutter close again, even as hard as you try to keep them open. You reach up and pull his hand away from your face so that you can lace your fingers with his. His hand squeezes yours gently. “Yeah I did. I told you I wasn’t going to make lunch today.”
“I didn’t get a text from you,” he reiterates with a calm shake of his head. “I’ve been calling you for the past hour when you didn’t show up.”
“But I–” Eyes opening again, you move to sit up, but he pushes you gently back down. Your neck and shoulders immediately relax back into your pillow with a sigh. “Can you hand me my phone?”
Matt grabs your phone from where it had apparently been resting by your knee and places it into your outstretched hand without a word. His hand goes back to your cheek so that can resume rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone, and it takes great effort to not fall back to sleep and close your eyes again. Fingers weak with sickness, you press in your fingerprint to unlock your phone, noticing immediately the several calls, texts and voicemails, most of them from him but a few from Karen, too. You grimace at the obvious display of his concern, knowing the level of anxiety that had likely popped up when you didn't answer any of the calls.
No wonder he had been pounding on your door.
You open up your chat with him, wincing when you see what had happened. “I never hit send,” you tell him with a whisper, throat still rebelling against the words forcing themselves out of your throat. “I’m sorry, Matt. I really did mean to text you. I was pretty out of it.”
He leans down and presses a kiss into your forehead. His stubble briefly rasps against your skin, and you can’t help but want to lean into it, even while the texture feels scratchy on skin that seems to be more sensitive than usual. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
You snort softly, unable to help yourself. “If you call feeling like I’m dying okay, then sure. I’m okay.”
Matt makes another sympathetic sound in the back of his throat, hand still softly rubbing your cheek. You shift in your bed, trying to burrow yourself further into the covers. He pulls the blankets tighter around you, helping them settle up around your neck. “I’m going to grab Tylenol to help bring your fever down.”
You cringe, and Matt’s brow furrows, indicating he’s caught onto the brief twitch of your face. “I don’t have any.”
“You don’t have any Tylenol?”
You cough again, this time covering your mouth to avoid coughing in his face. He doesn’t shift away from you as you do, just continues to keep his face near yours so that you don’t have to strain your voice to speak to him. “No,” you manage to rasp out when you’re done. “I’m out.”
He groans suddenly. “I depleted your stash last week, didn’t I?”
The same memory that had apparently hit him hits you a second later, the image of him holding a bloody rag to his shoulder that had taken a heavy hit flitting through your head briefly. You’d given him the last two tablets in the bottle as his lips twisted into a wry grin, promising to buy you a new bottle. You’d asked him to promise to avoid getting hit so frequently instead, the grin on your face just as dry and fond. “I– yeah, I think so.”
“I’m sorry, love. I meant to grab more for you.”
You twist your head to cover another cough. “It’s fine, I forgot about grabbing some, too.”
“Do you have Ibuprofen?” he asks as he runs a hand through his hair, still looking somewhat frustrated at himself as he shifts slightly on your bed.
“Not much, but yeah,” you say with a wince. “That bottle’s almost empty, too.”
“How about any cold medicine? Decongestants? Something for your cough?”
“No,” you reply with another grimace. To his credit, he doesn’t twist his face into the disbelief he’s surely feeling, both at himself and at you. His eye twitches, though.
“How are you out of that, too?”
“Judgmental, much?” you ask with a grin that’s far too humorous for the situation and the way everything seems to hurt, including the muscles in your face. “I wasn’t exactly planning to get this sick.”
“You should have–”
“Don’t be such a hypocrite, Matthew.”
He sighs, hand darting up to run a quick hand down his face, attempting to hide a smile that relays a level of exasperation. “What do you have, then?”
“Just Benadryl…that’s almost expired.”
Matt lets loose another loud exhale and slowly lifts his head to face the ceiling as if sarcastically thanking the universe for letting him fall for someone who seems to be so bad at taking care of themselves. You’d laugh if it wouldn’t lead to a loud coughing fit.
Pot. Kettle.
“Okay, I’m going to call Karen to see if she can bring some stuff by.”
“I don't–”
He's shaking his head before you even finish your objection. “Sweetheart, you’re so congested you can’t breathe out of your nose, and you've got a 101 degree fever. You need to take something," he tells you, and you know there’s no arguing against this man once he’s set his mind to something.
“How would you know my fever is that high?” Matt gives you the flattest look you’ve ever seen. “Okay, stupid question.”
“Just close your eyes,” he says, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “I’m going to bring you a glass of water and some Ibuprofen, and call Karen to see if she can bring anything over.”
You nod miserably, energy suddenly draining and turning you back into a whimpering mess. He leaves the room, kicking his shoes off in the process, and you pick up your phone again once he’s out of sight, a wince twitching on your face at the notification of thirty emails that have popped up in your inbox. You open the app, scrolling down through the messages with a sigh.
“You better not be checking your email right now,” Matt’s voice calls out to you from the kitchen suddenly, and you almost drop your phone onto your face in surprise.
He knows you too well.
“I’m not,” you say as loudly as you can, which is still minimal, but you know he can hear you regardless, so you’re not too concerned. You roll over to place your phone back onto your bedside table with a loud sigh, wrist and arm feeling entirely too weak as it reaches out.
“Liar," is all he responds with, before his voice quiets down again. There’s a brief moment of silence before you pick up on the soft murmur of his voice, no doubt on the phone with Karen. The sound of your cabinet being opened and the faucet being turned on hits your ears, and you sigh at the domesticity of it all. Things of yours have been slowly migrating to his apartment in preparation of the move that’s happening in a month’s time, but there’s just something about him knowing your apartment like the back of his hand and feeling comfortable in a space that’s been solely yours for the past two years.
A few minutes later, he’s walking back into your bedroom, a glass of water in one hand, your dwindling bottle of painkillers in the other, mouth turned up in a soft, soothing smile. He helps you sit up, his arm gently snaking around your shoulders to support you, and encourages you to drink the water and toss back the pills as lips ghost across your forehead.
Even swallowing something cold makes your throat burn on the way down, and you groan in pain.
He helps you lay back down, easing you backwards and holding your weight so that you don’t just flop back onto the pillows. He pulls his arm out from underneath you and reaches out to set the glass onto your night table as he moves to stand up. You close your eyes again against the light of your room, and you hear the subtle sound of a belt being unbuckled and fabric hitting the chair in the corner.
Matt lifts up the covers and slides in beside you, his bare skin pressing up against yours as he nudges you onto your side so that he can cradle you from behind. Despite the brief chill, he quickly becomes a furnace pressed against you, and you can’t help the quiet moan that sneaks past chapped lips at the heat you hadn’t known you’d been needing.
“You’ll get sick,” you protest weakly as you settle into his chest, almost immediately soothed by the feeling of his arm wrapping around your waist.
“Don’t worry about me,” he whispers into your ear before leaning over you to kiss your cheek, settling back down behind you when he’s done, the warmth of his kiss still lingering. “Just go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Despite the sickness ravaging your body, or maybe because of it, you slip back into an easy sleep, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest behind you settling you the way it always does. Your head is pounding, your whole body aches, and you can’t breathe through your nose, but everything feels better when he’s holding you.
This Is A Code F (fic; matt murdock x reader; rated T)
this is fluffy nonsense but wheezy sick devil is an idea I’ve had for a bit now and finally delivered. May it be an appropriate apology for the angst in TRT rn.
Ship: Matt Murdock x GN!Reader
Rating: T. Some swearing and some nude shenanigans but nothing major.
Summary:
You’ve never seen Matt get the flu before, but despite Foggy’s warnings, you’re not all that worried. Matt’s sick. How difficult could it be to look after him?
Really difficult, as it turns out, because Matt Murdock does not do anything by halves, whether it’s attacking mobsters or feverishly perching on the banister like a wheezing gargoyle.
Time to get the cough syrup.
Wordcount: 4,507
Warnings for this chapter: language, nudity, sickness. You know what you’re in for. This is true love, in sickness and in health. Let’s do this.
You’d never actually seen Matt get sick.
It never seemed to matter how busy he was or how many sick people he was around. He never hesitated, either, to care for you when you were sick. Regardless of your level of contagion, you could count on him to be nearby, hovering and eager to provide whatever hot soup, warm tea, and sick-day cuddling you needed. At this point, you were pretty sure he used some sort of secret meditation trick to turn his antibodies into miniature Hulks. His body laughed in the face of the common cold, turned its nose up at the stomach flu, likely because it got stabbed on the weekly and anything less seemed a bit underwhelming in comparison.
That was why you knew something was off when you woke to find Matt standing beside the bed, swaying and soaked in sweat.
“Matt?” you asked warily, furrowing your brow.
He shivered, swinging his head back and forth. It was a clear attempt to orient, and an attempt that didn’t seem to do him much good based on the way he almost stumbled as he stepped away from the bed.
Matt didn’t stumble. Not unless he was hurt.
“Matt, Matt!” You scrambled out from under the blankets and over to his side of the bed, already rolling through a list of possible injuries—another gunshot to the head, hit by a car, internal bleeding, bitten by a diseased raccoon while defending a citizen, picked a fight with a Much Larger Bad Dude. You’d learned by now never to rule anything out when it came to Matt. Had he slipped up yesterday, gotten hit maybe? He had been unusually tired last night, but ‘tired’ was more of a default state for Matt than an outlier, and you had a feeling he slept standing up more times than he’d admit, using his red shades as cover while he catnapped.
It would be just your luck if he’d added another head injury to the mix.
“Matt, hey, you ok?”
“Don’t… feel right,” he said thickly, sounding so congested you probably could have walked him past the fish market without so much as a wrinkled nose. He took another uneven step towards the doorway. “Need… Just need… tea. ‘M fine.”
You quickly threw your legs over the side of the bed, reaching for him. “Matt, wait, you’re gonna hit the—”
“Fine,” he slurred insistently, before promptly running into the doorframe.
That was the start of your morning, and it only got worse from there.
“I was hoping it would never come to this again,” Foggy said grimly over the phone. “Should have known we’d have another Code F eventually.”
“Code F?”
“F is for Flu. Or ‘fuck, this is a nightmare’. Take your pick. I’ve done this three times with him, and you figure out pretty quick that Matt doesn’t get the flu like… a normal person, especially once the fever really hits and he might… uh, start hallucinating a bit. I’m gonna give you some rules and some stuff you’ll need to order for delivery if he doesn’t have them in the apartment. He—wait. Are the doors locked?”
“I’m not sure. I think so?”
“Go check. Lock them and then keep the keys on you at all times. Flu-Matt alternates between a sick indoor puppy who needs soft blankets, and an outdoor cat convinced staying inside will lead to him being murdered. Check the door. Trust me.”
“I really don’t think he’s—Jesus Christ, Matt, get back inside—”
“So it begins…”
-x-
“Matt,” you soothed. “Come over here. I put the soft blankets on the bed.”
“Scratchy,” he muttered sullenly, curled up around the humidifier in the corner. “Sandpaper.”
“You love these blankets, Matt.”
“Too scratchy,” he repeated, shivering with a little sniffle. “Hot.”
“Matt—”
“Hot, hot, hot,” he mumbled, reaching back and fumbling for the hood of his sweatshirt. He spent a good twenty seconds trying to pull it up over his head like a cat trying to back out of a sock before you came over and helpfully unzipped the front of it for him. Even then, it took the both of you to get his arms out of the sleeves, with Matt helping far less than you. He sighed in relief the second he was free, thunking his head back against the wall.
“Poor thing,” you sighed, leaning down to kiss his forehead when he tugged needily at your pants. He was soaked with sweat, pale and clammy, with dark circles under his eyes. Your poor, sickly raccoon. Foggy hadn’t been exaggerating. When Matt got sick, he got it bad. An ‘easy’ setting apparently did not exist for your Devil. “How are you feeling now?
“Hot," he croaked
“Not surprised when you’re running a temperature like this, even with the Tylenol.” You ruffled his damp hair, softening the motion when he coughed, his chest rattling as if he were trying to hack out his organs onto your feet. “Bed now?”
“Scratchy—”
“I know.” You rubbed your chin in thought as he slowly, wheezily leaned forward and mashed his face tiredly against your abdomen. He had to stretch over the humidifier to do it, which couldn’t have been comfortable, but you were pretty sure he hadn’t noticed. Matt’s brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders at the moment. “What if you got under the sheets? Blankets won’t touch you but you’ll still be nice and cozy.”
“I like it here,” he mumbled, shoving his face against you again. “Stay here.”
“We’re in the corner of the room and you’re on the floor.”
“Fine here. With the humidifier.”
God, you’d have thought his stubbornness would die down a little when he was sick, but apparently not. You were of half a mind to funnel some cough syrup down his throat until he was a little more sleepy and cooperative, but all you had were the pills at the moment, and you'd already given him some a few hours ago. What he needed was to get into bed. There had to be something…
Aha.
“Tell you what. You guard the humidifier,” you said innocently, dragging your fingers through his hair one last time before slowly stepping back. He made a mournful noise and reached for you. It was almost enough to break you—Matt could manage puppy eyes like nobody’s business, especially right now when they were all red and puffy like he’d been crying, though at the moment that redness was due to the fact that he was carrying around enough sinus pressure to blow out an elephant’s eardrum. But you held fast and kept going, making your way back to the bed. “I’m going to check how soft the sheets are for you, make sure they’re comfortable.” You threw back the covers on the bed and noisily climbed in. “Just me, in the bed, ready to cuddle whatever sick person might come in. Which he can do, because I had the flu a couple weeks ago and am now immune, I’m pretty sure.”
And if you weren’t, well… at least you’d have cold medicine.
You made a show of sighing loudly, snuggling down into the pillows. “Oh, yup, yeah, these are super soft.”
Nothing.
"Softest sheets ever. God, I love silk. So nice on your skin, even if you’re hypersensitive."
Still nothing, other than a single, sullen cough.
"And then there’s me laying here. Just… so cuddleable. With fingers ready to stroke someone's hair."
…
…
...creak.
You didn't dare look, instead stretching your arms up and yawning noisily.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched a hand rise up from next to the bed, carefully pushing a battery-operated humidifier onto the nightstand. Then the hand disappeared.
"Gosh," you continued sadly. "If someone wanted to lay on top of me, they could. For hours, even. Too bad there’s no one around to do that."
A lump slowly formed under the blankets near the edge of the bed, inching its way closer. Fingers bumped into your hip next, slowly feeling around before seemingly orienting. The lump then crept upwards towards your head, sliding up over you as you helpfully adjusted. At last, like a wheezy, Devilish turtle, a head emerged from under the sheets, and Matt dropped his face against your chest with a grunt.
"Why wouldn’t you just lift the covers, Matt? you huffed, only barely able to stop your laughter where it tickled your chest.
"Didn't want to touch the blankets. Scratchy," he said hoarsely, relaxing with a raspy sigh when you dragged your nails through his hair as promised. "Mm. Soft."
"That's right. Soft."
-×-
“You have no idea how happy I am to get all this," you sighed, taking the bag from the delivery man at the front door. You set it down beside the door, accepting the pad he offered you to sign.
"Based on the order, I'm guessing someone's sick?"
"Unfortunately." And inside the bag were all the goodies Foggy had assured you you'd need. You’d ordered everything from liquid cough medicine to some super-specific brand of honey, to throat-coat tea and a pile of fresh lemons. That wasn’t counting all the other medications you’d ordered to treat individual symptoms. Hopefully, if you loaded Matt up on these, he'd be a little more—
There was a scrabbling sound and a grunt somewhere off to your right…
Your upper right.
You glanced back down the hall and blanched.
Matt wasn't on the couch where you'd left him. What was worse: his hoodie was laying on the floor.
"What was that?" the deliveryman said, his brow furrowing.
"My, uh… cat. We have… a… cat."
Were those Matt's sweatpants by the stairs?
"Sounds like a big cat.”
"Uh-huh." You forced out a peal of nervous laughter, frantically signing as quickly as you could. That signature only came faster when you heard the telltale creak of wood. Foggy had warned you about this part—Matt’s penchant for climbing when feverish. You weren’t sure what he’d found his way up onto, but you needed to find out. "Huge. Monstrous. The size of the Devil. Anyway, I have to—"
"I… right. Yeah. Good luck."
"Thankyouokhaveaniceday—"
You slammed the door and sprinted back down the hallway, chucking the bag onto the couch before you swung back around, and felt your stomach drop. "Matt, get off the fucking banister!"
"Had to hide," he slurred, precariously balanced and dangerously wobbly where he'd perched himself on the upper landing's railing like a drunken, asthmatic gargoyle. "Couldn't let him see me without a mask."
"And why are you only in your boxers?"
"Hot."
Of course he was.
"Heat rises, sweetheart. You'll be cooler down here," you tried, pitching your voice soothing and warm. "And I locked the door. He's gone."
"...Sure?"
"I'm very sure the delivery man has no intention of sticking around when he thinks one person is sick and there’s a cat the size of a cougar in here." You patted your leg like you might call a dog. "Come on. I’ve got special tea to make. Nice tea. With the good honey. Good tea."
"I sh-should guard.” He sneezed with great dignity. “While you make tea."
You resisted the urge to tell him the only people he could guard against right now were hypochondriacs.
"...If someone breaks in, they may go for the knives in the kitchen. So… shouldn't you guard down here, close to the kitchen?"
You had to wait for a long, anxious moment as his flu-ridden brain attempted to work through that logic, his brow furrowed and his head swaying as if he were trying to count all the sharp, pointy potential weapons in the kitchen versus the landing, which had only a tiny dust bunny, thankfully far less threatening unless you had allergies.
“O…ok.”
“Good.” You patted your leg again. “Come down. You can come down.”
“Down?”
“Down. You can—Matthew Michael Murdock, don’t you dare jump—”
Thud.
“Jesus Christ, Matt—”
“...not soft.”
-x-
When he woke up on the couch, he was about as close to coherent as you’d seen him since last night, especially after you got him two mugs of tea. The first was a recipe Foggy had given you—some supposedly magical blend of tea, honey, elderberry syrup, lemon juice from the fresh lemons, peppermint, and some sort of root powder Matt kept in a jar. The second was a far more normal lemon tea with three drops of honey. The first smelled… pretty terrible to be honest, but Matt downed the whole thing in one go without complaint before he switched to the second cup of tea. Once that was done, he seemed a lot happier.
Maybe the worst was over? You could certainly hope for it as he cuddled into you tiredly, burrowing his face in against your neck and wrapping himself around you. You adjusted a little for him. “How’re you feeling now?”
"Terrible," he said roughly, his voice absolutely raw, his chest hitching as he held in a cough. Coherent Matt was apparently a lot more reluctant to hack out a lung onto your chest. "Tea helped, though. I'm sorry."
"For what?" You shifted your head on the back of the couch. You'd managed to prop yourself up with enough space between your legs for Matt to recline into you, helping keep him upright and ease the ache in his lungs. You reached up and ran your fingers through his damp hair, his chest rattling again.
"For-for putting you through this," he said hoarsely, shivering hard. You pulled the blanket up higher until he was better covered. He’d likely want it gone in about ten minutes, but until then, he could be a little more comfortable. "I'm not… easy to care for. Like this."
"I will admit this isn't what I was expecting," you admitted in amusement, dipping your fingers down to rub very gently at the back of his neck. If his skin had felt sensitive to the blankets, you had a feeling your fingers could hurt, too, if you weren't careful. The gentleness of it must have been appreciated though, because he wheezed out something like a little purr, though now it was closer to the sound a tiger with a respiratory infection might make. But you appreciated the sentiment regardless and leaned down to kiss his hair fondly. "Thought you'd hibernate, to be honest. But I don't mind looking after you, Matt, even when it's a bit unorthodox. I love you, and whatever I can do to help, I'm happy to do."
"I love you, too," he murmured, his romantic, reverent declaration made slightly less solemn by the aforementioned wheeziness and his sudden sneezing fit that likely made the neighbors think there was an earthquake. But in your mind, it made both your declarations more honest. What was love if it didn’t sometimes include the risk of being sneezed or coughed on? Only once the sneezing fit was over and managed—thank God for the tissues on the coffee table—did he continue. "I think… I'm feeling a little better, with the medicine and the tea. I might be better now. Just need sleep."
Which seemed dangerously optimistic, but sadly on-point for Matthew ‘I Was Only Shot A Little Today’ Murdock, but he was too sick for you to press him on it.
"Let me give you some cough syrup before you pass out, then."
Foggy had warned you about giving him too much cough syrup—"cough syrup will either make him completely sleepy and compliant or really out of it, which isn’t fun if he’s also hallucinating shit from the fever. Use with caution.”—but Matt sure seemed a lot better, now, so he’d likely be alright.
He pulled a face, and you snorted. "If you could drink that disgusting tea blend from hell, you can choke down some cough syrup. It’ll help your symptoms and will put you to sleep, which is what you said you need."
"Cough syrup is worse than tea. It’s worse than everything."
"If you actually liked m&ms, I'd offer one afterwards," you said in amusement. "That's the standard medicine chaser when taking terrible medicine. You ever tried something like that or do you just choose to suffer?"
It was his turn to huff a laugh, though it quickly devolved into a cough. "The Catholic in me demands the latter. But maybe this time we could try your way."
Which was how you wound up standing over him, a spoonful of cough syrup in one hand and a dangerously large spoonful of honey in the other. You'd been skeptical about that last one since even a few extra drops of honey in his tea could be too much for his sensitive tongue, but he'd insisted the cough syrup's foul taste demanded an equal response.
"Ready?"
"Cuddle after?" he asked gloomily, looking like he was prepared to die and offering up his final request.
How… how bad did cough syrup hit him?
"After the medicine," you promised, steadying your hand and bringing it closer. He scrunched his nose and curled a lip, leaning back the tiniest bit as if his very body was instinctively rejecting the foulness before it.
Then again, cough syrup was pretty terrible.
You gave him another second, waiting. Eventually, he gave in and parted his lips. You tried to make it fast, one smooth motion as you dumped the syrup down his throat, the synthetic odor of cherries-in-name-only rising up to you.
You’d watched a montage once of cats gagging after sniffing various foods.
You were pretty sure Matt's reaction topped it.
He made the strangest wheezy retching noise, like the creaking of an ancient and sickly mansion in a horror flick. His whole body lurched then, as his sense of taste was assaulted by the hellishly synthetic, disgusting freight train that was cherry cough syrup.
Which was when you shoved the spoonful of honey into his mouth, because, well, that seemed like the right thing to do.
His eyes rolled back, the sudden influx of sugar apparently frying the few taste-related neurons that hadn't already been so unfairly bludgeoned to death by imitation cherries wielding brass knuckles.
You carefully removed the spoon from Matt’s mouth as he slumped back on the couch, and you watched him warily, almost a little nervous. "Matt? You conscious?"
No response.
Cough syrup didn't work that fast, did it?
"Matt?"
"I," he slurred, the sound caught between absolute disgust and a reluctant, sugary sort of ecstasy, "am going to taste honey and fake cherries for a week."
"I take it those don't go together for you?"
"Like broccoli and chocolate sauce." He stared blindly up at the ceiling, sounding haunted. “Sauerkraut and jam. I don’t think honey is the solution to the syrup.”
“Those are strangely specific examples,” you said sympathetically. “You have my sympathies. Would you like me to stroke your hair until the syrup knocks you out?”
“Please.”
-x-
Foggy had warned you about a lot.
The desire for soft things.
“—he’s like an exotic fish when he’s sick, ok? You don’t have the right tank conditions and he’s gonna leap out and flop all over the floor and you’ll have to put him in a coffee mug—”
The penchant for climbing.
“—which in hindsight makes so much more sense. Back then I thought he was just like those chihuahuas that get stuck in weird places, like how did they get there? Aliens, man, who knows—”
The stripping.
“—I’m kind of glad you guys are dating, it would be awkward otherwise. He gets hot and the clothes come off, he just kind of—you know those toddlers that like, one second they’re clothed and the next they’re naked and running down the street? That’s feverish-Matt. He just—boom. No clothes, off he goes chasing the sound of pink elephants, me running after him with a pair of pants—”
“Please, dear God, tell me why I haven’t heard about this before now?”
“Sworn to secrecy originally, but now that you’re the one in charge of F Day, I had a feeling you should know.”
And of course, the key.
“Seriously, do not let it out of your sight. Now that I know what he can do, I’m pretty sure he might… I don’t know. Like, taste-radar the brass or something. The point is, he’ll find it and wander out. Keep the key on you, and keep the doors locked. Do that, and you can manage the damage.”
What he hadn’t warned you about… was taking a nap.
In fairness to you, you were tired. Your morning with Matt had been pretty early, and he’d kept you on your toes all day. It had seemed natural for your eyes to fall shut there on the couch, with Matt draped warm and sleepy and marginally less wheezy on top of you. He was better, after all. His fever had come down, and you’d given him enough medication to knock out a horse. Besides, you’d taken the housekey and put it on a chain around your neck.
Sick-Matt may not have been able to do everything, but lifting a key off your neck while you were asleep was apparently still within his abilities.
“Shit, shit, shit.” You raced up the stairs towards the open rooftop door, passing Matt’s hoodie on the way. “Fucking—goddamit, why am I—couldn’t have had a normal boyfriend who does normal sick person things. No, I had to fall in love with a ninja.”
Yup, there were his sweatpants on the landing.
You shoved the door the rest of the way open, huffing and puffing from your whirlwind sprint up the stairs, glancing around the rooftop desperately. Good god, if he’d gotten to the next building, or… or climbed down into the alley—
“Why are you in the water?” Matt asked you.
You furrowed your brow, spinning around. And that was when you noticed two things.
One: the pair of boxers laying on the ground nearby.
Two: your well-built boyfriend now standing completely, one-hundred percent, dick-to-the-wind naked on the stairwell rooftop above you.
For a long moment, your brain simply refused to comprehend what you were staring at.
It wasn’t like you’d never seen his dick before. But it was one thing to see his dick in the apartment, or the shower, or in his office, or in, well, any of the other places you’d fucked. It was another matter entirely to see him naked as a well-hung-mule, swaying on a stairwell rooftop in broad fucking daylight with his glorious ass bared for all the world to see. Admittedly his ass and… other parts… were artistry worthy of recognition, but you had a feeling that sort of thing was meant for statues in museums and not Matt showing the neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen his second cane at four in the afternoon.
How the fuck was this your life?
You made a strangled noise. “Matt, come down. Please.”
“There’s water.”
There was not water.
You made another noise, even more strangled. “Matt, unless you’re talking about the old lady in the next building drooling over your dick right now, there’s no water.”
“Can’t you feel it, sweetheart?” he slurred, wobbling a little on his feet. “You’ll… you have to get in. All the other boats were taken. We need to—we’ll fit. I came up to check. Bigger than a door. I’d let you have it if it was.”
Which was… kind of sweet in its own way, but did precisely nothing to help you get him back inside.
“I appreciate the offer of the door, but we’re fine, Matt.” You stomped your foot on the ground helpfully. “See? No water.”
“Then why are things swaying?” he mumbled, rocking back and forth, eyes half-closed. “You can’t hear the water? It’s rising. It’ll be here soon. Eels. Can you feel the eels?”
“What eels?”
He waved vaguely, somehow encompassing the entirety of New York, a city now filled with water and eels.
“Would you at least tell me why you’re naked? Were you hot?”
“I didn’t want my clothes to get wet or torn. By the eels.”
Figures.
Just asking him to come down clearly wasn’t going to work. You needed to use his logic.
Flu-logic. Which meant your argument needed to be as ridiculously senseless as his.
“I waterproofed the apartment,” you blurted out. “I can feel the water but we’ll be safe inside. And… and less wet.”
There was a pause.
“Water…” He drew the word out, blinking slowly. “...proofed?”
“I sealed the windows and doors. With glue. Good glue for submarines. Ordered it online.”
“Submarines… use glue?”
“Only ones that are also apartment buildings. The glue also repels eels. Please come down.”
“I’ll get wet.”
“I built… a dock for you. You’ll be dry.” You rapped your foot against the ground again. “See? You can walk on it, and then we can close the door and keep the water and the eels out.”
“You…” His voice grew soft, slurred yet almost baffled, as if your Devil did not think he deserved a dock. “You built a dock for me?”
“Yes, I did,” you said fondly, somehow ridiculously in love with this strange man you’d wound up with, even when he was convinced the city was flooding and so had retreated naked to a small boat which was not a boat just to check if it was big enough for you both. “I’d build you a hundred docks if you wanted them. I’ll build one for you every time it floods. Come stand on your dock with me, it’s very sturdy.”
He crept up to the edge of the little building built up around the stairwell. With a little more encouragement, he carefully climbed down, seemingly remembering that leaping had upset you. You caught him as best you could—his skin was still soaked with sweat, and therefore slippery—but eventually, you breathed a relieved sigh, his feet firmly on the ground. Then you let out a grunt as he leaned into you, draping himself around you like a feverish, affectionate blanket. “Better than a boat?”
“I love you. Thank you for the dock,” he said hoarsely, rubbing his cheek against your hair and wheezing affectionately. “No one’s ever built me a dock before. We can sit on it when the water’s gone.”
“Alright, Noah. Let’s get you inside the ark and under some blankets.”
“Cold.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I figured. You wanna know why? Because you’re naked.”
“...oh.”
-x-
Fortunately for you, that seemed to be the worst of it. And outside a few more climbing incidents and having to pry his mouth open to pour in more cough syrup, things were mostly alright.
At least until four days later.
You opened the front door, just in time for Foggy, cackling, to shove his phone into your face, a local news app pulled up on the screen. “I see F-Day went well.”
“...shit.”
-x-
“A video went viral four days ago of an unknown, naked man standing on a nearby rooftop, as someone seemingly tries to coax him down. No location or names were given, and the account that tweeted the video would say only this: ‘My kind of crack. That ass is all I need in life.’ Up next, can a pig learn to waterski? More at 11.”
Ok so I was watching Daredevil and realized how frikin different Matt looked with and without his glasses. With glasses he’s a super cool handsome bastard and without them he’s just this puppy lookin dude.
**I do not own any characters or part of the franchise from Daredevil**
Pairing: Matt Murdock x gn!reader
Genre: fluff, pure light hearted stuff
Tw: none really, beginning of a make out session but not too much detail about it. Sorta implied sexual content(???)
Imagine you and Matt just starting out in a relationship and your having your first make out session at his place. You take his glasses off and you realize it’s the first time you’ve seen him with no glasses. You just sort of stare at his puppy face for a second. He gets really confused ( and worried ) though because he can hear your heartbeat increase. When he asks you what’s wrong you just sort of giggle and cup his face in your hands and whisper “you look like a puppy” to which he blushes and laughs the purest laugh you’ve ever heard
It was dark outside. You were sitting on Matt’s lap, gently kissing him. You shifted and he groaned slightly. You pulled away, gasping for breath.
“You might wanna take these off.” You chuckled and reached for his red lenses.
He closed his eyes when you pulled them off. You folded them and reached to set them on the small table beside the couch. You returned and cupped his face before realizing something and stopping.
You stared at him with wide eyes. Gently tracing his jaw absentmindedly. His eyes were looking off to the side and his face knit together into a look of worry.
“Is…everything ok?” He asked quietly. The concern was evident in his tone.
“Yeah, yeah…everything is fantastic it’s just—I’ve never seen your eyes before…” You continue to look at the beautiful color of them.
“You look like a puppy” You whispered in a giggle.
His face recoils a bit and his eyes widen before it relaxes and he laughs. Such a sweet and beautiful laugh.
“I’ll keep that in mind whenever I need to beg for something from you.” He chuckles. “Ok ok, let’s get back to it.”
There is this 2 part fic, where Matt and the reader are at a New years party and Reader is slightly intoxicated and wants to kiss him. But he turned her down and kissed her everywhere but the lips because he wanted her to kiss when she was sober. And Part 2 is just them confessing their feelings at the office after the party.
I lost the bookmark and sobbing right now because it's one of my favorite pieces
Prompt: when you hold me, I can feel your heart beating.
Words: 600ca
Content: tooth-rotting fluff, comfort, established relationship, just matt being clingy
A/N: prompt has been used for din djarin as well
also on AO3 - masterlist
The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen rests his head on your chest.
It’s his safe place - locked between your legs and arms, head tucked underneath your chin and eyes closed. One of your hands threads through his hair, soothing caresses as your attention is held by a book in your hand, a movie playing on the small screen of your computer.
Still, you hold him, welcome him as soon as he comes back home and doesn’t even stop to get changed - loose tie, discarded jacket and shoes, disheveled hair, Matt reaches for the couch in silence and just takes his place on top of you, groaning tiredly.
It’s ritualistic at this point.
“Long day?” you hum as his eyes flutter shut and he exhales, the feeling of your body pacifying him.
“I love my job,” he retorts, mock enthusiasm in his almost slurred words. “I really, really do.”
You chuckle, and the rumble of the soft laughter lures him closer - he could melt into you, disappear in the familiarity of your flesh.
“Have you eaten anything since this morning?” you know him, you know he can get so wrapped up in his work he forgets to take care of himself. At his quiet grumble you sigh, hand trailing down to slowly massage between his shoulders. “Come on, let me make you something.”
“No,” he protests your attempt at getting up and away from him, wrapping his arms around you to entangle the two of you furthermore. “Stay.”
“Matty, you need to eat,” you chide gently, still rubbing circles over his spine. When he doesn’t bulge, you sigh again. “How about some takeaway?” he nods, cheek squished against you crumpling your shirt. “You know I’ll have to get up to open the door then, right?”
“Fine,” he grumbles, and squeezes his arms around you once more. “Just stay for now.”
You smile and nod, somehow managing to recover your phone from the coffee table to place the order, never once letting your other hand abandon him, lazily kneading his muscles.
There’s something endearing in the way Matt seeks comfort in you, the way he found himself picking you as his safe place, dropping his defenses fully, allowing you to find your way into his life, offering himself to you with no restraints. It makes you swell with joy, a welcomed ache in your ribs soothed only by his presence.
“When you hold me I can feel your heart beating,” it’s a muffled whisper, a confession worthy of his God.
“Can’t you always hear it?” you wonder, head turned to look down on him - only the crown of his head is visible, and the curve of his back clad in a too-tight white shirt, his legs sticking out of the end of the couch.
“Yes,” he admits, and his hands find their way underneath your shirt, an all too familiar path his palms trace across your skin. “But like this I can just feel it - whispering its secrets to me only, right under my ear.”
He can hear the moment your heartbeat quickens, the ache in you vanishing to nothing.
“What does it tell you?” you can’t help the smile blossoming on your face, hand traveling up to cup his jaw, gently stroking his cheek with your thumb.
“That I’m so incredibly lucky,” he murmurs, shifting to meet your touch. “So lucky that I get to love you.”
“You really are,” you hum, and as he chuckles you guide his head up towards yours, allowing yourself a moment to just look at his already familiar face. His grins remains as you lean in to kiss him softly, a quick peck before letting him rest down once more. “I love you too, Matt.”
