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a little redraw of one of my favorite shots — obsessed with the lighting in this scene

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“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more” is such a beautiful, profound, and real quote that you’d think it came from 1970s spirk fanfiction but it was actually written by Jane Austen

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thanks for recommending my work 💗💕 cool to be included in this list :)!!

9TH, 10TH, & 11TH DOCTOR FIC RECS

╰┈➤ 18+ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all the doctor stories i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!)

MASTERLIST • 11/29/24

9TH DOCTOR

@lz-didyounotice ✰ it was quite a sunny day today

10TH DOCTOR

@magiccath ✰ psychic paper In which the psychic paper betrays the Doctor ✰ a very noble christmas In which Donna is really fed up with her love-sick best friends and calls in Wilf for backup ✰ distracted In which the Doctor can be very distracting

@simp-ly-writes ✰ for all time Many, Many worlds ago you were married to the Doctor. That was until a war tore your home planet and species apart and you were part of the lucky handful that managed to make your way out into the universe- alive. As you go through many regenerations of yourself, you run into the Master, an old friend of yours that you faintly remember. He tells you of the Doctor, warns you of your spouse and from then on, you are on a mission to never interact with him. Should be easy... right?

@gracesimp ✰ i just wanted to The Doctor is oblivious. Donna is not. ✰ soulmates it's rare, but sometimes in the universe, people meet their soulmate. Upon first touch with one's soulmate,a connection is formed. A physical and mental bond. What happens when the Doctor meets his soulmate? ✰ jealousy the doctor isn't too pleased with his companion's new friend. Donna gets inlvoved in some overdue matchmaking.

@imaginesfordifferentfandoms ✰ not leaving you

@nghtwngs ✰ silly human traditions you’ve never had a new year’s kiss before. neither has the doctor. you decide to change that tonight.

@raz-writes-the-thing ✰ devoid of attention The Doctor is oblivious as per usual

11TH DOCTOR

@arting-block ✰ the words i don’t mean After a stressful day, you overhear Amy arguing with the Doctor. When he realized you heard everything, he tries to set things right.

@the-fiction-witch ✰ illusion

@social-mockingbird ✰ dangerous habits

@cloginthedrain ✰ a day in reader reflects on her curiously romantic, unspoken relationship with the doctor. cuteness ensues.

@watchoutforthefanfics ✰ my john At the news of an unknown distress call from the Tardis, the Doctor must go undercover. With the trust of thousands of years, he places himself (both watch and being) into your hands. Enter Dr. John Smith (not really a medical doctor just has his doctorate) your new roommate.

@mystic-writings ✰ selfishly, i love you after two years of being burdened with love for the doctor, you make the choice to leave him behind. 

@holly-the-trash-writer ✰ safest place in the universe Y/n wakes up to find that the Doctor fell asleep on her. Which would be normal if Time Lords slept. Upon waking the Doctor explains just how much she means to him.

@11thsdoctress ✰ you’ve changed After an argument with The Doctor, and leaving the TARDIS, you went back to your semi-normal life, but due to some nightmares, and maybe fate, you never thought you would meet the same alien with a new face.

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growing pains (remus lupin x reader)

summary: out of the angst and discomfort of her teenage years, reader finally allows herself to pursue remus.

masterlist

word count: 2125

content warning/notes: writer, luna lovegood-ish/sad fem!reader. friends to lovers. implied sex. lots of reminiscing on remus & reader's hogwarts years. no voldemort/wizarding war au.

other notes: hi!! im back, writing remus for the first time?? that's exciting. i've been reading marauder fanfic for so long, it's only fitting! hope u enjoy <3

—

In the dwindling daylight, you’re dawdling beside Remus, admiring your new, shiny Mary Jane’s. You’re particularly mesmerized by their intricate yellow stitching and pretty brass buckles. You also couldn’t help but admire the way your forest green, pleated trousers flowed outward above your shoes in just the way you imagined. You hum happily along cobblestoned streets and lush waving leaves, with Remus’ brown trousers in your peripheral. Your arm’s tucked into his as he guides you back to your flat as you babble about everything and nothing.

Remus can’t help but smile at the sight. You’ve been wielding a new sort of confidence lately, finally out of the growing pains and fits of discomfort of your late teens; you’re finally becoming who you imagined you would be.

Even so, not much has changed since Hogwarts. Back then, Remus would guide you on walks to Care of Magical Creatures or to the Greenhouse for Herbology when the sun was too bright and your eyes were still sleepy. You’d walk alongside Remus, arms linked, and your eyes shut, allowing him to guide you along.

Admittedly, your years at Hogwarts weren’t your finest. You were a basket case—chain-smoking and staining your hand with ink writing angsty poetry, all while almost exclusively wearing Remus’ grey, v-neck pullover or, when you were seeing him, Sirius’ brown leather jacket.

Now, you’re doing what you had always wanted. You’re a proper writer and not for shoddy publications like the Daily Prophet, but for proper, reputable publications: Muggle literary magazines and indie Wizarding publications. It’s exhilarating and exhausting.

You are always writing.

Earlier, your shoulder was hunched under the weight of your canvas messenger bag which contained your journal, a more than ample number of pens, and a book or two. This behemoth of a bag, however, is now on Remus’ shoulder. He’s walking you home from his and Sirius’ flat. You took advantage of the opportunity for company and a change of scenery, otherwise you’d go stir-crazy stewing in your flat, waiting for words to flow out of your quill.

Remus, like always, is bugging you to read your latest project—“I know you’re working on something. Tell me about it.”

“I can’t! It takes the fun out of it for me.”

“How so?” His arm tightens around yours.

Remus knows you better than anyone, and how you would say just about anything to avoid sharing your writing, even if it entered the realm of inanity. He enjoyed watching you squirm, word-vomiting a flimsy yet creative excuse on the spot. It was all so silly; you’d end up showing it to him anyway. Even so, Remus wondered what the excuse would be this time.

“If I tell you what it’s about, you’re going to form assumptions and opinions,” you began, weaving your words carefully. “I want you to have an open, unadulterated mind.”

“Isn’t that what reading is about? Confronting your preconceptions against what someone else has written—”

“Nuh uh,” you say petulantly. Perhaps he had a point, but you were too stubborn to admit it.

“Point taken,” Remus crumbles. “We’ll do it your way.” Whatever you want.

“Good,” you bounce. “It really is better that way.”

“If you say so bug.”

You beam. You adore the nicknames he gave you, but this one above all. From any other man, you might scrunch your nose, maybe roll your eyes, but this is Remus. He says it so frequently but so sparingly, so you cherish every time he says it. Always so sweetly, so kindly.

—

Now, you’re on your doorstep, with Remus the step below.

You can help but notice Remus’ eyes briefly flicker down to your lips.

“You should come inside,” your lips twitch up kindly.

Remus’ eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t say anything.

“No?” you ask, a bit wounded.

“Yes, I’d love to.”

“Cool, maybe we can read what I’m working on, but no promises.”.

“Then what was all this business about an open, unadulterated mind, bug?!” He already knows the answer.

“I just like making you crazy, Remus,” you laugh.

“You’re certainly succeeding.”

“Not nice!”

“Nor is intentionally driving your best mate mad. You’re like my personal, portable psychological tormentor.”

“Portable?” you scrunch your eyebrows.

“Quite,” he says, lacing his fingers in-between yours, and then steps beside you, to drag you along. “Come on, let’s get you inside. It’s getting cold!”

—

You live for the way Remus toes the line. You know he fancies you, part of you thinks he’s always had. He lets you get away with murder, even now—you were always stealing off his plate, wearing his clothes, hanging off of him, and sleeping with his friends. You didn’t think of it that way then, but you certainly recognize what you did now. There’s only one way he might’ve allowed it. You were a shitty friend.

You dated James very briefly in your fifth year, but you were never able to achieve the intimacy you and Remus shared. In fact, it was the very source of irreconcilable differences with James, so you resolved to be justfriends. “It’s just better this way,” James had said, and you had to agree. You, the boys, and Lily were the best of friends; you even watched little Harry from time to time.

Later, in your sixth and seventh year, you had an undefined, off-and-on situationship with Sirius. You both had a flare for the dramatic, and quite frankly, Sirius was the inspiration for much of your writing. He’d break it off, or you’d break it off, and you’d sit in your dormitory with smudgy mascara and in yesterday’s uniform as the words would flow out of your quill like a sybil possessed, cursing his smudgy “guy-liner”, as he ironically called it, and his long, dark wavy hair. Sirius rocked it, and he knew it. You hypothesised he was specifically put on this godforsaken Earth to drive you up the wall. He was cryptic, quiet, scheming, but also boisterous and beaming. In many ways, he was hard not to romanticize his contradictory nature. He was certainly a sight to behold. You had so much in common; in fact, you were too similar. Two negatives.

Even so, nobody understands you as well as Remus. You two are simply magnetic.

You both read a tremendous amount. During summers and holidays spent away from Hogwarts, Remus was owling you both Muggle and Wizard books for you to read and mark up. Remus had already marked it up every book he sent, so you’d respond to his margin notes both serious and silly, and send it back.

During the school year, you were glued to his side. You and Remus spent many late nights in the Gryffindor Common Room, cramming for exams or toiling over essays, drinking hot cocoa, quizzing one another or proofreading. You also spent most mornings after the full moon in the Hospital Wing with Remus, because well, you couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone. You were very into Astronomy and, as a witch with a particular love of Astrology, with your special attention the Lunar cycle, you quickly pieced together Remus’ lycanthropy. You came from a very progressive Wizarding family, so you accepted Remus without question. How couldn’t you?

Because you excelled at Divination class, you also often helped Remus interpret his cards when working with Tarot. When Remus was struggling with palmistry, you recall spending one afternoon tracing Remus’ palm in the grass by the Black Lake. You could barely elaborate on your interpretation on his palm lines, stumbling and blushing profusely. You remember his heavy breath with every stroke along the lines of his palm, how his mouth slightly ajar.

You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t like him too, but back then, you would never entertain the thought. You loved being his friend. It was so easy. Words were almost superfluous. Most of the time either of you could glance at the other and you’d know exactly what the other was thinking. You’ve talked so much shit through knowing glances. You could be unapologetically you with him. Why complicate your friendship with a relationship?

—

You unlock the door and slide off your Mary Janes, pull of your coat, and then your rings and your beaded bracelets.

 “It’s like you’re shedding skin,” remarks Remus who already placed his shoes neatly by the door and his coat on the rack. Your bag sits on small table by the door.

“Precisely. Come on, I’ll make us hot cocoa, with extra marshmallows.”

“Sold.”

Walking carefully, you bring two mugs filled to the brim with marshmallows to the coffee table, and then you and Remus both squish onto your very well-loved couch. Remus set a record on the turntable.

“Thanks bug,” Remus said casually before slurping up some marshmallows. He’s particularly handsome today. He is wearing the red, striped jumper you bought him at the charity shop down the road. You’re pleased. He’s always looked much better in red that you were.

Under the low-light, you realize that Remus is nervous. He’s bouncing his leg.

You rest your head in your hand, and you look at Remus some more. You wanted to trace his face the same way you traced his palm on the Black Lake, across the bridge of his nose to his eyes, along his lightly freckled cheeks. You wanted to thumb his pretty, long lashes, run your finger through his mousy brown hair.

“What?” Remus asks sheepishly behind his mug, his lips slightly crusted with chocolate.

“Nothing,” you hum contentedly, the corner of your lips twitching upward.

Remus just stares at you. “Okay, weirdo.”

He almost disregards you, that is, until you let your eyes wander all over his face, searching for some sort of permission. That’s when Remus’ eyes flicker back down your lips, and they stay there.

You lean in so close you can feel his breath tickle your lips.

Remus gently tucks your stray hair back and cradles your face, thumbing the soft skin along your jaw. Even though you know he’s going to kiss you, you can’t help but feel stunned when he connects your lips suddenly.

Despite your stupor, at once, you deepen the kiss, with open lips—sloppy and desperate. All you can think about how he tastes sweet like marshmallows.

Without interruption, Remus effortlessly tugs you onto his lap, and suddenly you’re straddling him, grazing the skin beneath the hem of his sweater.

Annoyed with the hem of his sweater, and well, the presence of his sweater in general, you tug it off, up and over Remus’ stomach, his chest, up his arms, and over his head. You were relentless.

Between kisses, Remus breathes, “You’re so… fucking… crazy.”

—

“Well, bug, that was certainly a way to get out of showing me your piece,” Remus threw himself back onto the couch, you were tucked into his side, eyeliner and mascara smudged.

“That’s a way to put it,” you say, feeling a little lighter. “But it did work.”

You stew in the silence, mentally thanking yourself for lighting a candle on the coffee table, inhaling the rosy, woody, deep red candle you concocted, littered with rose petals, lavender, and hibiscus flower. For attraction. Candle-magic was your specialty.

“This… this isn’t a one-time thing right?” Remus asks suddenly, fingers combing through your hair. “Merlin, it would crush me if it was.”

“You think so little of me,” you say quietly, suddenly feeling small, staring at the flickering flame.

“Oh no, bug you misunderstand me,” says Remus helplessly. “It’s just like I said: I’d be crushed if you didn’t want me the way I want you. I’m all in for you. I’m never quite sure with you.”

“I don’t exactly have the greatest track record…”

“I don’t care about that.”

“You did,” you pipe up.  

“God I sure did,” he laughs. “Can you blame a bloke? All of my mates! You even snogged Peter.”

“He’s a great kisser. Attentive.”

“Blegh,” Remus said, ruffling up his nose, “Not exactly something I want to be hearing.”

Your laughter dies down, and suddenly he’s asking, “…Why not me?”

“I couldn’t have you,” you reasoned plainly. “You were too good for me, too good to me.”

“Well that’s just ridiculous.”

“You think too little of yourself, Lupin.”

“You think too little of yourself, bug,” he echoes.

“Maybe.”

“I think you’re incredible, you know?”

“That I do,” you say boldly. That is, you know he thinks you’re incredible, but Remus seemed satisfied with your answer. (Maybe someone needed to knock your newfound confidence down a peg, but that somebody certainly wouldn’t be Remus.)

“Good.”

You burrow a little further into Remus, content in the warmth he radiated. You could get used to this.

—

likes and reblogs and comments appreciated! encourages me to create more content for you! <3

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top five most important things you can give a character. 1. bisexuality. 2. autism. 3. so much negative rizz it loops around into irresistibility. 4. so many bad events. 5. a coping mechanism that’s cute and silly provided you don’t think about it too hard

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btw. by the way. By The Way. BY THE WAY. if you gleefully boop you can also gleefully reblog edits. you can gleefully support content creators. you can gleefully leave compliments in the tags. i know you are all capable of pressing buttons now!!!!!!!!!!!!! REBLOG.

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happy late valentine’s day! writing to let u know another 11 fic is in the works, excited to see where it takes me <3 hope to post it soon!

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art parallels jeremy lipking, federico zandomeneghi, serge marshennikov, allan douglas davidson, svetlana tartakovska

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aaah so cool to be included on this list!! <3

Doctor Who Fic Reccommendations

A Noble Ship Embarks - @kisstherainwriting

Deep - @marauder-exe

Light in the Dark - @i-imagine-my-doctor

Heartbeat - @morganas-pendragons i cry everytime i read this

Just One Yesterday - @lovelyfictional-imagines

Danger Magnet - @thepokyone

A Perfect Day - @quietkatie1864

Little Family - @specialagentlokitty

You make me want things I can’t have - @iwritefandomimagines

Come on in - @fabulouspotatosister

In another’s eyes - @cas-kingdom

Touchy - @onceuponachloe

Now that I saw you, I can never look away - @penguinwithitsarseonfire

Deepest Truth - @quietkatie1864

Are you drunk? - @iwritefandomimagines

Autistic!reader - @x-neurodivergent-reader

Hidden Colors - @timelord-winchester-22b

Having the blues - @doctorslove

The way you look at me - @kisstherainwriting

Make a move - @okay-j-hannah

Starry nights are for coffee and contemplation - @cloginthedrain

My point is… - @11thdoctress

Soulmates - @gracesimp

School reunion - @starfirette

Jealousy - @gracesimp

Is it alright to say what I feel? - @11thsdoctress

Heartstring - @make-me-imagine

Just like old times - @11thsdoctress

Snap out of it - @gracesimp

I love you 9 - @alloftheimagines

Hear my words - @okay-j-hannah

You’ve changed - @11thsdoctress

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rooftops and vigilante (part three) (matt murdock x reader)

summary: matt brings a coffee-deprived reader her drug of choice, and she repays the favor, twice over.

masterlist | previous

word count: 1745

notes: filled to the brim with banter, shameless flirting, and, shocker, more coffee. hope u like this one!!! theres more too come, think of the following chapter as a continuation of this one. :*) a special thanks for all of the kind comments! x

comments and reblogs and tags always appreciated <3

—

“Matty, you’re an absolute angel,” is the first thing you breathe as Matt approaches the door frame, your coffee in one hand and his white cane, folded up, in the other. 

He’s wearing his department store suit, the one that makes you antsy.

“Matty,” he chuckles. “That’s a new one.”

“Yup,” you dismiss him, “you wanna come in?”

Still clad in the same sweatpants, Hello Kitty, you thank God he can’t see them, and you move to grab his arm (and your steaming hot coffee) to guide him to your lumpy, secondhand couch, though you knew he didn’t exactly need you. Any excuse to touch him. 

Now settled into the couch, you take in the heavenly aroma, holding the warm, very full paper cup to your chest. You take a sip. 

Extra bitter, intense, doused in some combination of cream and sugar, the latter being Ellie’s doing, you’re sure of it.

“Damn, a red-eye,” you remark, hand to your heart. “You know me.”

“Well, it seemed dire.”

“It was… is!” you practically yelp in defense.

“Enough to make a blind guy fetch you coffee?”

You almost spit out your drink, finding the comment hysterical. “You keep up Matt Murdock.”

“I have to, with you,” He shrugs, tugs off his red shades. A smile threatens in the corner of his lips, you take notice. You also pay special attention to his pretty brown eyes, a rare sight, always hidden away with his shades. 

You’ll take it. 

Kicking back, your feet, warm with fuzzy, starry socks, are on the coffee table resting on your legal pad, covered in notes written in smudged, black ink. You hold your coffee even closer to your chest, to wield off some of the butterflies. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that’ll do much, and make peace with the fact that you really are head over heels for a hot lawyer playing vigilante. You’re never, ever going to live this down.

Breaking the silence, you offer: “So what’s on the agenda for you today, Mr. Murdock?”

“I have the morning off, and then Foggy and I are meeting with a client,” Matt states matter-of-factly. Explains the suit.

“Good,” you say, scheming. 

“Uh oh.”

“No ‘uh oh’,” you whine. “I figure I repay your kindness and make us some French toast, I apparently make the best. I maybe have three, four eggs left, should be enough.” 

“… I could go for some French toast.” 

“Yeah?” you beam. “Alright, come on.” You love to cook, you tug him up, and practically drag him to the kitchen. This time, holding his hand. 

You were never tactful with your attempts to woo Matt, why start now. Clearly whatever you’ve been doing is working, because he doesn’t put up a fight. Once you’re in the kitchen, you raid the fridge and pantry for your ingredients.

Once that’s sorted, you resolve to retreat to the living room.

“Here, hold on.” 

“Alright.” 

Squatting in the living room, you scour your record collection for your favorite record. Folksy, easy listening, and lowered to a comfortable volume, one suitable for a lazy morning. Once that’s spinning, you return to the kitchen.

You carefully crack four eggs in your bowl, pour the rest of your milk in the mixture, cinnamon, a splash of vanilla, and an extra splash for good measure.

“Cinnamony,” Matt observes. He’s over your shoulder. The closeness is welcome. 

You imagine too vividly the ghost of his hands on your waist, his head resting on your shoulder. You close your eyes for a moment, and take a shaky breath. 

With Matt, you had to pace yourself. 

“Mhm,” you mumble lamely, preoccupied.

You whisk your mixture with a fork, all too aware of your proximity to Matt, but try to ignore it, and you move to start the stove. After soaking your brioche bread in the mixture, you flip it on the stove till browned, humming quietly to your favorite song on the record. 

Once browned, you top your French toasts with a sprinkle of powdered sugar and a light layer of maple syrup, and you wonder if you should’ve also made bacon or maple sausage.

“Alrighty,” you say, setting the plates down.

“Smells great, sweetheart,” He smiles graciously, cutting into his French toast with his fork. “Thank you.”

At this point, his suit jacket is long discarded, white dress shirt sleeves rolled up onto his arms. You were antsy.

“Mhm.”

You make a point to roll your eyes at the name, but you suppose you could get used to it, especially if Matt were the one saying it. You meet his brown, unfocused gaze. Your eyes involuntarily travel along the chiseled outline of his face and are drawn to his slight stubble, perfectly maintained. 

You meet his brown, unfocused gaze.

“You’re staring.” 

Your eyes dart away, stare at the bundle of fresh baby’s-breath resting against the ridge of the dark blue glass vase, so effortlessly pretty, like Matt, you think to yourself. 

Blagh, you’re getting too sappy. 

“No, I, uh,” you start, unsure of where you’re going to end. Your mouth has had a mind of its own when it comes to Matt. You’re the furthest thing from tactful.

Matt just waits expectantly, amused. Cheesing. Bastard.

“Oops?” you offer helplessly. 

He just laughs and says, “Alright, sweetheart.” And he goes on, digging into his French toast.

—

“Ellie, it’s hopeless,” you whine, muffled, head resting on your folded arms. It’s the next day. “I’m a complete dunce when it comes to Matt Murdock.” 

The last of the afternoon’s drip coffee is steaming out of your open cup, empty sugar packets and cream cups neatly discarded on a napkin beside you. You hardly touched your muffin.

Ellie’s flipping chairs onto tables as you sulk in your usual booth, closing up for the day, when she says, “He clearly likes you.” 

“You think so?” you look up, eyes twinkling. 

“You’re not that dense, Y/N. Come on. The coffee, the incessant flirting. He’s blind, and he’s coming to your apartment, which means he memorized the route. It’s sweet. He’s clearly pursuing you.” 

You’re flushed at the thought. “It is kind of ridiculous, isn’t it?” 

“That you got a blind guy delivering your lazy ass coffee?” she quips. “You heard of delivery?” 

“Hey.” 

“I vote that you actually talk to him. He’s a sweet guy who likes you. A lot.” 

“El, I don’t know about that.”

Ellie gives you a stern look.

“Fine, I’ll try.” 

—

“I’m seeking legal representation,” you say later that day, a man of your word. You would talk to him. You make your way further into the conference room, across the big table and Matt is surrounded by stacks of documents. 

Your hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, layers now wild, wiry, and free, front pieces framing your face effortlessly. You’re wearing your dark wash overalls, with embroidered floral details, and a flimsy excuse for a tank top. Your canvas bag weighs you down, shoulders lopsided.

You’re holding two drip coffees, Ellie’s of course, and biting your lip. 

“Sure you are,” Matt says matter-of-factly. Then his head tilts. “That coffee?”

Dumb question. 

“Sure is,” you set them down, one in front of Matt, and one across the table from him. “Can I join you?” 

“I gotta get through these documents, but I’m sure you have something to do.” 

“Always,” you affirm. You drop your canvas bag to the floor, as you sink into the chair across from Matt.

“Good, you’ll keep me company.” 

He resumes tracing his documents with his finger, reading with an ease you envied. You were far too distracted, staring past the screen of your clunky, old laptop, where you had some sort of work to do—the details escape you with Matt across from you. 

His sleeves were rolled up, sleeves tight around the circumference of his arm, his tie loosened, collar in disarray. His cologne, inescapable, clouding your consciousness. 

You clear your throat, and open a blank Word document in your browser, to at least pretend like you’re doing something. You’re hoping to work up the courage to at least talk to him, like you promised. 

Once you’re finally settled into the groove of working, Matt throws it all out the window. He abruptly stands up, standing behind you, observing your movements. You tense up, and your clacking on the keys stops abruptly. 

“You’re awfully cute when you’re concentrated, sweetheart,” he comments tactfully, smirking, arms folded. 

You’re taken aback, but you don’t hesitate shooting back: “And how would you know?” 

Matt leans forward, breath just barely tickling your ears: “I’ve been told I have a knack for these sorts of things.” You want to roll your eyes so hard. Matt has you doing that a lot lately. You swat him away. 

You turn around in your seat to strain your head upward to see through his deep red shades, to search his eyes. Your gaze, accusing and scrutinizing.

“Who told you that? Foggy?” you spit back, almost outraged that someone could be so cocky. Meanwhile, Ellie and the butterflies swarming in your stomach had you believing he was sweet. You knew better now. 

You brace yourself as you stand up to face him, you’re looking up. You feel woozy, Matt’s cologne and musk overwhelming your senses. You open your mouth, a half-rehearsed confession built up on the tip of your tongue.

Cocky piece of shit just bends his head close and says, voice gruff and unwavering, “Drop the act, you want me.” You promptly shut your mouth.

Your heart is already pounding against your ribcage, and your knees begin to totter and tremble with poorly concealed anticipation. 

“Matt,” you set out to say sternly, but your voice betrays you, and Matt gets a kick out of it— you just know it.

Matt steps forward, a step closer to you, and reaches instinctively for you, grasping toward you. His hands finally fall around your waist and bring you against him.

His right hand momentarily leaves your side to tuck a rogue tuft of hair behind your ears. You almost yelp. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, cradling your head in his hand before closing the space between you two, pressing his overwhelmingly soft, blush-pink lips to yours hungrily, tugging at your bottom lip with a distinct cruelty. Matt's tongue is beginning to invade the space between your parted lips, and you begin to suppose the least you could do was return his eagerness.

[cloginthedrain]

rooftops and vigilantes (part three) (matt murdock x reader)

summary: matt brings a coffee-deprived reader her drug of choice, and she repays the favor, twice over.

masterlist | previous

word count: 1745

notes: filled to the brim with banter, shameless flirting, and, shocker, more coffee. hope u like this one!!! theres more too come, think of the following chapter as a continuation of this one. :*) a special thanks for all of the kind comments! x

comments and reblogs and tags always appreciated <3

—

“Matty, you’re an absolute angel,” is the first thing you breathe as Matt approaches the door frame, your coffee in one hand and his white cane, folded up, in the other. 

He’s wearing his department store suit, the one that makes you antsy.

“Matty,” he chuckles. “That’s a new one.”

“Yup,” you dismiss him, “you wanna come in?”

Still clad in the same sweatpants, Hello Kitty, you thank God he can’t see them, and you move to grab his arm (and your steaming hot coffee) to guide him to your lumpy, secondhand couch, though you knew he didn’t exactly need you. Any excuse to touch him. 

Now settled into the couch, you take in the heavenly aroma, holding the warm, very full paper cup to your chest. You take a sip. 

Extra bitter, intense, doused in some combination of cream and sugar, the latter being Ellie’s doing, you’re sure of it.

“Damn, a red-eye,” you remark, hand to your heart. “You know me.”

“Well, it seemed dire.”

“It was… is!” you practically yelp in defense.

“Enough to make a blind guy fetch you coffee?”

You almost spit out your drink, finding the comment hysterical. “You keep up Matt Murdock.”

“I have to, with you,” He shrugs, tugs off his red shades. A smile threatens in the corner of his lips, you take notice. You also pay special attention to his pretty brown eyes, a rare sight, always hidden away with his shades. 

You’ll take it. 

Kicking back, your feet, warm with fuzzy, starry socks, are on the coffee table resting on your legal pad, covered in notes written in smudged, black ink. You hold your coffee even closer to your chest, to wield off some of the butterflies. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that’ll do much, and make peace with the fact that you really are head over heels for a hot lawyer playing vigilante. You’re never, ever going to live this down.

Breaking the silence, you offer: “So what’s on the agenda for you today, Mr. Murdock?”

“I have the morning off, and then Foggy and I are meeting with a client,” Matt states matter-of-factly. Explains the suit.

“Good,” you say, scheming. 

“Uh oh.”

“No ‘uh oh’,” you whine. “I figure I repay your kindness and make us some French toast, I apparently make the best. I maybe have three, four eggs left, should be enough.” 

“… I could go for some French toast.” 

“Yeah?” you beam. “Alright, come on.” You love to cook, you tug him up, and practically drag him to the kitchen. This time, holding his hand. 

You were never tactful with your attempts to woo Matt, why start now. Clearly whatever you’ve been doing is working, because he doesn’t put up a fight. Once you’re in the kitchen, you raid the fridge and pantry for your ingredients.

Once that’s sorted, you resolve to retreat to the living room.

“Here, hold on.” 

“Alright.” 

Squatting in the living room, you scour your record collection for your favorite record. Folksy, easy listening, and lowered to a comfortable volume, one suitable for a lazy morning. Once that’s spinning, you return to the kitchen.

You carefully crack four eggs in your bowl, pour the rest of your milk in the mixture, cinnamon, a splash of vanilla, and an extra splash for good measure.

“Cinnamony,” Matt observes. He’s over your shoulder. The closeness is welcome. 

You imagine too vividly the ghost of his hands on your waist, his head resting on your shoulder. You close your eyes for a moment, and take a shaky breath. 

With Matt, you had to pace yourself. 

“Mhm,” you mumble lamely, preoccupied.

You whisk your mixture with a fork, all too aware of your proximity to Matt, but try to ignore it, and you move to start the stove. After soaking your brioche bread in the mixture, you flip it on the stove till browned, humming quietly to your favorite song on the record. 

Once browned, you top your French toasts with a sprinkle of powdered sugar and a light layer of maple syrup, and you wonder if you should’ve also made bacon or maple sausage.

“Alrighty,” you say, setting the plates down.

“Smells great, sweetheart,” He smiles graciously, cutting into his French toast with his fork. “Thank you.”

At this point, his suit jacket is long discarded, white dress shirt sleeves rolled up onto his arms. You were antsy.

“Mhm.”

You make a point to roll your eyes at the name, but you suppose you could get used to it, especially if Matt were the one saying it. You meet his brown, unfocused gaze. Your eyes involuntarily travel along the chiseled outline of his face and are drawn to his slight stubble, perfectly maintained. 

You meet his brown, unfocused gaze.

“You’re staring.” 

Your eyes dart away, stare at the bundle of fresh baby’s-breath resting against the ridge of the dark blue glass vase, so effortlessly pretty, like Matt, you think to yourself. 

Blagh, you’re getting too sappy. 

“No, I, uh,” you start, unsure of where you’re going to end. Your mouth has had a mind of its own when it comes to Matt. You’re the furthest thing from tactful.

Matt just waits expectantly, amused. Cheesing. Bastard.

“Oops?” you offer helplessly. 

He just laughs and says, “Alright, sweetheart.” And he goes on, digging into his French toast.

—

“Ellie, it’s hopeless,” you whine, muffled, head resting on your folded arms. It’s the next day. “I’m a complete dunce when it comes to Matt Murdock.” 

The last of the afternoon’s drip coffee is steaming out of your open cup, empty sugar packets and cream cups neatly discarded on a napkin beside you. You hardly touched your muffin.

Ellie’s flipping chairs onto tables as you sulk in your usual booth, closing up for the day, when she says, “He clearly likes you.” 

“You think so?” you look up, eyes twinkling. 

“You’re not that dense, Y/N. Come on. The coffee, the incessant flirting. He’s blind, and he’s coming to your apartment, which means he memorized the route. It’s sweet. He’s clearly pursuing you.” 

You’re flushed at the thought. “It is kind of ridiculous, isn’t it?” 

“That you got a blind guy delivering your lazy ass coffee?” she quips. “You heard of delivery?” 

“Hey.” 

“I vote that you actually talk to him. He’s a sweet guy who likes you. A lot.” 

“El, I don’t know about that.”

Ellie gives you a stern look.

“Fine, I’ll try.” 

—

“I’m seeking legal representation,” you say later that day, a man of your word. You would talk to him. You make your way further into the conference room, across the big table and Matt is surrounded by stacks of documents. 

Your hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, layers now wild, wiry, and free, front pieces framing your face effortlessly. You’re wearing your dark wash overalls, with embroidered floral details, and a flimsy excuse for a tank top. Your canvas bag weighs you down, shoulders lopsided.

You’re holding two drip coffees, Ellie’s of course, and biting your lip. 

“Sure you are,” Matt says matter-of-factly. Then his head tilts. “That coffee?”

Dumb question. 

“Sure is,” you set them down, one in front of Matt, and one across the table from him. “Can I join you?” 

“I gotta get through these documents, but I’m sure you have something to do.” 

“Always,” you affirm. You drop your canvas bag to the floor, as you sink into the chair across from Matt.

“Good, you’ll keep me company.” 

He resumes tracing his documents with his finger, reading with an ease you envied. You were far too distracted, staring past the screen of your clunky, old laptop, where you had some sort of work to do—the details escape you with Matt across from you. 

His sleeves were rolled up, sleeves tight around the circumference of his arm, his tie loosened, collar in disarray. His cologne, inescapable, clouding your consciousness. 

You clear your throat, and open a blank Word document in your browser, to at least pretend like you’re doing something. You’re hoping to work up the courage to at least talk to him, like you promised. 

Once you’re finally settled into the groove of working, Matt throws it all out the window. He abruptly stands up, standing behind you, observing your movements. You tense up, and your clacking on the keys stops abruptly. 

“You’re awfully cute when you’re concentrated, sweetheart,” he comments tactfully, smirking, arms folded. 

You’re taken aback, but you don’t hesitate shooting back: “And how would you know?” 

Matt leans forward, breath just barely tickling your ears: “I’ve been told I have a knack for these sorts of things.” You want to roll your eyes so hard. Matt has you doing that a lot lately. You swat him away. 

You turn around in your seat to strain your head upward to see through his deep red shades, to search his eyes. Your gaze, accusing and scrutinizing.

“Who told you that? Foggy?” you spit back, almost outraged that someone could be so cocky. Meanwhile, Ellie and the butterflies swarming in your stomach had you believing he was sweet. You knew better now. 

You brace yourself as you stand up to face him, you’re looking up. You feel woozy, Matt’s cologne and musk overwhelming your senses. You open your mouth, a half-rehearsed confession built up on the tip of your tongue.

Cocky piece of shit just bends his head close and says, voice gruff and unwavering, “Drop the act, you want me.” You promptly shut your mouth.

Your heart is already pounding against your ribcage, and your knees begin to totter and tremble with poorly concealed anticipation. 

“Matt,” you set out to say sternly, but your voice betrays you, and Matt gets a kick out of it— you just know it.

Matt steps forward, a step closer to you, and reaches instinctively for you, grasping toward you. His hands finally fall around your waist and bring you against him.

His right hand momentarily leaves your side to tuck a rogue tuft of hair behind your ears. You almost yelp. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, cradling your head in his hand before closing the space between you two, pressing his overwhelmingly soft, blush-pink lips to yours hungrily, tugging at your bottom lip with a distinct cruelty. Matt's tongue is beginning to invade the space between your parted lips, and you begin to suppose the least you could do was return his eagerness.

[cloginthedrain]

happy september lovelies! part 3 of rooftops and vigilantes coming soon! <3

[cloginthedrain]

rooftops and vigilantes (part two) (matt murdock x reader)

summary: reader pays matt a visit at his office, and matt invites himself over. banter and flirtations ensue.

masterlist | previous | next

word count: 1169

notes: lots of banter, back and forth, and flirting. reader gets a little too confident. a bit of a shorter one, but only slightly. hope you like it, i do!!! i've really appreciated a lot of the lovely comments and support. i've been having a lot of fun writing this one.

comments & reblogs always appreciated! <3

—

You stand in front of the smudgy, glass door, and take a shaky breath.

Once you’ve mustered enough courage, you push the door open to the coffee shop, chest fluttering with excitement at the possibility of just seeing Matt. Built, rugged, but put together.

You approach the coffee bar, your usual guilty pleasure before your grocery run.

“Your usual?” Ellie muses, all smiles. Penning your name, this time with a winky face. Your eyes narrowed.

“Please,” you say graciously. You fumble in your hellish bag for the familiar feeling of your beat up, pleather wallet amongst the mess of your bag: apartment keys, wired earbuds, chapstick, lotion, and your expired lip tint. You might’ve left it behind. 

“No, that’s okay.” 

“Ellie. I’m paying,” you say firmly.

She grins. “No, what I mean is that Matt’s got it.”

“Matt?” You flush, shifting your weight. Your limbs suddenly feel heavy. 

“Yes, Matt, he stopped by,” Ellie starts, a gleam of (obnoxious) curiosity in her eyes. “He said thanks for the whiskey. Whatever that means. You just missed him.” 

Your features soften. Last night, sewing kits. Whiskey. Rugged, shirtless, sweaty. Late night, and hell, an early morning. 

“Right,” you said. “Can I have that to go?”

“He got you this too.” Ellie places one of her freshly-baked crumbly raspberry lemon muffins on the counter.

You flush beet-red. Horrific.

You dodge further interrogation from your favorite nosy barista by excusing yourself to your booth to wait for your drink. You’re yet again rummaging in your bag, this time for a book to pretend to read. To no avail, you had left it on your bed-side table.

Chairs were still upturned onto the tables, warm lights illuminating the café. You practically run out of there, with your raspberry lemon muffin to go, as soon as your dirty chai hits the bar counter.

Your eye glimmers as soon as you step out. Across the street, a shiny metal plaque reads: 

Nelson and Murdock. Attorneys at Law.

You figured some time to kill before you had to head back to hold your virtual discussion for a survey course in English Romanticism.

You languidly climb the steps, exhausted from the night before, and pushed the door open. You took in the poorly-lit room. A prim, freckled blonde woman clacking away at her laptop.

She looks up from her work with a soft, perfectly cordial smile. “How can I help you?”

“Uhm,” you interrupt, shyly. “I’m here to see Matt?”

“Oh, Matt? He should be here soon.”

The door slams behind you. 

“He’s right here.” His hearty chuckle is unmistakable, one you could grow quite partial to. 

“Right,” the blonde woman starts. “This is, erm—“ She stops short. She hadn’t gotten your name. 

“Y/N,” Matt finishes. “Y/N, this is Karen. Our receptionist.” 

“Nice to meet you, Karen,” You barely manage. The verbal thing comes and goes. Especially in the intimidating presence of a man, Matt, in a well-fitting suit. You never accounted for that in your streak of confidence. “Just came by to thank you for the muffin. And the chai. And for leaving me defenseless against our nosy, mutual barista. I, uh, saw your sign outside.” 

As you’re blabbering you wonder if you crossed a line, coming into his work. The ball is in your court, right?

“Right,” He refoots. “I heard you’re partial to a raspberry lemon muffin.” 

“Something like that,” you say. You sense some awkwardness. “Anyway, I’ll go. Thanks again.”

You turn to leave. 

“Wait,” Matt starts.

If it was possible, your ears perked up. “Yeah?” 

“I’ll see you tonight?” 

You pretend to think for a moment, but not for a second more— trying to play it cool. You fail. 

“You bet,” you practically beam.

As soon as you leave, Foggy stumbles past you through the door. 

“Hey Froggy,” you say kindly, not noticing your mistake. 

He turns his head to do a double-take as you walk out of the building. “Hey?”

Once he’s in the office, false-outraged, Foggy asks accusingly, “Matt, who was that?” 

—

You did see him that night.

“Maybe you're not a vigilante,” you muse, admittedly a little wine drunk. “You’re a criminal. You’re robbing me, depriving me of my sleep.”

You’re sitting on the couch, legs across Matt’s lap, cradling a glass of wine. Student papers long discarded across your coffee table. You’re looser, a bit daring. You’re wearing your comfiest pair of sweats, heat be damned. Air-conditioning blasting.

“Right, I’m depriving you,” Matt laughs, further encouraging your antics. “You sure it’s not the deadlines you have to meet to sift through hundreds of student papers?” He’d also add guzzling insane amounts of caffeine factored into it. 

“Nope, and I’m prepared to make my case.” 

“You realize who you’re talking to?” 

“I have a leg to stand on,” you proclaim, particularly audacious. You sit up. “I was an English major.”

“Meaning?”

“I also know how to argue,” you slur, tilting your head. A challenge.

Your face inched close enough that you felt his breath, short, tickle your skin. Saw the shadow of his stubble. His plump pink lips.

You lost any sort of nerve right then.

“Let’s get you some coffee, sweetheart,” Matt redirects, and then as an aside, says to himself, “Or get you to bed.”

—

You were horrified the next morning. You wanted to sink further into your bed, to be swallowed under your covers. 

You had woken up late. 10 am. A ceremonious first.

A god awful headache too. Being taken with a night owl had its consequences.

You reach for your phone, and magically it's connected to the charger. Phone battery green, 100%. You peek at the notifications.

A missed call. Could be work, you reason. Blah.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Matt.

“Blegh, stop that,” you groan. “How’d you get my number anyway?”

You wish you could say you were surprised, but Matt’s been a recurring theme in your life as of, well, these past few weeks.

“I have my ways,” Matt pauses.

You don’t say anything, but roll your eyes so hard.

“Let’s just say you really wanted me to have your number last night,” Matt practically gloats. 

“Awh jeez,” you cringe, sitting up. You had forgotten that part.

At this point, you’re upright, just barely, and in pursuit of some sort of caffeine. Then you remember.

“Nooooo,” you moan, helplessly, and you’re back in your bed.

“What?”

“Remember when I, uh, ambushed you at your office?”

“Vaguely.”

“Right, so I was supposed to go grocery shopping,” you babble. “There is nothing in the cupboards, including but especially coffee. There’s some decaf for my mom when she visits. I suppose I can try and microdose the trace amounts of caffeine… That’s a lot of coffee. Nothing I’m not used to—”

“Or, I can bring you coffee.”

“Oh, Matt, no—” you start. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“Already leaving.”

You slump further into your bed. “Suppose there’s no point in pretending that I’m not secretly pleased then.”

“Yep, see you soon, sweetheart."

The call clicks off, and you roll your eyes.

You really are pleased.

[cloginthedrain]

thanks for all the love on rooftops and vigilantes <3 if you'd prefer to read it on archive of our own, i just published it there under the same user, cloginthedrain. you can also enjoy some of my previous work there too. enjoy!

[cloginthedrain]

rooftops and vigilantes (part one) (matt murdock x reader)

summary: caffeine-fiend, student teacher!reader encounters a headline-making vigilante on her rooftop.

masterlist | next

word count: 1,634 words

notes: no gendered pronouns yet? i imagine reader as fem presenting, and future descriptions might entail that. outside of canon! this one has been a long time coming! lots of fluff to come! my very first matt fanfic, hope you enjoy <3

comments & reblogs always appreciated!

—

You often sought refuge and solace in the sleepy, serene hours of the morning. Like the morning last, the sun crept out from its hiding place, unsteady but bright. 

You found comfort in the inevitable: the shift from summer to autumn, and autumn to winter, and winter to spring, as well as the whisper of the wind amongst trees—the busy bustle of the leaves. You brought your cup of coffee to your lips, disgustingly sweet, and took in the sight of the sleeping city and its bare, almost empty streets.

Your cheeks flushed from the cold, and your spirits were rekindled by the pretty sight.

It was the only time the city seemed beautiful to you.

Like the shift of the seasons, it was inevitable, too, your sweet, hypnotizing reverie was bound to end. A loud splat could be heard around you. You swung your head around to see some asshole, clad in all-black and a mask, now in the center of your field of vision. Your eyes met.

Shit. 

His masked face was angled downward, as if assessing the situation in front of him—you were doing the same. From what you could make out, the man was a rugged sort of handsome, with a prominent stubble and defined jaw—the only visible bit of his body besides his fingers, free from the confines of his gloves, and the bits of skin exposed by holes in the fabric of his shirt. Fresh wounds. The rest of his body, defined and built, was covered in black spandex material.

Despite his physical injuries, the man in black was seemingly unscathed, save for his labored breathing. You could only imagine what sorts of trouble he had been entangled in, not to mention, what sorts of trouble he could mean for you, and yet your feet carry you a step closer—your interest piqued, and hypnotized by his build. 

You tugged your comforter a little tighter around you before mustering the courage to say, “Come here often?”

Seemingly, for a moment, the air stilled—quiet, as if it was also awaiting his answer. He angled his face upward, in your direction, and he laughed.

“No, uh,” he says, voice gruff, but kind. “I wouldn’t say that—definitely not my usual route home.” 

You shifted your feet, realizing the implications of his ensemble. A vigilante, or someone much sketchier. And quite frankly, you weren’t inclined to stick around to find out. Despite your resolve, your heart sparked with excitement as you mused that, maybe he—no, you reasoned, he couldn’t be. Not the Man in Black. He was just some idiot running around in a mask. Though you weren’t entirely convinced the Man in Black wasn’t also an idiot running around in a mask.

A potentially harmful idiot. 

You maintain your composure. Surely, if he had wanted to hurt you, he would have already. Right? Still, your eyes dart to the door behind him. “Huh, might have gathered that, by the getup, and, well, the rooftop detour,” you quip.

“Trust me: rooftops are not my preferred mode of transportation.” 

An alarm buzzed loudly in your pocket. 6:15. Your eyes lit up in realization, an exit: the God awful class you taught, at eight in the morning! Quite terrible. 

“Alright, then,” you offered lamely. “I’d better—“ You gestured to the door behind him. 

He said nothing in response, angling his head upward, as if he was straining to hear something.

“I’d say I’d see you around but uh,” you ducked your head for a moment to find your keys on your person, but when you looked up, the man was gone. 

—

Every morning since, you set your alarm for just before the sun was reunited with the horizon and found itself tucked beautifully among the brushstrokes of color throughout the reddish-orange sky. 

You’d hope to see the man. Your curiosity is high, but expectations are low. 

Somewhat begrudgingly, you resolved to return to the dreaded task that’s stolen the greater part of your week as well as your sleep: stacks of ungraded midterms. Your canvas messenger bag weighs you down as you push open the door to your favorite café. You’re met with the unmistakable smell of dark roast drip, a heavenly scent. 

You’re early today: chairs are still upturned onto the tables. You perk up, your favorite barista at the counter, sipping a coffee of her own. 

“Hey,” you muster. 

“Your usual?” Ellie pens in black sharpie, Y/N, with a wonky smiley face. 

“Make it a triple shot.” 

“Oof, late night?” Ellie sympathizes as she falls into the familiar groove of making your comfort chai tea latte. Extra cinnamony.

“And an extra early morning. Got lots of grading.”

Latte in hand, you settle into your usual booth, and pull your laptop and your stack of student papers. 

Settled into the tranquility of the morning, you’re in your element, and you’re grading papers with the efficiency of a Fordian factory line, while being sure to mark the margins with thoughtful comments and critiques. That is, until the second customer pushes the door open and the familiar, irritating tune of the electronic bell plays. 

You slump in your seat, and search hopelessly for your shitty wired earbuds when you hear his voice. 

“One dark roast drip to go.”

Your eyes pick up and see a man in a department store suit that suited him remarkably well, sporting a pair of red specs, and guided by the swift motions of his white cane. It couldn’t be him then, right? You scan the café for anyone else you might’ve overheard. It had to be him, right? Who else?

“Anything else, Matt?” Ellie asked, punching keys on the cash register. 

Matt. A regular. 

You wondered if he lived nearby. 

He waves her off, “Nah, that’s alright, El.” 

“For Foggy?” she asks dubiously, pulling a second paper cup. 

“Ah, right,” he chuckles. “Make that two.” He’s all smiles, cooly finding his debit card in his beat up leather wallet, that is, until he sees you. He stops in his tracks, and if possible, stares. He abruptly turns, white cane in hand, and walks out without his coffee. 

“Damndest thing, huh?” Ellie remarks. “Clients call, I guess.”

Clients?

Curious.

You stake out the next morning, two drips brewed from your dingy Keurig, a peace offering in the best case scenario, and the worst case scenario, a second cup for you. 

Finally relieved of your paper grading obligations as of last night, you bask in the feeling of freedom and accomplishment as you sip your coffee lazily.

You take a sip from the lid of your paper cup when you look up. 

“Matt?”

“Damn it,” he pulls his mask off in frustration, and he paces, running his fingers through his hair. 

“I won’t tell anyone.” 

He stops in mid tracks. 

“Ellie told me all about what you and your friend Froggy do,” you explain. You learned of all of the pro bono work he provided to the community at Nelson and Murdock. You were newer to the neighborhood.

“Foggy.”

“Huh?” 

“My partner’s name is Foggy.”

“Right,” you flush. “Well, it’s just nice knowing someone’s looking out.” shrug. 

“Huh,” he remarks lamely. He seems to notice the second cup of coffee, somehow. He perks up. “That for me?” 

He answered all sorts of questions. What he does, why he does it. Is he actually blind? Yes and no, you learned.

And when you remark how much he shared, his eyes twinkled, and he said raspily, breathlessly, “It’s just nice that someone knows.”

Next time you see him, he’s hunched over, tapping his fingers on your sliding glass door. With the other hand, he’s cradling the gash on his abdomen.

You pull the faulty door with all your might to help Matt in, settling him on your well-loved, lumpy couch. 

“Matt, I’ve never—“ 

“That’s alright, do you have a sewing kit and whiskey?”

You return with both, alongside a first aid kit. You prod, “You sure I can’t help?”

“That’s okay,” He assures you, hearing your heart pound and practically topple out of your chest. “Maybe have a swig of that.” He strains, pushing the whiskey back into your hands.

You twist the cap, taking a generous swig, and find some bandaging in your first aid kit. 

He’s slouched on the couch, shirt lifted, skin exposed, attending to his wound. After he snips the excess thread at the end of his stitch, with trembling hands, you smooth the bandage over some dressing, “Good as new.” 

He cracks a strained smile, “Thanks, uh, won’t happen again.” You take note of how handsome he looks, all rugged. 

You hum in understanding, tapping the bare skin of your thighs. He caught you in your pajamas. Shortest of shorts, barest of tank tops. No bra. Hell’s Kitchen’s summers were unforgiving. Scorching hot. 

Sweat beaded above your lips.

Matt in all his rugged glory couldn’t exactly see you, but you felt exposed nonetheless.

“Hey,” you pipe up, “How’d you find me?” He knew your building, you had figured, but he had never been to your place.

“You really wanna know?”

You think for a moment, taking another swig from the bottle. “Yeah, yeah I do.” 

“I recognized you,” he says. “The lavender, I can practically taste it.” 

You sniff, self-conscious. He chuckles.

“Right, heightened senses.” You recall the dab of lavender you scent your wrists and the back of your neck with, day and night. You were a relatively anxious person, which is why you were drawn to lavender, and crime-fighting vigilantes like Matt, apparently. 

He stares past you, still slumped on the couch. “Thanks.” 

You tuck your hair behind your ear, stomach still warm from the whiskey. “Happy to help.”

He wobbles up, hand cradling his wound. “See you around?”

All you can manage is a nod.

—

next

[cloginthedrain]

summer’s here, expect something soon <3

[cloginthedrain]

thank u for all the love on my fics lovelies <3333