Nelson & Murdock - Matt Murdock x FtM Reader
Summary: Foggy's not in the office and Matt needs help going over a case. His best option just so happened to be Foggy's brother, the same one Matt has a crush on.
CW: Fluff - Established friendship - Mutual pinning - Lawyer reader - Post-op reader - Older reader (mid 30s) - Reader is Foggy's brother - Reader referred to as Nelson - Masculine trans male reader - Bottom reader - Top Matt - Cunnilingus - Riding - Protected sex - Light choking - Semi-public
Words: 7k
A/N: Can't believe I have to say this, but no females or minors interact with this! Just because I'm using more less specific anatomy doesn't mean the reader is fem! I personally don't have bottom surgery, so neither will reader!! Okay, now I'm also working on a smut fic for Andrew 'Pope' Cody I just wanted to write this first because it's been buzzing in my head. Plus, there isn't enough fanfiction for FtM readers where they are actually viewed as men, so that's why I'm here! Yeah this, I don't even know it's cringy as fuck-
FEMALES DNI + MINORS DNI
Matt Murdock’s problem had a rhythm. It was a specific cadence of a heartbeat—one he’d first picked up in a cramped Columbia dorm room, tucked between the scent of Foggy’s cheap cologne and the stale air of law school textbooks.
Back then, you were a ghost. You were quieter, reserved, sunken so far into yourself that Matt sometimes had to strain to hear the blood moving through your veins. You were just another body in the sea of frantic, ambitious students, always hovering in the corner of the room like a secret. You only seemed to anchor yourself to the earth when Foggy was there to hold the line.
Matt would find you slumped on Foggy’s bed, the rustle of heavy pages the only sign of your presence. But there was always that subtle shift—the way your heart would skip a beat, then settle into a faster, more insistent thrum the moment Matt stepped through the door. He couldn't see the way you looked away, but he felt the heat of your gaze, a gravitational pull he couldn’t quite categorize.
It was Foggy who finally broke the seal one night, long after you’d retreated to your own room. The air in the dorm was heavy with the smell of old coffee and high-stakes anxiety.
“He’s trans,” Foggy muttered into the dark. He didn't sound defensive—just honest.
Matt, lying on his own twin bed, felt the word settle over him like a missing puzzle piece. It explained the guardedness, the way you seemed to be holding your breath for years at a time. “What?”
Foggy shifted, the springs of his mattress creaking. “My brother. He’s transgender. He told me it was okay if I told you.”
Matt nodded slowly, a small, thoughtful hum vibrating in his throat. He felt a strange surge of warmth—not pity, but a sudden, sharp clarity. “Is he handsome?” Matt teased, trying to keep his voice light even as his own heart gave a traitorous kick.
A notebook caught him square in the chest. “Wouldn't you like to know, Murdock,” Foggy scoffed, though the smile was evident in his voice. “Keep your hands off the merchandise.”
Knowing hadn’t made Matt less nervous; it had made him hyper-aware. He wasn’t just crushing on his best friend’s brother; he was falling for the quietest man in the room, terrified that his "senses" were overstepping boundaries he didn't yet understand.
Matt rubbed a hand down his face now, the present-day reality of Nelson and Murdock pressing in on him. The office was too quiet without Foggy’s frantic typing. The files under his fingers were a mess of complex litigation, and his brain was fried.
You weren't a ghost anymore. Over the last decade, you had bloomed. Foggy had described the changes to him over drinks—the way your jawline had sharpened, the newfound breadth of your shoulders, the way you finally smiled with your teeth. But Matt didn’t need eyes to know you were different. Your voice had dropped into a rich, resonant baritone that vibrated in Matt’s very marrow. You moved with a heavier, more confident gait. You sounded…solid. Whole.
His fingers brushed the Braille labels on his phone as he dialed. It rang three times—the third ring cutting off as you picked up.
“Matthew?” Your voice was thick with sleep, a low, grainy sound that made his stomach flip. “It’s nearly eleven. Please tell me you aren't still at the office.”
“I’m still at the office,” Matt admitted, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He loved the way the syllables of his name sounded coming from you—the 'th' soft, the 'm' a lingering vibration. “I’m hitting a wall on the Dorsey filings. I…I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me a second pair of eyes? If you aren't too tired.”
He heard the tell-tale sounds of your life on the other end: the soft thump of your cat jumping off the duvet, the rustle of a discarded blanket, the sharp click of a lamp being switched on.
“You’re a menace, Murdock,” you sighed, but there was no bite in it. Just a warm, familiar affection that made the cold office feel a little smaller. “Fine. But I’m not putting on a suit and tie for some late-night call. You get me in a hoodie or you don't get me at all.”
Matt smiled, a genuine one that reached his eyes. “I think I can live with that. See you soon.”
The silence of the office wasn't truly silent; to Matt, it was a hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the distant, muffled roar of Hell’s Kitchen. But then, a new sound cut through the static.
He heard the heavy clack of the street-level door, followed by footsteps on the stairs. They were firm, purposeful—the gait of a man who knew exactly where he was going. Then came the soft thud of the office door closing and the familiar, melodic jingle of keys being dropped into a pocket.
Matt sat up straight, swiveling his chair toward the door. He didn't need to see you to know the exact moment you entered the room. Your heartbeat was a song he’d memorized over a decade ago. In college, it had been a frantic, staccato thing, hidden behind layers of uncertainty. Now, it was a steady, resonant bass line—confident, grounded, and unmistakably yours. It was the most comforting sound in the city.
"You look like you're drowning in paper, Matt," you said, your voice warm and slightly gravelly from the late hour.
Matt leaned back, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Only up to my chin. I figured if I went under, I should at least have good company."
He tracked your movement as you walked toward his desk. You set a paper cup down, the scent of dark roast and a hint of cinnamon swirling into his senses. Then, you reached down. Your fingers brushed his as you guided his hand to the cup—a lingering, grounding contact. He didn’t need the help—his spatial awareness was better than anyone’s—but he never pulled away. He lived in a world of ghosts and echoes; your touch was one of the few things that felt solid.
"Foggy actually left you alone in this mess?" you hummed, pulling out Foggy’s squeaky desk chair.
Matt took a grateful sip of the coffee, feeling the heat bloom in his chest. "He claimed he had a date. Something about a guy from the DA’s office, though I suspect he just wanted to avoid these filings." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "But it worked out. Now I have my favorite Nelson with me."
You chuckled, the sound vibrating low in your chest—a sound Matt felt more than he heard. "Right. Foggy on a date? I’ll believe that when he stops talking about work for more than five minutes."
You reached across the desk, your sleeve brushing against his arm as you gathered a stack of files. Matt heard the rustle of you rummaging through Foggy’s drawer, the click of a pen, and the cap being pulled off a highlighter.
"Am I really your favorite?" you asked. Your voice had dropped a fraction, the teasing edge giving way to something softer, more genuine.
Matt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, moving into your space just enough to hear the slight hitch in your breathing. "Don't tell Foggy," he whispered, his tone conspiratorial and dangerously fond. "He’s got the heart, but you...you've got the brains. And better taste in coffee.”
The office settled into a heavy, comfortable rhythm. It was the language of two people who had spent a decade in each other’s orbits: the rhythmic click-clack of your pen, the dry rustle of paper, and the low, melodic vibration of Matt’s voice as he muttered legal jargon under his breath.
At one point, Matt slid a manila folder toward you. As you reached for it, your fingers grazed the back of his hand. The contact was brief, but to Matt, it felt like a lightning strike. He heard your heart skip—a sudden, sharp hitch in the beat—before it accelerated into a frantic, driving tempo. He didn’t say anything, but his head tilted just a fraction of a millimeter.
He caught the sound of your fingernails scratching against the coarse stubble on your jaw—a habit you’d picked up since the testosterone had thickened the hair there. It was a sound he’d grown to love; it meant you were focused, grounded, and entirely present.
Exhaustion finally started to win. Matt let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping as he reached up to his throat. He caught the silk of his dark red tie, tugging it loose with a practiced flick of his wrist. His fingers moved to the top button of his shirt, undoing it to let the cool office air hit his skin.
The room went still. He could feel your gaze—not just a glance, but a heavy, lingering weight that tracked the movement of his hands. He felt the air shift as you licked your lips, the faint sound of your breath hitching.
"You were staring," Matt whispered. His voice was low, vibrating through the mahogany desk.
"No," you blurted out, the word coming out a little too fast, a little too defensive. You scrambled for an out, your mind racing. "How can you even tell? Maybe I was...staring at the man in the doorway?"
It was a terrible excuse. There was no one in the doorway; the hallway was a vacuum of silence.
Matt leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that pulled the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders. He didn't turn away; he looked directly in your general direction, his sightless eyes hidden behind his glasses, though you felt like he was seeing right through your skin.
"Uh-huh," he hummed, a playful, private sound. He was fighting back a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching.
You waved a hand dismissively in the air—a useless gesture for a blind man, but a necessary one for your own sanity—and tried to bury your nose back in the Dorsey file. "What is it?" he pressed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming more intimate. "What were you looking at?"
How were you supposed to say it? How could you admit that you were transfixed by the dexterity of his fingers? That you were wondering if those same hands would be gentle or firm if they were wrapped around your waist—or your throat?
Matt’s head tilted further. His nostrils flared, taking in a sharp breath. The scent of the room had changed. The clean, soapy smell of your skin had been overtaken by the saltier, sharper tang of arousal and the spike of pheromones that came with a racing heart.
"You were looking at me," Matt said. It wasn’t a guess. It was a cold, hard fact delivered with the confidence of a man who could hear your blood rushing to your face.
"I.." You choked on the words, your throat feeling suddenly tight. "I’m sorry. I just...I got lost in thought."
It wasn't a lie. You were thinking. You were thinking about how the man across from you had been a constant in your life through every surgery, every transition, and every heartbreak—and how, right now, the only thing you wanted was to bridge the three feet of desk separating you.
Matt didn’t stop at loosening his collar. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the perfectly groomed strands until they fell over his forehead, then fully unknotted his tie. He tossed the silk strip onto the pile of folders in front of you—a flag of surrender, or perhaps a challenge. He wanted your undivided attention, and he knew exactly how to get it.
He began rolling up his sleeves, the fabric bunching past his elbows to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. He undid a second button, leaning back with his legs braced wide, claiming the space between you.
"And what if I said I think about you, too, Nelson?" he whispered. His hand reached up, fingers hooking around the temples of his tinted glasses. He pulled them off, setting them aside.
You swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet office. In your head, Matt Murdock didn’t think about men like you. He was a man of logic, law, and a very specific kind of Catholic guilt. He was supposed to think about the firm, or the latest beautiful witness, not a trans man who had spent years rebuilding himself into the masculine figure sitting across from him. You were convinced that having something with you would be a one-way ticket to his priest’s confession booth.
"I’d say you’re sleep-deprived," you managed, your voice a little raspy. "And that you’re probably mistaking me for someone else in the dark."
Your fingers twitched, brushing the silk of his discarded tie. You leaned back, your chair letting out a sharp, protesting creak that felt like an exclamation point to your nerves.
Matt let out a long, slow breath, his eyelids fluttering shut as he tilted his head. "I hear your heartbeat every time I’m near you," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a sudden, raw intensity. "I’ve heard it since the day we met in college. It’s a constant. A rhythm I’ve used to find my own way back to center."
His hand slid up his chest, his palm flattening over his heart. He began to tap a frantic, syncopated rhythm against his sternum—a mirror of the desperate pace your own heart was currently setting.
"How?" you whispered, your eyes glued to the movement of his hand. "How can you possibly hear that?"
A small, knowing smile played on his lips—the kind of smile that suggested he had a thousand secrets he was finally ready to share. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Nelson." He opened his eyes. Without the glasses, the intensity of his gaze was staggering. Even if he couldn't see you, those vivid, dark brown eyes seemed to anchor you to the spot.
"I like you," he said simply. The words weren't a question; they were a confession. "I thought it was obvious. I mean, even Foggy figured it out years ago."
You felt a flush creep up your neck. Foggy had always been the observant one. While you had been trying to shrink, to disappear into the background and draw as little attention as possible during your early transition, Foggy had been watching. He’d seen the way Matt’s head turned when you walked into a room; he’d seen the way Matt lingered on your voice.
"Foggy was always better with the emotional stuff than I was," you whispered, finally braving a look directly into his eyes. "I was just trying to survive. I didn't think...I didn't think someone like you would ever be looking at someone like me.”
Matt didn’t respond with words. Instead, he rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace. He navigated the few feet of space between your desks with his hands held slightly out—not because he was lost, but as an invitation, waiting for you to meet him halfway. He stopped when his legs brushed against your knees, a physical boundary that made the air in the small office feel suddenly scarce.
His hands found yours, his fingers long and warm as they curled around your palms. With a gentle, insistent tug, he pulled you to your feet until your bodies were mere inches apart. He was close enough that his breath hitched against your skin, carrying the faint, comforting scent of the coffee and cinnamon you’d brought him.
"Can I kiss you?" Matt whispered. The question was raw, stripped of his usual lawyerly composure. His hands trailed up your arms in a slow, searing path until his palms cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing just below your cheekbones.
You let out a shaky breath, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to find your footing. "You're...you're seriously asking me that?"
It wasn't a rejection; it was pure, unadulterated disbelief. You had walked into this office expecting a night of dry legal filings and bad lighting, not a decade’s worth of unspoken longing finally coming to a head.
Matt let out a soft, huffed chuckle, his forehead leaning down to rest against yours. "Yeah. I thought that was the right way to do this. Usually, I'm better at reading the room, but with you…" He trailed off, his voice cracking slightly. "With you, I just want to be sure."
You didn’t give him a chance to finish. You cut him off, your lips finding his in a kiss that started out soft and uncertain—a question asked in return. Matt answered it instantly. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure relief, and pulled you flush against him. He liked the solid weight of you, the way you fit perfectly into the space he’d been holding open for years. Even with the slight height difference, the way he had to tilt his head felt natural, like two jagged pieces finally clicking into place.
Without breaking the kiss, Matt began to move. He guided you backward, his boots shuffling against the thin carpet until he felt the edge of his chair. He sat, and in one fluid motion, he pulled you down with him.
You slowly pulled away, both of you panting for air in the sudden silence of the room. You were straddling his lap, your hands splayed wide against the heat of his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart through the thin cotton of his shirt. Matt’s hands moved from your cheeks, sliding down the curve of your neck—his fingers lingering over your pulse point as if he were savoring the fact that it was racing just for him—before settling firmly at your waist.
"We aren't going to get any work done, are we?" you sighed, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.
"No," Matt hummed, the vibration of his voice buzzing right through your chest. "Absolutely not."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. His lips were already hovering over yours again, closing the distance before the Dorsey files could even cross your mind.
The kiss deepened, turning hungry and urgent. Matt stood, lifting you easily from his lap and pressing your back against the edge of his desk. The wood was cold against your spine, a sharp contrast to the furnace-heat of his body. With a careless sweep of his arm, a stack of Dorsey files slid onto the floor, the paper fluttering like dying birds, but neither of you cared.
Matt leaned over you, his weight a grounding presence. His fingers hooked under the hem of your hoodie, the fabric bunching up as he slid his hands over your skin. He moved slowly, his fingertips tracing the coarse line of hair that ran past your navel and disappeared into the waistband of your sweatpants.
A violent shudder ran down your spine when his touch grazed the thin, horizontal lines of your top surgery scars. Even six years later, having his hands there—so gentle, so deliberate—felt like it was altering your DNA. He wasn't just touching you; he was learning you.
"Foggy never did you justice," Matt hummed against your mouth. He began pressing soft, lingering kisses to your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. "All those stories...they didn't even come close."
You let out a breathy laugh, your head falling back. "Yeah? Well, maybe that’s what you get for asking my brother for life updates when I was only ever one phone call away."
You slid your hand up his chest, past the open buttons of his shirt. Your fingertips caught on a ridge of puckered skin—a jagged scar near his ribs you hadn't known was there. It was thick and ropey, a testament to a violence you didn't quite understand yet.
Matt hummed, his hands continuing their exploration, mapping the curves of your sides and the muscle of your chest. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your sweats, dipping just low enough to make your breath hitch.
"Like I said," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, low-frequency heat. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Nelson."
Your other hand came up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. You gave a sharp, insistent tug, pulling him down until his lips were mere inches from yours, his nose brushing against yours in the dark.
"Maybe you can tell me all about them over coffee tomorrow?" you hummed, your voice teasing despite the way your heart was thundering.
Matt’s hands stopped dead at your waist. His fingers dug into your skin, his grip tightening until it was almost bruising—not with malice, but with a sudden, overwhelming surge of want. He let out a ragged, disbelieving breath.
"I’m standing here thinking about how badly I want to fuck you right now," he breathed, the honesty of it hitting you like a physical weight. "And you’re asking me about coffee?"
He tilted his head, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made the room feel like it was losing oxygen. "I don't think you realize how long I've been waiting to have you on this desk.”
Matt didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, pressing you harder against the mahogany desk until the wood bit into your lower back. He was a wall of solid, radiating heat, his breath ghosting over your skin in ragged hitches.
"What's stopping you?" you challenged, a reckless smirk tugging at your lips. You didn’t wait for an answer, your fingers moving to the remaining buttons of his shirt, popping them free with an urgency that sent a stray button skittering across the floor.
Matt’s own smirk was dangerous—the look of a man who had just been given permission to stop holding back. His fingers hooked into the hem of your hoodie, and in one fluid motion, he pulled it up and over your head, tossing it blindly onto the pile of discarded files. You helped him shrug out of his shirt, the silk sliding off his shoulders before hitting the floor somewhere in the shadows.
Then he was on you again, his bare chest slick with the heat of the room as it pressed against yours. He kissed you hard, a bruising, possessive claim that tasted like coffee and desperate longing. One of his hands moved to your throat, not to squeeze, but to rest there—his thumb resting right over your carotid artery so he could feel the frantic, thundering pulse of your arousal. His other hand traveled down, his palm flat against your stomach before hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants.
He stripped them away with practiced ease, sliding them down past your hips and ankles. At the same time, your hands fumbled with his belt. The leather groaned as you yanked it through the loops, your knuckles grazing the heavy, insistent heat through the fabric of his trousers.
You pulled back just an inch, your chest heaving as your eyes roamed over him. In the dim light of the desk lamp, his torso was a map of scars and lean muscle, looking like something carved from marble. Your gaze dropped to the prominent bulge straining against his slacks.
"Mmm," you hummed, a low vibration of approval as you kicked your shoes and sweatpants completely aside. You shifted, the cool air of the office hitting your legs, leaving you in nothing but your boxers. You looked from the evidence of his erection back up to his face, a playful spark in your eyes. "Seems a little unfair, don't you think, Murdock? I'm significantly more exposed than you are."
Matt leaned in, his lips hovering just a hair’s breadth from your ear. The hand on your throat moved up, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back.
"I'm a lawyer," he rasped, his voice dropping into that gritty, gravelly tone that made your knees weak. "I'm very good at finding ways to settle the balance. Why don't you let me show you?”
Matt was on his knees now, settled between your legs. His hands—calloused and steady—gripped your thighs, the pressure grounding you as he pulled you toward the edge of the desk. You felt the breadth of his shoulders between your knees, a solid anchor in a world that was quickly turning into nothing but heat and friction.
One of your hands was tangled deep in his dark hair, your knuckles brushing his scalp; the other gripped the mahogany edge of the desk so hard your fingers went white. Your head rolled back against your shoulder, a shaky breath escaping you as Matt leaned in.
He started with soft, reverence-filled kisses to your inner thighs, moving higher with agonizing slowness. He wasn't just exploring; he was listening. He could hear the way your blood rushed to the surface of your skin and the precise moment your breath hitched as he neared the center of your heat.
"Fuck," you rasped, a shudder racking your frame when his hot breath fanned over your bottom growth. The sensitive bud was pulsing, swollen and aching for a touch that Matt seemed determined to delay. He pressed a light, lingering kiss to the very tip of it, his fingers flexing against your thighs to keep you open for him.
"Relax," Matt whispered, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel right up your spine. He leaned up just enough to press a firm kiss to the soft skin below your navel, right at the start of your happy trail. "Give in to me. Let me take care of you."
You let out a jagged exhale when he moved back down. His tongue made a slow, agonizing path from the base of your growth upward, following the new length your transition had given you. It was a targeted, deliberate sensation. One of his hands slid from your thigh, his fingers finding the softer, slicker skin behind the growth, massaging gently as he continued to lick in rhythmic, upward strokes.
Your thighs instinctively tightened around his head, the muscles in your legs coiling with the need for more. When he finally took the sensitive bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and sucking with a slow, steady pressure, your vision blurred.
Your hand tightened in his hair, yanking his head back as a low, guttural moan was torn from his throat—a sound of pure, shared hunger.
"Stop," you huffed, your chest heaving. "Stop teasing me, Matt. Just...please."
You tried to force your muscles to relax, even as Matt’s thumb began to circle the hood of your growth, his touch light and teasing. He pulled back just an inch, his lips glistening in the low light, a dark, satisfied hum vibrating in the small space between you.
"You seem to like it," he murmured, his senses fixed on the frantic rhythm of your heart. "And I like the way you sound when you're losing your mind.”
Matt didn’t wait for you to find your words. He leaned back in, his stubble—just starting to roughen his jaw—grazing your sensitive inner skin before his lips sealed around your growth once more. The suction was firm and rhythmic, a direct, pulsing pressure that made your entire body go taut.
You let out a jagged gasp, your fingers digging into the hair at the base of his skull. The sensation was overwhelming; with the increased sensitivity from your transition, every slide of his tongue felt like an electric current. You couldn't help it—your hips began to roll instinctively, seeking more of that grounding heat, pushing yourself deeper into his reach.
"Matthew," you gasped, your voice breaking. "Please—"
He didn't slow down. If anything, he became more insistent. He could hear the way your breath had turned into short, hitching sobs of pleasure, and he used that as his compass. His hands moved from your thighs to grip your hips, his fingers hooking into your skin to anchor you as you rocked against him. He wasn't just taking; he was worshipping, his tongue swirling around the head of your growth before pulling back with a slow, drawing pressure that made your toes curl.
Your thighs began to tremble, a fine, uncontrollable shaking that signaled you were reaching your limit. The office around you—the cold desk, the smell of old paper, the distant hum of the city—all of it bled into the background. There was only the wet, sliding heat of his mouth and the low, vibration of the hum he made against you when you bucked your hips upward.
He felt the shift in your muscles, the way your heart rate spiked into a frantic, staccato rhythm. He knew you were right on the edge. He transitioned from slow licks to a fast, fluttering motion of his tongue right against the most sensitive point, while his thumb maintained a steady, circular pressure at the base.
"Matt—I'm—" You couldn't even finish the sentence. Your head thudded back against your shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as a wave of heat started at your core and radiated outward.
He didn't let go. He kept up the pace, his mouth a hot, insistent vacuum that pulled the climax right out of you. You cried out his name, a raw, vocal sound that echoed off the glass walls of the office, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your body was racked by a long, shuddering release.
You lay back against the desk, the mahogany cool against your heated skin as your chest heaved. The high was still humming in your marrow, making your limbs feel heavy and liquid. You watched, mesmerized, as Matt stood up from his knees. Your thighs slid from his shoulders, dropping to drape loosely around his waist as he leaned over you once more.
He pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to the center of your chest, right over your heart, before trailing a path of fire up to your lips. Your hands climbed his shoulders, nails dragging down the lean muscle of his back before hooking into his skin to pull him closer.
"I'm not done with you," he whispered against your mouth, his voice a low, rough promise. He pulled back just enough for you to see his eyes—dark, unfocused, and radiating a raw hunger.
You let out a shaky breath, watching as he reached for his own waistband. He undid the button of his slacks with a practiced flick of his thumb, pushing them down along with his boxers until they joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. You sat up on the desk, your eyes tracking the lines of his body, landing on the heavy, insistent length of him.
"You're staring again," he chuckled. Even without his sight, he seemed to feel the weight of your gaze like a physical touch. He reached blindly but accurately into his top desk drawer.
You bit your lip, watching him pull a small square foil packet from the stash. "How could I not?" you hummed, your voice dropping into a suggestive purr. "Always prepared, aren't you, Mr. Murdock?"
You reached out, taking the condom from his hand. Matt’s smile was sharp and knowing as he leaned forward to steal one more quick, searing kiss. He let out a sharp intake of breath when you began to roll the latex over the hot, aching length of him, your fingers steady despite the adrenaline.
You didn't stay on the desk. You stood, your bare body flushing against his before you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He went back willingly, his office chair catching him with a soft creak of leather. You moved instantly to straddle his lap, your knees bracketing his hips.
One hand rested on his shoulder for balance; the other wrapped around his cock, your fingertips grazing the tip. Even through the condom, Matt seemed to feel every ounce of your heat as you began a slow, deliberate stroke. His head tilted back against the headrest, a low, guttural moan vibrating through his chest as you lifted yourself and sank down onto him in one smooth, agonizingly perfect motion.
Matt’s hands snapped into action. One gripped your waist, fingers digging into your skin to anchor you, while the other found purchase around the curve of your throat. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his palm—firm and possessive—sent a fresh jolt of electricity through you.
"There," Matt rasped, his head rolling to the side as he felt you settle against him. "Now we’re even.”
Matt’s grip on your waist was white-knuckled, his fingers digging into the dip of your hips to anchor you. Every time you sank down, the contact was a revelation—the heavy, insistent heat of him filling you, the subtle friction of the latex, and the grounding, possessive weight of his hand at your throat.
His head was thrown back against the leather headrest, his jaw tight as he tracked the symphony of your body. To Matt, you weren’t just a person; you were a masterpiece of sound and vibration. He could hear the way your joints shifted, the slick slide of skin against skin, and the frantic, beautiful mess of your heartbeat thundering against your ribs. It was a sensory overload that would usually drive him to distraction, but with you, it just felt like finally coming home.
"Don't stop," he rasped, his voice a jagged edge in the quiet office. His thumb brushed over your windpipe—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch and your moan resonate deeper in your chest. "I’ve spent...God, I've spent years wondering what you’d sound like like this."
You leaned forward, your chest brushing against his bare skin, your hands finding the back of his neck to steady yourself. Your fingers tangled in his hair, the strands soft against your knuckles as you settled fully against him, your hips rolling in an agonizingly slow, grinding circle.
"Is it everything you imagined, Matthew?" You managed a breathy, teasing laugh, though it was cut short by a sharp moan when Matt bucked his hips upward, meeting your depth with a forceful, desperate hunger.
He squeezed your throat softly—a silent command for your attention—and pulled your face down until your lips were a hair’s breadth from his.
"Better," he whispered, the word vibrating against your mouth. "Infinitely better than the version in my head."
He shifted his grip, his hands moving to your backside to pull you even tighter against him, his movements turning more urgent as he began to lose the battle for his own composure. The office chair creaked under the weight of your shared rhythm, the sound lost in the rush of your breathing.
Matt’s thrusts grew sloppy, the measured precision of a lawyer replaced by the raw, uncoordinated hunger of a man who had reached his limit. His hand slid from your throat, trailing a path of fire down your chest to join his other hand at your hips. He braced his forehead against yours, his breath coming in hot, jagged hitches as he lifted you slightly and brought you back down to meet him in a slow, agonizing grind.
You leaned forward, your lips brushing his, eyes half-lidded as you whispered his name like a prayer. The office around you seemed to dissolve, leaving nothing but the friction of skin and the heat of the moment.
"I’m," he breathed, the word breaking into a ragged gasp. "I’m close. Please."
He bridged the gap, his kiss deepening into something deep and possessive as he anchored you against him. His hips rolled into yours one last time, his body taut as you squeezed him, feeling the frantic pulse of his release. Your thighs trembled, hands tangling in his hair as the world fell away, leaving you both suspended in a long, shuddering climax that seemed to echo in the silence of the office.
For a long time, neither of you moved. You sat there, hearts hammering in sync, sweat mixing where your chests pressed together. Matt finally broke the kiss, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as he let out a long, shaky exhale. His grip on your hips loosened, his trembling hands beginning a slow, reverent path up and down your spine. He wasn't just touching you; he was listening—tracking the way your heartbeat gradually slowed, mapping the lingering tremors in your muscles.
Reluctantly, you pulled away. Your legs felt like water as you stood up, crossing the small distance to his desk to grab a box of tissues. The sound of the tissue rustling and the soft slide of fabric as you pulled your clothes back on seemed loud in the quiet room. Matt stayed in the chair, his head tilted as he listened to your heart settle.
When you stepped back in front of him, holding out his boxers, he didn't take them immediately. Instead, he reached out, his hand lingering near your hip as if he were considering pulling you right back down.
"Please," he whispered, his voice still thick with sleep and satisfaction. "Tell me we can do this again. Tell me this wasn't just a side effect of the late night."
You let out a soft laugh, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to his lips. "You think you’re getting rid of me that easily, Matthew? I’ve been pining for a decade; you’re stuck with me now."
Matt’s face broke into a genuine, brilliant smile—the kind he only ever saved for those he truly trusted. He took the boxers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "I’m counting on it," he said, standing up to pull his slacks on. "Though I’m hoping for my bed next time. Or yours. Anywhere but these squeaky office chairs."
He walked up to you as you started gathering the scattered files from the floor. His hands found your waist, a few fingers dipping back under the hem of your hoodie to find that patch of warm skin he’d claimed earlier.
You opened your mouth to reply, but the sharp click of the front door lock froze the air in the room. The office door swung open, and there stood Foggy, eyes wide and jaw practically hitting his chest.
"Oh...wow," Foggy deadpanned, his gaze darting between your flushed face and a very shirtless, very 'sex-drunk' Matt Murdock. "Okay. That happened."
"Foggy," Matt started, turning toward the sound of his partner, though he made no move to actually move his hands away from you.
"Don't," Foggy held up a hand, looking like he wanted to turn around and walk right back out. He was clutching a few manila folders like a shield. "I don't need the legal opening statement. I have eyes. And ears. And a very strong sense of 'I should have knocked.'"
You walked over, taking the folders from his hand just to give your own hands something to do. "I thought you had a date," you muttered, rocking back and forth on your heels.
"Yeah, well, he rescheduled," Foggy cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact with the shirtless man behind you. "And I realized I left these on my kitchen table. I thought I'd be in and out in thirty seconds." He paused, looking at you, then at Matt. "Was it—"
"I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, Foggy," you cut him off, pressing a hand to his face and gently steering him back toward the door. "Go home.”
You stood by the door for a moment after the lock clicked, listening to the fading rhythm of Foggy’s footsteps as he practically sprinted down the hallway to avoid further awkwardness. Turning back toward the room, you found Matt in the center of the office. He looked significantly more "Murdock" than he had ten minutes ago, though his hair was still a mess and his eyes held a lingering, soft glow. He was currently plucking his silk tie off the corner of Foggy’s desk with the precision of a man who could feel the exact texture of the fabric.
You walked over to him, your bare feet silent on the carpet. You picked up the manila folders Foggy had brought and stacked them into a somewhat organized pile—a futile effort given the chaos of the rest of the room—before leaning back against the edge of the desk.
"I’m never living this down," Matt hummed. He sounded remarkably sheepish. He stepped into your space, his hands instinctively finding their home at your waist again. "I’m going to hear about this at every brunch, every firm meeting, and probably in the middle of our next opening statement."
You smiled, reaching out to straighten the collar of his shirt. Your fingers brushed against the warm skin of his neck, and you felt his pulse jump under your touch.
"No, you’re definitely not," you murmured, smoothing out the fabric. "Foggy has a memory like an elephant for things that embarrass you. It’s his favorite pastime." You paused, looking up at him, your expression softening. "But about that coffee I mentioned earlier...maybe I can finish helping you look over these files over a fresh cup? Someplace with better lighting and significantly less chance of your partner bursting through the door?"
Matt’s head tilted, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He leaned down, his face burying in the crook of your neck as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your pulse point. The heat of it radiated through your entire body.
"I’d like that," he whispered against your skin. "I’d like that a lot.”