//hi i know this is the pot calling the kettle black but.
"matt murdock who fucks you so hard and makes you cum" "matt murdock who is a sex god" IM TIRED OF IT. BRING BACK YEARNING.
matt murdock who does not believe in soulmates until he meets you.
matt murdock who learns you, who memorizes you-- your favorite foods, your hatred of certain textures, the last color you painted your nails, the things that make you tick, the way your breathing changes when you've had a long day.
matt murdock who finds himself distracted when he hasn't heard from you, wondering if you're doing okay.
matt murdock who sends flowers to your office, just because.
matt murdock who goes from bachelor with only beer in his fridge to keeping the pantry fully stocked with snacks for whenever you get hungry.
matt murdock who feels his skin start to burn when you give him the gentlest of touches-- a caress of his arm, a hand on his shoulder. it drives him crazy.
matt murdock who is intoxicated by the mere sound of your voice, learning all the different tones you take in various situations, the way your voice softens when talking to anyone you deem a baby (cats, dogs, kids, drunk foggy), or the way it hardens when you're dealing with someone you find annoying (clients, assholes at the bar, etc)
matt murdock who gets drunk with his best friend one night and leaves you 27 voicemails, ranging from twenty seconds long to fourteen minutes, all rambling about how much he loves you.
matt murdock who spends months trying to hint that he likes you, buying you lunch, asking if you need anything, always pouring your coffee just the way you like it, asking if the book you finished was good and letting you ramble about it for twenty minutes.
matt murdock who has the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush on you.
matt murdock who blushes whenever you enter the room.
matt murdock who yearns. yearns for you.
and yeah, also, he fucks. of course. get yourself someone who can do both. get yourself someone who makes you cry from overstimulation AND spends hours kissing literally every inch of your skin because he can and he wants to.
get yourself someone like matt murdock, who can only be described as head over heels in love with you.
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.
i’ve never made a request before so sorry if this is bad but if you could write something about matt murdock with a fake dating trope like that would be so cute, especially if there’s feelings realized during/after it :)
a/n: i swear, i tried to just keep this short and sweet like how i usually keep requests, but then the fantasy i came up with was just too fun and too much like a fucking romcom not to just let myself go ham and turn it into a full-on long fic
word count: 3778
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Leaning your weight against the bar, you waited for Josie to return with another round of beers for you and your friends, who still remained exactly where you’d left them, all clustered around the pool table further into the space.
Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the ring so often glued to your fingers, passing the heirloom from each digit and sliding it onto the next. It had been your grandmother’s, and ever since her passing, the simple golden circle with a little jade embedded at the cusp of it, rarely stayed in your jewellery box as the act of simply glancing down at it on your finger somehow offered you a drop of comfort in moments of mundane gloom.
As the heirloom arrived at your left ring finger and slid down over the knuckle, a familiar voice suddenly emanated like an echo after the bar’s front door had swung open.
“Y/n?” your whole body froze up at the unexpected timbre.
Slowly, you twisted around to discover none other than your ex, wide eyes trained on you as he clutched the hand of a leggy blonde.
“Henry!” you gasped, hoping they mistook the horrified look on your face for innocent shock, “oh my god…”
Without any warning, the next thing you knew, he’d yanked your stunned form into a hug, “how the hell are you?” he clapped your shoulder as if you were old school chums, “it’s been so long.”
“I’m–, uhm, fine,” you managed to reply.
“Yeah?” he smiled, the insincerity in your tone completely flying over his head, “that’s great.”
Simply to be polite, you awkwardly asked, “…how are you?” even though you truly didn’t wish to know the answer.
“I’m good, yeah, life’s been kinda crazy lately because–, oh,” he suddenly paused to glance back at the girl by his side, “Y/n, you remember Rebecca, right?”
“Mhm,” you hummed and offered her a glance, fearing steam might billow out of your ears at any moment, “hi.”
“Hey,” she smiled brightly as she tossed her luscious locks over her shoulder, “and please don’t mind him,” she clapped a palm over Henry’s chest, “he’s just freaking out, you know, usual guy stuff before finally getting tied down.”
“I’m sorry,” you blinked, nearly pinching yourself to test if this was a nightmare or not, “before what?”
Rebecca then held up her left hand to flash you the massive rock nestled on her fourth finger.
“I finally popped the question!” Henry grinned and draped an arm around his fiancé.
“Wow, oh wow, that’s–…” you sputtered as the blonde promptly shoved her hand in your face for you to get a better look, “that’s a really big rock, right there, on your finger…” your touch floated up and tilted her palm slightly, the light from the neon sign close by glinting in the diamond, “congratulations…”
“Thanks!” she smiled down at the ring herself before her fingers suddenly captured your own and twisted your hand around, “oh wait, congrats to you too!”
“What?” you still simply tried to keep breathing through this agonising gut-punch of an encounter.
“I know they say that size doesn’t matter,” Rebecca eyed the tiny green stone that adorned your grandmother’s ring, “and it doesn’t! I mean, that’s so pretty,” she uttered in a sugary sweet and insincere tone that made you feel as if you were back in high school again, “understated, simple.”
“Ah, no way,” Henry peeked down at your hand, “you’re engaged too?”
“Uh…” you let out a shaky breath, “yep,” the lie then suddenly flew out past your lips before you had a chance to stop it, “that’s me! I’m getting married.”
“That’s amazing,” your ex let out an airy chuckle, “who’s the lucky guy?”
But before your lips could part and let out another lie, Josie returned, “here you go, hon,” and slid four beer bottles across the bar to you before adding, “and would you tell Foggy to stop sitting on the edge of the pool table? It’s old and I can’t be responsible if it breaks on him.”
“Sure thing,” you promised and snatched up the drinks.
“Is that your man?” Henry cast a glance to the lawyer Josie had gestured to, “Foggy, was it?”
“Foggy?” a soft giggle couldn’t help but bubble out of your lungs, “no! Don’t get me wrong, he’s great, but no, sadly, he’s already taken.”
“Then who is it?”
“Is it the other guy over there?” Rebecca chimed in as they both sent their glances towards your friends, “the one in the light blue shirt and tinted glasses?”
“Uh, yeah…” you squeaked as you slowly turned to look at Matt as well, “that’s–, uh, that’s him,” you watched as he readjusted his grip on the cue stick in his hand, “that’s my future husband…”
“Hm,” a sliver of judgment slipped out of Henry, “wouldn’t have pegged him to be your type.”
“Well, maybe my type has changed,” you stated, letting your lingering resentment show before you noticed how harsh it had come out and your stomach immediately began to twist and knot in regret, “I–…” you swiftly winched, “sorry,” and averted your gaze, “have a nice evening, uh–, I’m gonna go back to my friends,” you stumbled as you tried to escape.
Though as you turned to walk away, Henry’s voice found your ears one last time, “bye!” before you heard his fiancé turn to him.
“Pookie? Would you order me a cosmo?” her voice began to fade into the background, “I’ll go find us a table…”
You simultaneously felt as if a truck had just run you over as your feet carried you back towards your friends, yet also completely numb, as if you’d been turned into a floating ghost of the person you used to be.
“Who the hell was that and why do you look like you’re about to throw up?” Foggy asked cautiously as he grabbed two of the bottles in your grasp and handed one off to Matt.
Passing one of the remaining drinks off to Karen, you then lifted your own up to your lips before tipping it back and downing around half of its contents. Once you tilted the dark green bottle back down, you were out of breath as you began to explain, “that,” you wiped your bottom lip with one of your knuckles, “was my ex,” you used that same finger to hazily point back over your shoulder, “and his fiancé,” your eyes stayed fuzzy as you added, “who happen to be the girl that he cheated on me with for a year before I one day finally caught them together.”
“Oh my god…” Karen breathed, her bottle frozen halfway on its journey up towards her lips.
“It was on easter,” you shared, “he thought I had gone back home to see my family, but I’d actually decided to secretly do this whole big surprise, like I thought I was in fucking rom-com or something,” you sighed at your past self, “but then when he got home from work, and I was all decked out, waiting on the bed, in bunny ears and everything,” you heatedly gestured to the top of your own head, “he wasn’t alone.”
“Wow…” Foggy stared.
“Yep…” you exhaled heavily, taking another swig before you made the mistake of glancing back over your shoulder just as Rebecca shrugged off her coat and slinked onto a stool at one of the small tables, “fuck!” you exclaimed as if you’d just stubbed your toe, “she’s even hotter than I remembered. How is that possible?”
“Oh, she’s not that pretty,” Karen tried, but you swiftly cut her off.
“You shut your face, she’s basically a human-sized Barbie,” your glare roamed one last time from the top of her platinum locks to the bottoms of her high stilettos, “god…” you sighed as you finally averted your gaze and lifted your bottle to drown your sorrows, “I was such an idiot back there. It was like my brain just stopped working and–, oh my god!” your palm shot up to cover your mouth as you then suddenly recalled the lie that had slipped out. Slowly, your wide eyes drifted to Matt, who still remained silent, “oh no…”
“What is it?” Foggy chimed in.
“Matt…” you uttered tensely, knowing your friend well enough to be aware of just how much of the interaction with your ex he had overheard, “I am so sorry…”
“What?” Karen’s glance darted between you both, “what’s going on?”
Paralysing embarrassment churned your stomach and choked out any attempt you made to share the truth. But luckily, as your erratic heartbeat thumped and found Matt’s sharp ears, he eventually filled in instead, “…they thought that she was engaged as well and then assumed that I was the guy.”
“I am so, so sorry,” you gasped, “I don’t know why I didn’t correct them.”
But to your amazement, Matthew simply shrugged and offered you a reassuring smile, “it’s okay, don’t worry about it.”
“I was just fiddling with my ring and then they just–…” you then snuffed out your frantic explanation and instead repeated once again, “I’m sorry…”
Saddling up beside you, Karen planted a palm on your shoulder, “hey, if that was my ex, then I’d wanna give him some of his own medicine as well,” she stated, “if not just straight up cut off his balls, which is what he really deserves.”
A faint smile then began to soften your expression as you glanced around at your supportive friends, Foggy briefly reaching out to pat your other shoulder.
But as you averted your eyes to the nearly empty bottle in your grasp, a thought suddenly struck you like a bolt of lightning, “wait, I have an idea…” your gaze slowly lifted to lock on Matt, “I mean, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, I totally get it, but would you mind, just while they are here, to–, uhm…”
Cocking his eyebrow, he finished your sentence, “…to pretend to be your fiancé?”
“I know, it’s stupid, and I should probably just go home right now instead of playing some weird and immature game of revenge or whatever,” you uttered as you made the decision to lie in the grave you’d dug for yourself, “but I would forever be in your debt, I'm serious.”
Sucking in a breath, he barely had to think about it before he murmured, “sure.”
“Really?” you gasped, your brows shooting up, “you’ll do it?”
“Yeah, why not?” Matt shrugged, “it’s the very least he deserves for treating you like that.”
“Oh,” you crossed the short distance between you two and threw your arms around him. It took a second before you felt him hug you back, but when the alcohol got to your head and made you mutter, “I love you,” into his shoulder, a low chuckle rumbled in the lawyer's chest before you parted ways.
“So,” Karen then began to fish out the colourful spheres and roll them back into the green felt, “do we still wanna play another game?”
“Hell yeah,” Foggy picked a cue stick back up before adding a playful threat, “you’re not beating me again this time, Page.”
Once the table was set up for another round of pool and you were a few turns in, your gaze couldn’t help but wander back towards the other end of the bar too often to keep track of. Though, soon on one of the fleeting looks, your eyes grew wide as you discovered you weren’t the only one sneaking glances.
Discreetly, you shifted closer to Matthew and leaned in to whisper, “he’s looking over,” however, when he then draped an arm around your frame, you couldn’t help but stiffen up, as you hadn’t thought that far in the plan yet, “what are you–”
“Shh,” Matt hushed your squeak, “just lean into me,” he shifted to stand tall behind you, arms enveloped around your form as he slowly drew you back against his chest, “smile,” his low voice tickled the shell of your ear and caused goosebumps to erupt across your skin, “and don’t look at him.”
Redirecting your vision back towards the game before you, you narrowly managed to catch sight of the silent slut-shaming the other lawyer flashed his friend with but a glance, before he went back to the mischievous mission he was on.
“Foggy, would you quit it?” Karen grumbled at the man beside her as he wildly waved both of his hands in her periphery, successfully knocking off her concentration as she tried to line up her shot.
“No way,” he kept up his flapping, even causing Karen’s golden locks to get picked up by the breeze he produced.
“You’re cheating.”
“Nope, I am not touching you nor the table,” he stated as if he was in court, “distracting you doesn’t break any rules.”
And as she finally made her attempt, the ball didn’t go in, causing her to explode in a roar, “damn it, Fog!”
“Ha, ha, yes!” he jumped as she straightened back up, “you know, I taste something right now, what could that be? Oh yeah, victory. And it tastes sweet as candy store.”
“Urgh,” Karen rolled her eyes at him before her glare landed upon the both of you, “Matt, your turn. Would you please set him in his place?”
“Gladly,” Matt chuckled, and as he shifted closer to the pool table, he nudged your side and asked, “hey, would you give me a hand?”
Swallowing a chuckle as you already knew he very much didn’t need it, you cocked an eyebrow, “you want my help?”
“Yeah,” he uttered clearly and let his real message seep through his tone, guiding your gaze to flicker back toward Henry, who’s stare was still locked upon you both, “so come help me.”
“Oh!” it finally clicked in your brain, “right,” and you swiftly slid in beside him.
With bated breath, you grabbed Matt’s hand that wasn’t clutching the pole, and guided it over the ivory ball that rested close to one of the corners. As you began to map out and tell him where each of the other spheres were, your eyes flicked over to notice just how close you now stood, as your nose nearly grazed against his stubbly cheek as you murmured guidingly. When you retracted your touch, you barely noticed how a few of Matt’s fingers reacted, faintly following your fading palm for but a second before it floated back down to the white orb below it.
Once he’d made his shot, you lingered in the proximity and whispered, “do you think they’re buying it?”
“Hm?”
“This,” your eyes momentarily flickered back towards your ex across the bar, “us.”
Matthew’s brows then floated up as you reeled him back in to the matter at hand, “oh, I–, probably.”
“Or should we do something else?” your mind kept on spinning, “I don’t know, I feel like I’ve completely forgotten how all of that works,” you shared, “kinda just numbed and cut off that part of myself after he broke my heart, it was just how I had to get through it, shut down a little bit because suddenly romance was terrifying…”
“...can I ask you something?” he asked quietly after a breath, and when you offered him a hum in confirmation, he uttered, “are you still in love with him?”
Time stretched out before you finally replied, “I was, for a very long time…” your voice stayed small, “…but no, not anymore… I kind of thought I was, but then seeing him again cleared it all up. All I feel when I look at him now is rage,” you exhaled, “and pity, just because I know him too well, know everything that’s messed up about him…” silence encumbered you both for a moment before you then opened your mouth once more and said, “so, should we hold hands or something?” you asked plainly, though when a genuine laugh then began to billow out of Matthew, your eyes blinked up at him as your brows swiftly knit together, “what?”
“You know,” he tried to snuff out his chuckle, “if I was actually your fiancé, I wouldn’t just stand around and hold your hand all night,” he then leaned in the short distance till his lips nearly tickled the shell of your ear, “I would have dragged you into the bathroom by now and forced the whole bar to hear us fuck.”
“I–, u-uhm,” you flusteredly stammered as your face began to heat up, “y-yeah, yeah, that’s good too,” you barely registered your own words as they slipped out past your lips, “if that’s what you wanna do–, I mean! Shut up!” you squeezed your eyes shut as soon as you regained your own senses, “just hold my hand, you dick,” you cursed over his laughter as he swiftly slipped his palm into your own.
“Cut it out, Karen,” Foggy’s voice cut through your haze and caught your attention.
Glancing over, you spotted as Karen was giving him some of his own medicine, pettily leaning into his eye line, “what? You were the one saying that distractions weren’t against the rules,” she continued to glare in hopes of throwing him off his game, “why? Is this not working? Do you need me to scream directly in your ear instead?”
“Oh, would you?” he sarcastically looked to her, his pitch climbing up high at his words, “going deaf in one ear is exactly what I need to beat you.”
As your wandering gaze then flickered back towards the opposite end of the bar, your eyes grew wide as you spotted only Rebecca still seated at the small table, pink cocktail in her grasp.
“Shit,” you spotted Henry as he crossed the room, confidently walking precisely in your direction, “he’s coming over,” you hissed, and in your muppet-like panic, your hands clasped each side of Matt’s face and yanked him in for a kiss.
At first, he froze up as you continued to freak out, but then, as his broad palms slowly slid over your waist, all of your alarm began to melt away. It felt as if you were drifting off to sleep as you relaxed into the kiss. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined that kissing Matt would feel like this, not that such a fantasy was something you pondered often or even at all, but as you felt his tongue flicker out to dance softly against your own, your knees beneath you wobbled as you lost yourself completely. How long the peck drew out remained a mystery, as when you eventually parted, the reasoning behind it wouldn’t emerge in your memory no matter how hard you tried.
Though as you stood there, blinking back at Matt, still utterly spellbound by the unexpected feelings currently bubbling and bursting inside of you, the man now standing off to the side cleared his throat and brought you back down to earth.
“Bunny–, I mean, Y/n,” you whipped your head around to catch sight of your ex, “just thought it would have been awkward if I didn’t come over here to introduce myself before me and Becca took off,” he muttered before his gaze fell to Matt, his arms slowly fading from your form, “I'm Henry, nice to meet you,” your ex then offered his hand, though the lawyer by your side didn’t grasp it, even if his heightened senses had lent him to pick up on the gesture.
“Matt Murdock,” he uttered on a cold exhale.
Stuffing his rejected palm into his pocket, Henry then asked, “what do you do?”
“Matthew’s a lawyer,” you took over, slotting yourself into Matt’s side before you dramatically clasped a hand over his chest, “saves people for a living. That’s actually why we’re out celebrating tonight, he just won yet another case.”
“Oh, well congratulations then,” Henry offered in well-forged petty politeness.
“Yeah, I was there, watching him do his thing,” you uttered as some bitter goblin of resentment then took over your soul and caused you to say, “and oh boy, I tell you, if only it would have been socially acceptable for me to interrupt the trial just to rip his clothes off, because wow.”
A scoff then rippled in Henry’s chest, “okay, sure,” his stare upon you narrowed as he then grumbled, “we both know you’re not exactly the groupie type of girlfriend.”
“Well, maybe your sorry ass was never worth her supporting you in that way,” Matt suddenly cut in, “maybe because you never bothered treated her that way in return,” his guess hit the bullseye, “and maybe that has a little something to do with why I was the one to put a ring on her finger and not you,” your heart thumped in your chest as Matt’s touch returned to the small of your back, protectively sliding over your waist as he continued to speak in a low and chillingly stern tone, “that or you really are as terrible of a lay as she told me you were, during those very first nights when she finally learned what it was like to be with someone who wasn’t a complete fucking idiot.”
Utterly stunned, you watched Henry’s expression as he scrambled his brain for a way to crawl back from that, but eventually, when no suitable words came to his pea-sized brain, his feet slowly began to shuffle back till his hand had snatched up his fiancé’s and he’d yanked her with him out of the bar.
As the door swung closed behind the pair, a celebratory squeal burst from your lungs, “oh my god! Matt, that was incredible!” you jumped in place before throwing your arms around him, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Tangling his own arms around you, he uttered, “I’m sure we’ll come up with some way you can make it up to me.”
And as you withdrew, just enough to smile back at him, your gaze began to drift back down towards his lip just before Foggy’s voice cut through the palpable tension.
“Do I need to remind you guys that you’re not actually engaged?”
“No,” Matt then murmured as the two of you parted ways, quietly enough for his words to be completely inaudible, “but we could be...”
“What?” you glanced over at him.
“What?” he echoed in return, though a bit too quickly.
“Did you say something?”
“Me? No,” he tried to conceal his lie with a cough, “I-I, uh, think it’s your turn,” he then changed the subject, gesturing to the pool table behind you.
𖥔 loves cooking for you. long day at work? the smell of your favourite pasta greets you when you get home, matt smiling as he greets you from behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands extremely distracting as he chops garlic for the sauce.
𖥔 loves pet names. sweetheart, darling, honey, pretty girl. drives you insane with them. especially when he's all condescending with it, looking down at you with that fuckass smirk.
𖥔 big physical touch guy. clinging to you any chance he can get. holds onto your arm in public instead of using his cane or his senses, just so he can relax for a bit and focus only on you. (andthenheendsuptrippingonthetiniestrock)
𖥔 obsessed with anything involving your hands in his hair. will rest his head in your lap, talking about his day, voice tapering off into quieter, softer mumbles as your touch soothes him. especially with his heightened senses, the feeling of your fingers brushing through his hair, your nails lightly scratching lines down his scalp, is absolute heaven.
when he's too wired from his vigilante duties, restless and unable to relax enough to sleep, you pull his head into your lap, or on your chest, scratching lines down his scalp and the nape of his neck, until he's a puddle, knocking out in seconds.
𖥔 old-fashioned gentleman. extravagant bouquets, holding doors for you, giving you the booth seat, holding your bags, and god forbid you try to pay for anything at all. whether it's a fancy dinner or even just a pretzel at the mall, his card's out before you can open your wallet.
𖥔 when you didn't know about his secret identity, he would hang around on your fire escape after a hard day. honing his hearing in on just you, your heartbeat, your breathing, the way you mumble to yourself whilst cooking, or the soft humming as you clean. he knows its creepy, borderline stalker-ish, but it helps calm him far too much to stop. he's selfish like that.
𖥔 wins you prizes at arcades. need to toss a ring onto a bottle for that massive plushie? suddenly, he doesn't care about pretending to be a helpless blind man. he asks the vendor to clap in the general direction, pretends to miss the first couple of times, and then lands it effortlessly, smiling at your delighted giggles and the vendor's confusion. (ikthisisntsuperrealisticbutshhhhh)
𖥔 loves showing you off. matt is a smug bastard who loves showcasing what's his. an arm constantly around your waist at bars, practically daring anyone to look in your general direction. introducing you as his partner with that smug smirk of his. bringing you to events, showing you off in the pretty silk dress he got you.
a/n: inspired by my lovely aurora @glossiercheek asking for goofy funny bf matt hcs, which somehow i forgot about and my brain filled it in as soft bf matt hcs... hope you like this too though!! and i'm obsessed with this fucker enough to write more hcs, as well as the touching reader's face idea, bc GOD i love that.
summary: On their wedding night, (Y/n) disappears in Matt’s arms-blipped without warning. For five years, he mourns her, tormented by grief and hallucinations. When she returns, unchanged, he’s convinced she’s not real. (angst mostly with fluff ending)
warnings: angst, cussing, lack of proofreading rip, set in infinity war - endgame timeline (reader getting blipped, etc)
a/n: Listen, my boy Matt is the PERFECT practice for writing angst. I just like to put him in situations and watch him like he's in a fish tank and I'm outside tapping on the glass. This man absolutely cannot catch a break and while I am partially to blame (cause I'm writing it this time), just how Matt is written in general is in a way that it just makes sense to put him through shit. He is a walking amalgam of Catholic Guilt, adrenaline, and poor decision making and I love him so much. This one is a boatload of angst but I threw in some fluff in the ending because well, we deserve good things.
The apartment door creaked open with the softest thud, and then her back hit it as Matt pressed her gently against the wood, lips grazing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He was smiling.
That rare, devastating smile he only wore when it was just them.
“You’re supposed to carry me across the threshold, remember?” she whispered, breathless with laughter.
“Oh, I didn’t forget,” Matt murmured. “Just wanted a moment alone with my wife first.”
Wife.
The word made her stomach flip in a good way- warm and giddy and ridiculous.
He scooped her up easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and she looped her arms around his neck like she’d never let go. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I’m legally required to now,” he said with a smirk. “It’s in the vows. Carry you everywhere. Worship the ground you walk on. Try not to lose my mind over how good you look in that dress.”
“Flawless delivery, Murdock,” she teased. “Truly. I can tell you definitely wrote your own vows.”
He chuckled against her shoulder as he carried her through the doorway into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. Candles flickered. Soft music still hummed faintly from the speaker they forgot to turn off before the ceremony.
And for a second- just one perfect second- it was all stillness. Just them. Just this.
He set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist. They kissed again, slower now. Softer. Everything feeling like it had finally settled into place. She pressed her forehead to his, heart beating a little too fast.
“I think I’m going to cry.”
“I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured, eyes closing, nose brushing hers. “You’re here. You’re mine. We made it.”
She smiled, eyes glassy. “We did.”
They stood there for a while. Just holding each other. Breathing the same air. Wedding bands warm against skin.
But then-
She shifted slightly in his arms. Her brows furrowed.
“Matt?”
He straightened a little, instantly alert. “Yeah?”
“I feel... weird.”
He tilted his head, concern filtering through his features. “Weird how?”
She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know. It’s like- I just got dizzy all of a sudden. Like the room’s moving.”
Matt gently guided her toward the couch, helping her sit down. “Okay. Just breathe. You might be dehydrated. Or just- adrenaline crash.”
She tried to smile. “Yeah. Big day. Lots of emotions. Too many speeches.”
She stood too fast. Her hand slipped from his.
“Careful,” Matt said, already reaching for her again. “Take it slow- ”
“I think I need to throw up,” she mumbled, voice shaky.
“Okay, yeah,” he nodded, already guiding her. “Bathroom’s just- ”
She staggered.
Her balance tipped.
Matt caught her by the waist before she could fall. “Hey. Hey, I got you. It’s okay- ”
She didn’t answer.
Her body felt... lighter. Unsteady. Like her weight was shifting in his arms.
He tilted his head, trying to focus on her. “(Y/n)? You with me?”
She looked up at him.
Confused.
Scared.
“M-Matt, I...”
And then her voice just- cut out.
His arms were suddenly empty.
He blinked.
No sound. No step. No breath.
Just... gone.
The faintest warmth lingered against his fingertips- and then something like dust scattered through them.
“What the- ?” he whispered, stepping back. “(Y/n)?”
His hand shook. Her scent was still in the room. Her heartbeat-
No. No, that wasn’t right.
He turned, listening harder, straining his senses.
Nothing.
There was nothing.
The silence grew louder. His throat closed up.
“(Y/n)?”
He moved down the hallway. Checked the bathroom. The bedroom. “(y/n), c’mon. Say something.”
No heartbeat. No motion. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Like she’d never been there. Matt’s chest started to cave in.
“Okay, this isn’t- this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Maybe you passed out. Maybe you hit your head. Maybe- ”
His foot bumped something.
Her ring.
Her wedding ring.
Lying on the floor.
His knees hit the hardwood before he could stop them. “No.”
He crawled forward, hands blindly reaching, as if she might be hidden just out of reach.
“(Y/n)!” His voice cracked. “Where are you?!”
Still nothing.
Just the flicker of the candles.
Just the soft sound of ash settling.
“No, no- God, no!” He stood again. Stumbled. Slipped.
“(Y/n)!” He shouted so hard it tore something in his throat. “Talk to me!”
He made it to the front door. Opened it. Nothing. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of retreat. Matt’s breathing picked up. His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone, nearly dropping it before hitting Call.
Foggy.
It rang once. Twice-
Pick up.
The sound of the city outside had changed. He could hear it.
Screaming. Tires screeching. Glass shattering six blocks over. Someone crying for help. Sirens multiplying like wildfire. It all surged into his head at once- too much, too fast.
He pressed his palm against his ear, gritting his teeth. “Too loud. I can’t- ”
Click.
“Matt?” Foggy answered, out of breath. “Hey, shouldn’t you be- ?”
“She’s gone,” Matt said immediately, voice fraying. “Foggy- she was right here, and then she just... disappeared.”
“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”
“I mean she turned to ash in my hands,” Matt snapped, breath catching. “I was holding her. She said she felt sick and then- then she just... she was gone.”
There was a pause.
“Matt, hang on- wait- ” Foggy’s voice shifted, panic creeping in. “I think... Matt, something’s happening. It’s not just her.”
Matt stilled. “What do you mean?”
“I’m outside and people are vanishing. Right in front of me. There was a guy walking beside me- just turned to dust. A woman screaming for her kid, and the kid vanished. A guy in a cab just disappeared behind the wheel, Matt. It crashed into a light post.”
Matt pressed a hand to the center of his chest like he could anchor himself to the sound of Foggy’s voice. But even that was drowned out by the chaos around him.
“I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “Her heartbeat- her breathing- it’s just gone. Like she was never here, foggy.”
Foggy’s voice came through again, strained and tense. “It’s happening everywhere. I can’t keep up. There’s shouting, people running- I think half the crowd outside just vanished. I’m not exaggerating.”
Matt stumbled toward the couch, hand landing on the coffee table. “She was right here.”
“I’m coming to you,” Foggy said quickly. “Stay there, Matt. Don’t go outside- Jesus Christ, someone else just- ”
The line crackled. Cut out. Came back.
Matt’s hands were shaking as he reached for the remote.
The TV flicked on.
"...mass disappearances reported in New York, Chicago, London- this is now confirmed to be a global event..."
Footage played- Times Square chaos. Pedestrians turning to dust mid-step. News anchors looking off-camera in horror. Phones on the ground. Car alarms going off in every direction.
“We are receiving reports that approximately half the world’s population has- vanished.”
The camera panned to a child’s stuffed toy, untouched, lying in a pile of ash. Everything was still. Except the noise. And the empty space beside him on the floor.
“She was right here,” he said again, softly. Like it might undo it.
One foot lifted toward the bathroom- and when it landed, everything was wrong.
The apartment was darker. Colder. Rearranged.
The soft glow from the corner lamp was unfamiliar. The kitchen counter had a different crack. The rug was new. The air carried a different scent- like dust and time and a city that had moved on without her.
“Matt?” she called, voice hoarse.
Silence.
She stepped further in. The living room looked lived-in, but not by her. Not anymore. Not for a long time. The coffee table was cluttered with open case files. There was a cane by the door she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded faster.
“Matt-?”
And then he was there. He stood in the doorway like he’d been carved from stone, unreadable and unmoved. Then, quietly- too calmly- he said, “So. You’re back.”
She stopped cold.
“Matt-”
He tilted his head slightly, almost as if studying her. “Took longer this time.”
“What…?” she breathed.
“Usually you show up around hour thirty-six,” he said, like it was a fact. “Right after the exhaustion hits but before the whiskey does anything useful.”
Her stomach twisted. “Matt, I’m not-”
“Don’t,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t do that.”
She swallowed hard. “This isn’t what you think.”
“No?” His voice was soft, even, lethal. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like every other time I’ve lost my mind and imagined you standing in this room.”
(Y/n) blinked, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Matt, I- I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, no trace of humor. “You wouldn’t.”
“I was just- I felt sick and then it was cold, and everything looked wrong and-" Her words tangled, tripping over each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Matt?”
Nothing.
She took a tentative step forward. “Please. Say something. What happened? What- what’s going on?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp, like a scalpel slicing through skin without even trying.
“Don’t do this to me again.”
Her breath caught. “What- what do you mean, again?”
“I know your routine now,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “You show up, confused. You ask questions. You cry. And then just when I start to believe you might be real- when I almost let myself feel something again- you vanish.”
“Matt, I don’t- ”
“No,” he snapped. “Stop. Just stop.”
She froze. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his jaw locked, eyes unreadable.
“You know what it’s like to bury someone without a body, (Y/n)?” he asked. “To sit in this apartment with your ring in my hand, trying to convince myself that ash on the floor was all that was left of you?”
She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember anything-”
“Exactly,” he said, bitter. “You never do. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You pretend like you’re all confused. Like you don’t know what’s happening. And I- I fall for it. Every time. Like an idiot.”
“Matt- please, just listen to my heartbeat-”
“I did,” he cut in. “I’ve heard it before. Right before it disappears.”
Her lips trembled. “I swear I’m not-”
“You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking, but no less cruel. “You don’t get to come back here like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave me bleeding on the floor that night. Like I didn’t spend years trying to claw my way out of what you left behind.”
“I didn’t leave you,” she whispered.
“But you’re dead,” Matt hissed, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat off his skin. “You died. And whatever this is- this illusion, this dream- it doesn’t change that. You don’t get to hurt me again.”
He said it like a closing statement. Like a sentence passed down after a trial that never had a chance. But he didn’t stop there.
“You think this is easy for me?” he went on, voice low, cracking at the edges now. “You think I want to keep seeing you in doorways? Hearing your voice when I close my eyes? You think I haven’t begged for it to stop?”
(Y/n) stood frozen, lips parted, tears streaking silently down her face.
“I have spent five years trying to forget the exact way you said my name before you disappeared. Five years trying not to hear it in someone else’s mouth. Five years waking up thinking you might be there- just once- and then realizing that all I’ve got left is a bed that’s too big and silence that’s too loud.”
He was pacing now, hands in his hair, breathing hard, unable to stop himself.
“You were my wife. You were supposed to be the rest of my life. And I had you for minutes. You were ripped out of my arms before I even got to love you properly. Do you understand that? Do you even get what you left behind?”
“Matt-”
“I grieved you like a man who’d never believe in God again,” he growled. “I went back to that night a thousand times in my head-wondering if I missed something, if I could’ve saved you, if I’d just done one thing different-”
“Matt-”
“I begged,” he snapped. “I begged God to bring you back. I lost everything trying to survive you. And now you show up here, looking exactly the same, like time hasn’t touched you, like you’re just picking up where you left off- like you didn’t burn me to the fucking ground-”
“Matt.”
She said it once.
Quietly.
And then she reached for him.
He flinched on instinct, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, gently, deliberately, she took his hand in hers- still trembling from the weight of his words- and guided it up between them.
To her chest. To her heartbeat. Right there. Steady. Real. Alive. His breath hitched. She kept his hand pressed there, fingers wrapped around his wrist like she could anchor him to this one undeniable truth.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not in your head. I don’t know how or why or what the hell happened, but I’m here.”
Matt didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hand pressed to her chest, like he didn’t trust what he was feeling. Like it might stop if he acknowledged it out loud. Then- suddenly- he let out a shaky breath and pulled her into him, hard.
His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “What the fuck.”
Her hands gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d drop her again. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t know what’s happening.”
He laughed once, breathless and half-broken. “Yeah. Me neither.”
They just stood there for a second. Breathing each other in. Trying to recalibrate. Then, against his chest, she mumbled, “You look like shit, by the way.”
It slipped out before she could stop it. Matt let out an actual laugh- short, incredulous, almost like it startled him.
“That’s not funny,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still half-laughing.
She smiled weakly. “Little bit funny.”
He shook his head, still not quite believing any of it. “God, I missed you.”
And then he kissed her.
Desperate and real and messy- too much force, too much urgency, like he didn’t trust it to last. His hands found her face, holding her like he needed proof she was solid. She kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, anchoring him to now. To her.
It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that was enough.
a little bonus content because well it was funny in my head
A few days later
She was curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled, one of his old hoodies hanging off her shoulder. The TV was on, volume low, neither of them really watching.
She was still catching up- on everything. The blip. The aftermath. The years she missed. Sometimes it hit her like a freight train. Other times, like now, it just snuck up and poked her in the ribs.
She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Wait a second.”
Matt tilted his head toward her. “Uh-oh.”
She sat up a little. “So… technically, you’re five years older than me now?”
He blinked. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”
“It’s a valid question,” she insisted, grinning. “I married a man my age, not some grizzled thirty-something.”
He scoffed. “Grizzled?”
“I mean, I don’t see any grey hairs, but-”
“I’m blind, not deaf. I heard that smirk.”
She tried to hold back a laugh. Failed. “So you’re like… what, thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-seven,” he corrected flatly.
“Oh no. I married an older man.”
Matt deadpanned, “And I married a time traveler. Guess we’re even.”
She bumped her shoulder into his. “You gonna start calling me ‘kid’ now?”
He turned toward her, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only if you want to see how fast a five-year age gap doesn’t matter.”
Her face flushed. “Okay, grandpa.”
Matt groaned. “Regret. Immediate regret.”
She laughed, leaning back into him again, warm and solid and finally, finally real.
pairing: matt murdock x kindergarten teacher!reader
summary: “don’t worry, the kids have zero survival instincts. you’ll blend right in.” or: in an attempt to get your injured boyfriend to take it slow, you bring him in as the mystery reader for today's story time. (2.6k words of pure fluff + matt murdock with kids)
a/n: i don't know what got into me okay. am i ignoring kinktober for this? yes i am! (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)
The morning light spills lazily across the bedroom, warm against the sheets where a very much not-resting Matt Murdock is trying to get up. One hand’s pressed to the bandage at his ribs; the other braces against the mattress, trembling with effort.
“Matt,” you remind him. “You promised, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bares a grin. “What? I didn’t promise not to move.”
“I know that look.”
His lips press together. You catch the faint, guilty smirk that means he’s pushing you to your limits before you snap.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, coaxing, “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“Sit. Down.”
Who knew the Teacher Voice would be effective even on vigilantes? The command hits him like muscle memory; he freezes and sits back down before his brain catches up. You fold your arms, shooting him a glare. “You’re not fine, Matt. You’re barely upright.”
He tries to shrug and immediately winces. “I’ve been through worse.”
“Try anything funny,” you say dryly, “and I’ll put you in time-out.” You suck in a breath. “Say it with me: ‘I am not going out.’”
“I am not going out.”
“‘I am not going to decide I am well enough for a ‘little walk’ when my girlfriend goes to work and then end up in an alley with a mugger and a new concussion.’”
“...It’s a little early for muggings, isn’t it?”
“Say it.”
Matt smiles impishly into the distance, seemingly not having heard you. You don’t know why he won’t just lie to you—hell, that’s what you’d do in his place—but all the better for it, you suppose. He turns his head toward your voice, those unfocused brown eyes catching the light just right, turning them to gold. “You really think you can keep me down all day?”
Okay. You want to stay angry, but that smile cracks through your irritation like sunlight through fog. You still remember the shaking in your hands when you stitched him up at two a.m., the heartbeat under your palms too shallow, like a spider’s fragile skittering.
“You know what,” you say. “Fine. Get dressed.”
His brow furrows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re coming with me.”
Matt blinks incredulously, like he’s sure he’s misheard. “With you?”
“Yeah,” you say, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. You jangle your keys. “C’mon. Get dressed, Mister, if that’s what you want so badly. You have”—you glance at the clock—“fifteen minutes before I leave without you.”
“You’re seriously taking me to school?”
“You bet.” You flash him your brightest smile. “Don’t worry, the kids have zero survival instincts. You’ll blend right in.”
You should clean up more. You know. Your classroom looks like something exploded in it—a mishmash of alphabet borders, crooked paper-chain rainbows, glitter perpetually embedded in the carpet. You’re both glad and saddened Matt can’t see just how much of a mess it is.
For the first hour, you stash Matt in the breakroom. This is partly to keep him from wandering, and partly to shield him from twenty high-decibel five-to-six-year-olds until caffeine has done its job. But it takes about three minutes for the other teachers to notice the mysterious man in the corner with the bandaged hands and movie-star jawline. They descend like curious pigeons, and within moments, he’s surrounded.
“So, you’re the lawyer?” asks Mrs. Kowalski, whose retirement countdown has been in progress since the Clinton administration.
“I am,” Matt answers smoothly.
“Do you work for one of those fancy firms?” another teacher asks. He’s leaning on the counter towards Matt like he’s in a rom-com coffee shop.
“Something like that,” Matt says, trying not to sound too much like he’s calculating the distance to the door by sound alone.
And then (inevitably) Mrs. Novak, who once told you she “couldn’t be trusted to be left in a room alone with Ryan Gosling,” leans forward and says, “You’re not married, are you, handsome?”
The pause that follows could power the city grid. Matt’s head tips just slightly in your direction, as if to check whether this is some kind of prank. His mouth opens, closes, and then ever the gentleman, he clears his throat. “Uh… no, ma’am.”
Mrs. Novak beams like she’s just won the lottery.
You sip your coffee and very generously decide that this is absolutely none of your business.
You come to collect him an hour later, and when you step into your classroom together, twenty pairs of eyes snap toward the door.
“Friends,” you announce, your voice slipping into that vibrant brightness, “I brought someone new with me today. This is my friend, Mister Matt!”
A hush falls, followed immediately by chaos.
“He’s wearing a suit!”
“Is he famous?”
“Why you got sunglasses? It’s not even sunny!”
“He looks like he’s from the government.”
Matt’s mouth twitches. He raises a hand in a small wave. “Hi, everyone.”
You set a chair beside you, trying not to laugh as he navigates the forest of sneakers and rolling crayons. His cane rolls lightly against the carpet, a rhythmic sound that hushes them faster than your voice ever could.
“So,” you say, sitting on the rug, “today’s circle time is going to be a little special. Mister Matt is blind, which means he can’t see with his eyes”—you tap yours for emphasis—“the way we do. He’s going to tell us a little about what that’s like, and how he does things a little differently.”
Several hands shoot up at once.
“You can’t see anything? Like, nothing nothing?”
“Do you got a robot dog?”
“Do you watch Bluey?”
Matt takes it in stride, amused. “No, no robot dog—yet. And I can’t watch Bluey, but I can listen. I use my ears, my nose, my hands… and sometimes I just remember how things feel. Like how you know where your bed is when the lights are off.”
A collective “ohhh” sweeps through the group.
He lifts his cane lightly. “And this helps me find things in front of me so I don’t trip.”
“Like a hockey stick!”
He smiles. “Something like that.”
“Do you bump into stuff?” another asks.
“Only when the furniture sneaks up on me.”
Giggles ripple across the rug.
“How d’you eat spaghetti?”
“Very very carefully,” he says solemnly, which earns another round of laughter.
Then, a small voice asks, “But how can you read to us?”
You jump in, delighted. “Because, my friends, some books have braille. That’s a special kind of writing you can feel with your fingers.”
A chorus of little oooohs rises. You take the book from your bag—The Very Hungry Caterpillar. You had glued Braille labels on its pages one evening, just to test out Matt’s new label printer. You hold it up for effect.
“See, you know how we use our eyes to look at letters—A, B, C? Well, braille has letters too! They’re made of tiny bumps you can touch instead of see. So people who can’t see with their eyes can still read stories and signs and labels and everything else.”
Matt tilts his head toward you, smiling fondly. He takes the book. “Ready to see if I can keep up with your reading level?”
“Think you can handle it?” you tease.
He runs his fingers over the thick paper, smirking. “I’ve handled hungrier clients.”
The kids gather close, cross-legged and fidgeting with excitement. Matt clears his throat, and when he starts to read, his voice seems to fill every corner of the room. Low and even, it’s rich with rhythm that makes every syllable and pause sound deliberate. Perfectly timed.
“In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf…”
You’ve heard him speak in his courtroom voice. You’ve heard him speak in the quiet drawl of late-night confessions. This is something else entirely. It almost sounds like poetry, his words slow and warm, like honey. The class falls silent, spellbound. Even the usually restless ones sit still with their eyes wide, breathing in sync with the story.
When he reaches the part where the caterpillar eats through the fruit, the kids finally join in, shouting out the fruits in chorus.
“One apple! Two pears! Three plums!”
Matt laughs softly, his shoulders shaking. It is real laughter, not the weary kind you’ve heard too often. It fills the little room like sunlight.
He reads on steadily, the lilt of his voice weaving through the children’s bright interruptions. (“He sounds like a nice Batman.” “Yeahhhh!”)
And when he closes the book at last, there’s a heartbeat of silence before the room erupts into cheers. Tiny hands clap wildly, mesmerized by the “magic trick” of Matt being able to read without seeing. Someone shouts, “Again!” and Matt chuckles under his breath, the faintest flush creeping up his neck.
Thankfully, snack time arrives before they can demand an encore. You set him up on a miniature plastic chair near the reading rug—ostensibly to “rest,” though you suspect that’s a lost cause.
The moment you turn your back, the kids descend on him. They surround him like puppies, tugging at his sleeves, pressing crayon drawings into his hands, proudly narrating every squiggle. He listens to each one with his head tilted just so, offering gentle Oh, really?’s and That’s beautiful’s as he traces the surfaces of their paper with his fingers.
They also seem to enjoy dressing Matt up, for the sole reason that he “can’t see” (you suspect this is a premise to the natural conclusion of “therefore he can’t stop us.”) A tiny girl with pigtails climbs onto a chair and pins an apple hairclip on his head, her tongue sticking out in concentration. The room dissolves into giggling.
Matt adjusts it carefully. “Does it suit me?”
“Yeahhhh!” they shout, chortling so hard one nearly falls over.
You manage to herd them toward their snacks, but within seconds, Matt is surrounded again. Besieged by a crowd of tiny, sticky hands and juice boxes.
“Mister Matt, I can’t open mine!”
“Me too!”
“Do mines! Do mines!”
The chair Matt is sitting on seems seconds from collapse under his large body. His long legs are folded awkwardly; his elbows tucked in tight. His bandaged hands work slowly but surely, sliding straws into foil holes found by sound and touch. Each successful “pop!” earns an impressed “whoaaa” from his audience.
You stand by the wall, biting your lip to keep from laughing outright.
Matt Murdock is a lawyer by day, vigilante by night, and now juice box technician by popular demand.
When playtime rolls around, you guide him outside to the bench beneath the brittle autumn sun. The air smells of mulch and crayons, and the playground is alive with motion: squeaking swings, sneakers pounding the pavement, shrieks of joy no jury on earth could silence.
Matt sits with his cane across his lap, head tilted up and listening to it all with a faint, meditative smile.
You join him after a round of pushing swings, handing him a coffee. His face softens instantly at the sound of your steps.
“So this is what you do every day.”
“This,” you sigh, gesturing toward the whole ruckus, “and reading the same book forty times a week.”
Matt chuckles. “This is incredible. I mean it.” He tilts his face toward you, the wind lifting a stray curl from his forehead. “It’s… peaceful here,” he says quietly. “I can hear their hearts, you know. All of them. They’re so... Light. Untangled. It’s nice.”
You don’t know how to answer that, so you just let your fingers drift until they find his, his hand curling over yours.
Then a little boy toddles up, wide-eyed, clutching something tight in his fist. His sneakers are squeaking with every step.
“Hi, Mister Matt,” he says shyly, shuffling his shoes.
Matt turns toward the voice, smiling. “Hey there, buddy.”
The boy squints, catching sight of the bandages peeking from Matt’s sleeve. “You hurt?”
“Hmm?”
“You hurt—your fingers?” he repeats, pointing earnestly.
It’s amazing how children can be so thoughtful and so observant, the way concern comes so naturally to them.
“Oh,” Matt says, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah, a little.”
The boy brightens immediately. “My daddy gets ouchies like that too!”
Matt’s brows lift, amused. You turn to him, smiling. “Matt, this is Charlie. Charlie’s dad is a boxer.”
His whole expression shifts: surprise, then delight. “A boxer, huh?”
Charlie nods, all confidence now. “Yup-yup!! He fights bad guys!”
Matt huffs an amused laugh. “That so? You know,” he leans in conspiratorially, “my dad was a boxer, too.”
Charlie’s eyes go huge. “Reallyyyy!! S’he good?”
“Pretty good, you could say that,” Matt says. “Is your daddy good?”
“Uh-huh!! He’s the toughest!” Charlie announces proudly, chin lifted. You murmur his dad’s name under your breath, and Matt nods in recognition. “Oh, I’ve heard of him. Tough guy,” he says with an OK sign—and Charlie practically glows at the praise.
Then, a little shyer again, Charlie opens his small hand. A single gold star sticker glints in his palm, bent at the corner from being clutched so tightly.
“Ummmm, this helps,” he explains. His voice has dropped into a whisper. “I give my daddy stickers when he gets hurt. S’makes him betters faster.”
Your heart squeezes. You crouch beside him and help him peel the backing loose where it’s stuck to itself.
“All right?” you say gently.
Charlie grins up at you, gap-toothed, then turns back to Matt. Carefully, with all the focus in the world, he presses the sticker onto Matt’s sleeve. It’s crooked, just above the cuff. “Feel betters, Mister Matt.”
Matt’s fingers lift, tracing the sticker’s bumpy edge, the faint adhesive tacky beneath his skin.
“Thank you, Charlie,” he says, smiling. “I already do.”
Charlie beams. The job is done, and just like that—with a “‘Kayyyy! Bye!”—he takes off toward the monkey bars, yelling the whole time.
You glance at Matt. His fingers are still ghosting over the star, and the gold gleams against the dark wool of his jacket.
By dismissal, he looks lighter than you’ve seen him in months. One of the kids has given him a crayon-colored card, all rainbow scribbles and shaky hearts, and he carries it tucked under his arm. It’s too valuable to fold into his coat.
On the train ride home, Matt sits with his head leaned toward the window, lit by the passing gold of evening.
“See?” you say, nudging his knee lightly. “Not so bad, right? They loved you.”
“Mm, they have good taste.”
You snort affectionately. “Oh, don’t let it go to your head. They’ll forget you by snack time on Monday.”
“Still,” he murmurs, his smile deepening. A pause settles between you, then he adds, “Thank you for bringing me.”
“Just had to make sure you didn’t make a break for the rooftops,” you say. “How’s the ribs?”
“Better. A lot better.”
“Good. If you ever get hurt like that again, I’m dragging you straight back to my classroom.”
Matt chuckles, fingers finding the sticker. “I should get hurt more often, then,” he jokes, and you kick his shin so hard he lets out a yelp.
bonus:
By Monday, the week begins as usual. The shoes squeak, and tiny voices rise in overlapping chatter. You’ve barely settled when Charlie marches up to your desk, flashing you his famous gap-toothed smile, clutching a folded sheet of paper.
“This is for Mister Matt,” he says solemnly. “You gotta give it to him, please, thank you.”
You take it carefully, smoothing out the creases. The handwriting is large, wobbly and nearly illegible, done in thick black marker. They are the kind of letters written with a tongue peeking out in deep concentration, under the guidance of a well-meaning parent.
Dear Mister Matt,
I hope your hands feels better.
When I grow up I want to fight bad guys
but only if they are mean to dogs.
—Charlie
You laugh so hard you have to sit down.
a/n: i love matt murdock (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)
matt taglist! @mayal0pez @sixpossumsinaclownsuit
summary: Matt comes home after a long night with a special surprise... lingerie, that somehow fits perfectly.
prompt: established relationship & "Well, how do you like my outfit?" — "You're hardly wearing anything."
word count: 5.7k+
pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader
notes: this is for @elixirfromthestars arcade event! i'm like super late, but writer's block and imposter syndrome kicked in hard and i must've went through like 10 different prompt combinations and like 20 different outlines before finally actually writing this one. anyways, here it finally is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, matt is a little shit, established relationship, a little steamy but nothing explict, lingerie, matt is very smug, fluff
The lock clicks a little past when you expect it, the familiar rhythm of Matt coming home just late enough to make you glance at the clock but not worry. You’re halfway through something mindless on TV, curled into the couch with your legs tucked under you, when the door opens and closes with a softer touch than usual. His footsteps follow, light and unhurried, not the tired drag he sometimes has after a long day but something looser, almost buoyant, like he’s carrying a thought he hasn’t shared yet.
“Hey,” you call, not bothering to look over right away. “You’re late.”
“I know,” he answers, and there’s a smile in his voice that makes you turn your head anyway. He’s already slipped off his shoes, setting them neatly by the door, with his tie already loosened. “Got… distracted.”
You narrow your eyes slightly, watching the way he moves toward you, because there’s something off in the best way. Not tense, not distracted—if anything, the opposite. He’s too relaxed, too aware of you, like he walked in already tuned to your breathing, your position, the shift of the couch cushions under your weight.
“Distracted,” you repeat, drawing the word out as he comes closer. “That sounds suspicious.”
“Does it?” He tilts his head just slightly in your direction, that faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. There’s a quiet rustle when he adjusts his grip on something in his hand, and only then do you notice the bag hanging loosely from his fingers.
You sit up a little, interest catching. “What’s that?”
“Nothing dramatic,” he says easily, stepping into your space without hesitation. He stops close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that his knee brushes the edge of the couch. “Just saw something and thought of you.”
“That’s even more suspicious,” you say, eyeing the bag now. “You don’t ‘just see things.’ You’re a man who wears the same three shirts on rotation.”
“That’s efficient,” he replies without missing a beat, holding the bag out toward you.
You take it, the paper crinkling softly in your hands, and glance up at him for a second longer before peeking inside. For a moment you don’t fully process what you’re looking at, just a glimpse of dark fabric, something delicate, the faint sheen of lace under the low light. Then it clicks, and your brows lift immediately.
“Matt.”
“Yeah?”
You pull the edge of it up just enough to get a better look, and there’s no mistaking it now. It’s not subtle, not practical, not anything close to the comfortable things you usually reach for without thinking. It’s bold in a way that feels intentional, the kind of thing that’s meant to be seen, not just worn.
“You went out,” you say slowly, “and bought lingerie.”
He doesn’t look even slightly thrown off by your tone. If anything, his expression settles further into that quiet amusement, like he’s been waiting for this exact reaction.
“I did,” he confirms.
You glance back down into the bag, taking in more of it—the cut, the color, the way the fabric looks like it would sit against your skin. It’s… nice. More than nice. It’s the kind of thing you’d stop and look at in a store window, maybe even pick up and consider, and then put back because it feels like too much, too indulgent.
Your gaze flicks back up to him, suspicion creeping in alongside the warmth curling low in your stomach. “How did you even—?” You cut yourself off, gesturing vaguely with the bag. “Matt, this is not exactly your area of expertise.”
“I had help,” he says, calm as ever.
“Oh, I’m sure you did,” you mutter, shaking your head a little as you look back inside. “Some poor sales associate just got interrogated by a blind lawyer about lace and… whatever this is.”
His smile widens just enough to be noticeable. “She was very nice, actually.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And very patient.”
“I bet she had to be.”
You pull the fabric out a little more this time, letting it drape over your hand, and your thumb brushes over it almost absently. It’s soft, lighter than you expected, and the realization settles in more fully now that this wasn’t just a random purchase. He didn’t grab something off a rack and hope for the best, this looks chosen. You glance at him again, narrowing your eyes just slightly. “You’re being weirdly confident about this.”
“I usually am,” he says, shifting closer still until his hip nudges the edge of the couch. His hand finds the back of it, fingers curling there, grounding himself as he angles toward you more directly. “Try it on.”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re not even going to pretend to be subtle about it?”
“Wasn’t planning to,” he replies, the honesty of it landing somewhere between disarming and unfair.
You look down at the lingerie again, then back at him, weighing the moment. There’s curiosity there, definitely, and something warmer threaded through it, something that makes it hard to just toss the bag aside and ignore it. The way he’s standing there doesn’t help, either—close, attentive, like he’s already picturing the outcome.
“You’re unbelievable,” you say, but there’s no real bite to it as you push yourself up from the couch, bag still in hand.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Stay here,” you add, pointing vaguely in his direction as you step past him. “And don’t… I don’t know. Smirk like that.”
“I’m not smirking.”
“You are absolutely smirking.”
His quiet chuckle follows you as you head off to change, the sound of it lingering just long enough to make the whole thing feel even more intentional than it already does.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, muting the quiet sounds of the apartment and, more importantly, the steady presence of Matt just on the other side of the wall. You set the bag down on the counter and pull the pieces out properly this time, laying them out in front of you instead of just sneaking glances like you had in the living room.
“Okay,” you murmur to yourself, turning one of the pieces over in your hands. “What exactly did you buy?”
Up close, it’s even more detailed than you thought—lace layered over something softer, structured in a way that looks complicated enough to be annoying. You eye it for a second longer, then start changing, half expecting to immediately run into some issue.
“Of course there’s like… five different straps,” you mutter, working through it step by step. “Why are there always so many straps?”
There’s no answer, obviously, but the familiar rhythm of figuring it out settles your nerves a little. You adjust one side, then the other, reaching back to fasten it, then pausing when something feels… off. Not wrong. Just—
You shift your shoulders, then your hips, testing it. “…Wait.”
You turn slightly toward the mirror, angling yourself to get a better look, fingers brushing along the edge where the fabric meets your skin. It sits exactly where it should, not digging in, not loose, not doing that annoying thing where it gaps in one place and pinches in another.
You tug lightly at the waistband, then let it fall back into place, watching how it settles against you. “No way.”
You lean in a little closer, adjusting the straps at your shoulders out of habit more than necessity, and even that feels… unnecessary. They’re already right—the support is right, the way it lifts and holds is right, the way it sits against your ribs without pressing too tight is right.
You press your lips together, then let out a quiet huff of disbelief. “Matt,” you say under your breath, shaking your head as you smooth your hands down over your waist and hips, feeling the fabric move with you instead of against you. “What the hell.”
You shift your weight from one leg to the other, watching how it fits from a different angle, then reach back again just to check the clasp, as if it might somehow be a fluke. It isn’t. Everything lines up too perfectly for that. “This fits better than anything I own,” you mutter, more to the mirror than anything else.
You pause for a second, hands resting at your sides, then glance toward the door like you can see through it. “How did you even—”
The question trails off, unfinished, because you already know the answer isn’t going to be simple. You glance back at yourself one more time, taking in the full picture now that you’re not distracted by figuring it out, and a different kind of heat settles in your chest.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
There’s a beat where you just stand there, processing, fingers idly tracing the edge of the lace at your hip before you finally shake your head and push away from the counter. “Yeah, no,” you say, grabbing the edge of the door handle. “We’re talking about this.”
And with that, you pull the door open and step back out toward him, the question sitting sharp and ready on your tongue now that the initial shock has settled into something much more focused.
You don’t rush back out like you’re trying to get it over with, because that would make it worse, and you don’t linger in the bathroom either because you can already picture Matt sitting out there with that calm patience of his, like he has all night. You square your shoulders, smooth your hands once over your hips out of habit, and step into the living room with a steadier pace than you feel.
Matt is exactly where you left him, angled toward the couch as if he’d been listening to the TV and not to every small sound you made behind the bathroom door. He’s taken his jacket off, sleeves rolled up now, the white of his shirt catching the lamplight. When you come into the room his head turns immediately, precise, and his expression shifts the same way it always does when he’s focusing on you, that quiet attention tightening into place like a thread pulled taut.
You stop a few feet in front of him, letting yourself be seen—letting yourself be sensed, really—and you put one hand on your hip like you’re braver than you feel.
“Well,” you say, leaning into the teasing tone before you can overthink it, “how do you like my outfit?”
The corner of his mouth lifts before you even finish the sentence. His head tilts slightly, like he’s taking in the whole shape of you through sound and air and the faintest changes in your breathing, and when he answers he does it without a second of hesitation.
“You’re hardly wearing anything.”
It lands exactly the way it should: confident, amused, warm enough to make your pulse jump, like he’s pleased with himself and pleased with you all at once. He doesn’t say it like a complaint, either, he says it like an observation he’s enjoying, like he’s cataloging details you can’t hide from him even if you tried.
You make a face, but your mouth is already fighting a smile. “That is not an answer. That’s commentary.”
“It’s an answer,” he says, and he’s still smiling, still angled toward you like he can feel the space between you as clearly as if he could see it. “I like it.”
“Mm,” you hum, dragging the sound out like you’re considering whether he’s earned the right to say that. “You like it because it’s scandalous.”
“I like it because it’s on you,” he corrects, the warmth in his voice sharpening into something more intimate. “The scandalous part is a bonus.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t step back, and he must hear that you don’t, because his smile deepens again as he reaches a hand out—not blindly, not searching, just extending his fingers toward where you are like he knows exactly where you’ll be.
You hesitate for half a second, then move closer, just enough for his hand to meet your waist. His palm settles there with easy familiarity, fingers spreading as if he’s checking that you’re real, that you actually did it, that you actually walked out here wearing what he bought. His touch is gentle, but there’s nothing uncertain about it.
“Matt,” you say, the warning in your voice weaker than it should be, because his hand is warm and the lace is doing something unfair to your confidence.
He doesn’t let go. He drags his thumb slowly along the side of your waist, just enough to make you inhale a little sharper, and his head tilts again like he heard it and liked it. “You sound like you’re about to scold me,” he says, voice soft, almost amused.
“I might,” you reply, trying to hold onto the playful tone even as your face feels warmer. “You can’t just… do this.”
“Why not?” he asks, and the question is simple, but there’s a familiar edge to it that makes it feel like he already knows you’re going to fold.
You open your mouth, then close it again, because the obvious answer is that you can’t explain why not without admitting you like it, and you’re not ready to give him that satisfaction yet. So instead you go with the thing that’s been simmering on your tongue since you looked in the mirror. “How,” you say, narrowing your eyes even though you know it doesn’t matter, “did you manage to buy something that fits this well?”
His smile changes immediately, turning a little smug, a little too pleased with himself, and his hand stays on your waist like he’s anchoring you there while he answers. “You’re wearing it,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“That’s not an answer,” you shoot back, but your voice breaks into a laugh at the end because he’s impossible.
“It fits,” he continues, calm as ever, and now his fingers move, tracing lightly along your side like he’s outlining the answer directly onto your skin. “That was the point.”
You put your other hand on his forearm, not pushing him away, just holding him there, because you need to feel steady for a second. “It fits better than my own bras,” you tell him, and you hear the disbelief in your own voice. “So unless you secretly got a degree in lingerie engineering, you’re going to explain yourself.”
Matt’s grin widens, and he shifts closer, enough that his chest is almost brushing yours. “I didn’t guess.”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” you shoot back, brows lifting. “Because there is no universe where you walked into a lingerie store and went, ‘hello, yes, my girlfriend is approximately this shape,’ and then it just worked out.”
He hums like he’s considering your argument, then shifts his hand slightly, sliding it from the side of your waist to the front, fingers spanning across your stomach with that calm, familiar confidence. “You’re shaped like you,” he says simply, as if that’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You stare at him. “That is the least helpful answer you’ve ever given me.”
“It’s not,” he argues, and he sounds genuinely amused about it. “You’re acting like this is complicated.”
“It is complicated,” you insist. “It fits like it was made for me. The straps aren’t weird, it doesn’t gape, it’s not digging into my ribs, it’s not—” You cut yourself off before you list every petty complaint you’ve ever had about underwear, then narrow your eyes at him again. “Matt. How?”
He tilts his head, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, which immediately makes you more determined to get the truth out of him. “I know,” he says.
You blink. “You know what?”
“I know your measurements.”
You let out a sound that’s half laugh and half offended noise. “No, you do not.”
“I do,” he says, still completely calm.
“That’s insane.”
“It’s not insane,” he replies, and now his fingers move again, spreading at your waist as if he’s proving a point. “It’s… information.”
“Information,” you repeat flatly. “You’re calling my body ‘information.’”
He gives a small shrug, the movement subtle under your hand. “You’re the one who asked.”
“I asked how you bought something in my size,” you correct him, “not whether you have some secret spreadsheet in your head labeled ‘girlfriend.’”
“I don’t need a spreadsheet.”
“That’s not comforting.”
His mouth quirks, and then he speaks like he’s explaining something simple, like you’re the one being dramatic. “I know how your waist fits under my hands. I know where your hips sit because I’ve held you there a hundred times. I know how wide you are at your ribs because I’ve had my arms around you. It’s not… complicated.”
You stare at him harder, because the way he says it makes it sound so casual, so normal, like every boyfriend has a mental record of the exact curve of their girlfriend’s body. “You just said that like it’s an everyday thing,” you accuse.
“It is,” he says, and then, like he can’t help himself, his hand slides a fraction higher, fingers splaying against you with the lightest pressure. “For me.”
Your breath catches on the edge of annoyance and something warmer, and you tighten your grip on his forearm like you can physically hold onto your composure. “So what?” you say, narrowing your eyes again, “you walked into the store and told them my measurements?”
“I did,” he replies, and there’s a hint of pride in it now.
“You did not.”
“I did,” he repeats, and he sounds more amused the more you argue. “She asked what size you were. I told her.”
“Matt,” you say slowly, voice dropping into the tone you use when you’re trying not to laugh, “you’re telling me you confidently told a stranger my bra size.”
“She wasn’t a stranger for long,” he says, deadpan. “We talked for several minutes.”
“Oh my God.”
“She was very nice,” he continues, like you didn’t interrupt him. “Older woman, maybe late fifties. She had a perfume on that reminded me of my aunt, and she kept calling you ‘sweetheart’ even though she’s never met you.”
You blink again, because of course he noticed that. Of course he cataloged it like it mattered. “And she just… believed you?” you ask, incredulous.
There’s a beat, and his mouth tilts into something almost smug. “At first she didn’t.”
You point at him immediately. “Aha.”
“She asked if I was sure,” he admits, and then his thumb strokes lightly at your waist, slow enough to feel like a distraction and deliberate enough to feel like one too. “I told her I was.”
“You told her,” you repeat, “that you were sure.”
“I was sure,” he says.
“Did you say it like that?” you ask, tilting your head. “‘I’m sure,’ in your lawyer voice, like you were cross-examining the lingerie rack?”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Maybe.”
“And she didn’t think you were full of it?”
“She thought I was… very confident for a man shopping alone,” he says, and now you can hear the smile in his voice more clearly. “She asked if I wanted to call you to confirm.”
You widen your eyes. “Oh, absolutely not.”
“I told her I didn’t need to.”
Your jaw drops a little. “You told her you didn’t need to.”
He nods once, the motion small. “I said I knew. I said I knew because I touch you.”
Heat shoots straight up your neck so fast it’s almost comical. “Matt.”
“What?” he says innocently, and the innocence does not match the way his hand settles a little more firmly on your waist, like he’s anchoring you while he says it. “It’s true.”
You press your lips together, trying to find a response that doesn’t make you sound flustered, but it’s difficult when he’s standing there acting like he didn’t just say that out loud. “And what did she say to that?” you manage.
“She paused,” he says, the amusement in his tone returning. “Then she said, ‘well… good for you both.’”
You groan, tipping your head back for a second. “I can’t believe you.”
“She helped,” he continues, as if you didn’t just implode a little. “She picked out a few options, asked what kind of fabric you like, what you’d actually wear. I told her you don’t like anything that scratches and you hate straps that slip.”
You freeze. “I have never told you that.”
“You have,” he says, gentle but certain. “Just not with words.”
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and his expression softens slightly, less smug and more quietly sincere, like he’s aware of the effect he’s having now and he’s not trying to make you uncomfortable.
“I know you,” he says, voice lower. “That’s all.”
You swallow, then huff a laugh to break the tension before it swallows you whole. “You’re impossible.”
He smiles again, warm and pleased. “And you’re wearing it.”
You glance down at yourself, then back up at him, pointing at his chest again like you can still salvage the argument. “You realize this means you can never pull the ‘I don’t know what to buy you’ card again, right?”
“I never did,” he replies, and his thumb traces one more slow circle at your waist. “You just didn’t believe me.”
Matt’s thumb stills at your waist like he’s made a decision, and then he steps closer—not fast, not like he’s pouncing, but like he’s closing a door you didn’t realize was open. His other hand comes up to your lower back, fingers spreading there with a quiet firmness that pulls you in an inch at a time until your body has to acknowledge his.
“You’re standing very straight,” he says, voice low with amusement.
“I’m standing normally,” you argue, but it comes out a little breathier than you meant it to.
He smiles, small and private, and his hands shift as if he’s getting comfortable. One stays at your waist, grounding. The other slides up your side, slow enough that you can feel every change in the lace beneath his fingertips, the way it gives and springs back. His touch doesn’t wander aimlessly; it maps you, confident and familiar, like he’s checking the fit the way he promised he would—except the way he does it makes your knees want to misbehave.
“It’s softer than I thought,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along the seam at your waist. “The lace is… good. Not scratchy.”
You swallow. “You said the lady helped.”
“She did,” he agrees, and his fingers drift higher for a moment, stopping just at the edge where the fabric meets skin. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s listening to something only he can hear. “Your heart’s faster.”
“It’s not,” you lie immediately.
His mouth quirks. “It is.”
“Maybe it’s because my boyfriend is conducting a full-body inspection in the living room,” you shoot back, trying to sound offended and not like you’re enjoying this.
He hums, pleased, and his hands move again. The one at your waist slides around to your hip, palm cupping it with a familiarity that makes your stomach flutter. His other hand follows the line of your ribs, then eases down over your side again, tracing the fabric like he’s learning it. When his fingers reach your hip, he pauses, pressing lightly as if confirming the exact curve he’d described earlier.
“Perfect,” he says quietly, and it isn’t a compliment tossed out for fun. It sounds like certainty.
You scoff, mostly to cover the way it lands. “You’re saying that like you’re grading a test.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.” His hand drifts lower, gliding over your hip and down your thigh, the lace brushing under his fingers and then giving way to warm skin. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t grab; he just traces, slow and deliberate, and you can feel the careful attention in the way he moves, like he’s paying attention to the places you tense and the places you soften.
You try to keep your voice steady. “You’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am,” he says simply, and then his hand on your lower back tightens just enough to pull you closer. Your front brushes his shirt, and you feel the quiet heat of him through fabric, the solid line of his body where he’s holding himself very still.
His fingers sweep back up your thigh, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek when they graze the strap near the garter. He pauses there, just for a second, like he found something interesting.
“What?” you ask, suspicious immediately.
He smiles again, slow and patient. “Nothing.”
“That’s never ‘nothing,’” you say, and you shift your weight as if you can shake his attention off of it.
You can’t, he follows the movement easily, fingertips returning to the strap with precise certainty, like he can feel the exact point where it rests against your skin. He hooks a finger under it gently, testing the tension without pulling hard enough to hurt, and his head tilts again like he’s listening to your breathing change.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” you accuse, but the accusation doesn’t have much bite when your voice is doing that thing where it softens at the edges.
“I’m touching my girlfriend,” he replies, innocent in tone and absolutely not innocent in practice. His hand slides back up to your hip, thumb stroking there while his other hand glides up your side again, settling higher on your waist like he’s framing you.
You lift your chin, trying to reclaim the upper hand. “Okay,” you say, forcing a steadier tone, “so you bought it. You measured me. You’re very proud of yourself.”
“I am,” he agrees, far too easily.
“Fine.” You give him a look he can’t see and somehow still reacts to, because his smile deepens. You place your hand against his chest, fingers splaying over the fabric of his shirt as if that will make you feel more in control. “You sure you can get it off?”
Matt goes still in a way that makes the air feel heavier. His hands pause at your waist and lower back, holding you in place, and for a heartbeat he doesn’t answer. The silence stretches just long enough to make you regret asking, just long enough for your pulse to jump again.
Then he leans in slightly, close enough that his breath warms the corner of your mouth when he speaks. “I can take anything off,” he says, voice low, confident, and calm in a way that makes it sound like a promise.
Your throat goes dry. “Is that right?”
“It is.” His fingers slide down, and without hesitation he finds the garter strap again, like it’s been lit up for him the whole time. He hooks it with two fingers, pulls it back just a fraction, and lets it snap lightly against your thigh.
The sting is more surprise than pain, more playful than cruel, but it shoots straight through you anyway. You gasp, and his smile turns instantly smug, like he was waiting for that exact sound. “Matthew,” you breathe, warning and complaint tangled together.
He chuckles under his breath, and his hand returns to your lower back, drawing you closer again as if he can’t resist. “Careful,” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s listening to your heartbeat race. “You keep challenging me like that, I’m going to start thinking you want me to prove it.”
You swallow, trying to recover your composure, but his hands are still there—one firm at your back, the other resting on your waist, thumb making slow circles like he has all the time in the world.
“I didn’t say that,” you manage.
“No,” he agrees softly, and the warmth in his voice is almost unfair. “You didn’t have to.” Matt doesn’t give you time to build another argument. His hand at your lower back tightens, drawing you in until your breath catches against his shirt, and then his mouth finds yours like he’s been thinking about it since the second he walked through the door.
The kiss is slow at first, deliberate, like he’s taking his time on purpose. His lips tilt with that quiet confidence of his, and you feel it in the way he holds you—steady hands, no hesitation, like he’s grounding both of you to the same point. When you part for air, he stays close enough that his forehead brushes yours.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I am not,” you whisper back, even though it’s an obvious lie and you both know it.
He smiles against your mouth and kisses you again, softer this time, a gentler press that makes your shoulders drop without you meaning to. His hands slide down, settling at your hips, thumbs stroking lightly as if he’s reassuring you with touch alone.
“Better?” he asks, voice low.
“Maybe,” you answer, and it comes out quieter than you intended. You nudge his shoulder with the faintest shove, mostly for dignity. “You’re still being smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he says, and then his mouth curves. “I’m satisfied.”
You let out a breathy laugh that dies halfway when his hands shift. One palm slips under your thigh, the other mirrors it, and he lifts you like it’s nothing—like you don’t weigh anything at all to him. You squeak, grabbing at his shoulders instinctively, and he steadies you immediately, calm and solid.
“Matt—”
“Wrap your legs,” he says, like an instruction he expects you to follow.
You do, because his hands are already there, warm against your bare thighs, fingers spanning skin like he’s memorizing it again. The lace brushes his knuckles as he adjusts his grip, and his thumbs stroke slow lines as if he’s checking that you’re comfortable.
“Is this okay?” he asks, quiet, the teasing gone for a second.
Your throat tightens in a way that’s annoyingly tender. “Yeah,” you say, and you lean forward to kiss him before you can get embarrassed about how quickly you answered. “It’s okay.”
His mouth lifts against yours, pleased, and he turns without any clumsy searching—just walks, sure-footed, carrying you down the hall. The bedroom door is already half-open. He nudges it wider with his shoulder and you huff a small laugh. “Show-off.”
“You like it,” he replies, and the way he says it is gentle, like he’s not trying to win, just telling the truth.
He steps to the bed and lowers you onto it slowly, careful and unhurried, hands still on your thighs until you’re settled. He doesn’t let go immediately, either. He stays between your legs, palms resting warm and steady, like he’s anchoring you again.
For a moment you just look at him—his face angled toward you, expression softened, mouth still a little swollen from kissing. He reaches up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek like he’s checking where you are, and then he leans in and kisses you again, slow and deep enough that it makes your hands fist lightly in his shirt.
“You’re dangerous,” you murmur when you can breathe.
He smiles, just a little. “I know.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I bought you a gift,” he says, voice warm, and he kisses the corner of your mouth. “I’m allowed to enjoy it.”
You roll your eyes, but your hands slide up his shoulders, pulling him back in. He follows easily, kisses turning softer again, more lingering than hungry. His hands move from your thighs to your hips, then up your sides, thumbs tracing along your ribs with that same precise care that started this whole thing.
“Still fits,” he says quietly, like he’s confirming the result to himself.
“Stop saying that,” you whisper, laughing under your breath.
“Why?” he asks, and his mouth moves to your jaw, kissing there, then just below your ear. His voice drops lower. “It does.”
You inhale sharply when he shifts his weight and kisses down your throat, unhurried, like he isn’t rushing toward anything. One hand slides back to your thigh again, fingers pressing warm and steady, while the other drifts higher, pausing at the edge of the bra as if he’s asking without words.
You answer anyway, voice soft. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being honest,” he murmurs, and he kisses the top of your chest where the lace frames you. His lips linger there, then trail lower, and you feel the brush of his breath as he dips beneath the line of the bra, the contact gentle enough to make your head tip back into the pillow.
Your fingers thread into his hair, holding him there for a second, and he hums softly like he approves. He lifts his head just enough to speak, mouth close to your skin.
“You know what I like?” he asks.
You manage a shaky laugh. “Do I get a choice in hearing it?”
“No,” he says, the smile obvious in his voice. His hand squeezes your thigh, grounding, affectionate. “I like that you still try to act like you’re not affected.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he kisses you again—one slow kiss placed right over your pulse like he can feel it racing under his lips.
“Matt,” you whisper, half warning, half plea.
He lifts his head, expression softening as if he heard everything you didn’t say. His hand slides up from your thigh to your hip again, steadying you, and he leans in close enough that his forehead touches yours.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “Okay?”
You exhale, letting the words settle. “Okay.”
He kisses you once more—slow, deliberate—and then he shifts lower again, mouth returning to your chest with the same patient attention, hands warm on your thighs as you pull him closer. The room narrows down to the feel of his touch and the quiet sounds he draws from you, and when his voice murmurs your name like it’s something precious, you stop thinking about anything else at all.
