#ddba!matt

[lovelybucky1]

ddba matt is SO daddy like SO DADDY. i want to be his little girl and i need him to take care of me and baby me and i want him to wrap his big strong arms around me while i cry into his hard chest WAAAAAAA

[moth-murdock]

Posture. (Matt x AFAB!reader)

A/n: thank you so much to @upended-jellyfish for helping me come up with this 🥴😵‍💫 I think @bunmurdock @pupmurdock @lambmurdock and @sharkymurdock will especially appreciate it too

Genre: smut adjacent?

Summary: Matt helps you fix your posture for good.

Warnings: disciplinarian!Matt, bondage, face slapping, posture correction in the fun way, Mean!Matt (I surprised myself with that tbh)

Other tags: in the new apartment :/, chest hair 😋,

Word count: 1.5k

You don't mean to slouch. You really don't. It just... Happens. But Matt notices. Of course he does. So he does what any loving boyfriend would do. He tries to help.

"sweetheart, you're slouching"

"no I'm-... How did you know?"

"I can, uh, I can hear your breathing. It's kind of labored."

"oh... Alright, thanks." You say as you straighten up.

For a while, he'd remind you like that. Polite, soft, helpful. Then he starts to get a bit tired of it the longer it goes on. He'll just clear his throat while putting a hand on your back. From there, it turns into putting one hand on your lower back and the other on your upper chest, then pushing. It's quick, and automatically gets you to straighten up.

"quit slouching, it's not good for you."

"alright, dad."

"I mean it, kid."

After a while of that, he still catches you slouching sometimes. He'll just flick the back of your neck, and you catch the message. He's just trying to help. And to your favor, you have improved.

Just not enough.

***

He had a rough day. The client was a laidback asshole who was lying left and right, with no respect for Matt or anyone else on the legal team. It pissed him off. Rubbed him the wrong way.

As he walks home, he can't help but be annoyed still. He enters the elevator, going all the way up to his top-floor apartment. He walks in the door, only to hear you slouching. He can hear you typing something on your computer, which is usually when you slouch anyway. He lets put an exasperated sigh, tapping his cane on the floor to get your attention.

"Matty? What's wrong?"

He says nothing, taking off his coat and his jacket. He folds up his cane, tapping it again on the table as he sets it down. He makes his way over to where you sit, cool and composed with measured steps. He still doesn't say anything as he reaches over and closes your laptop.

"hey! What the he-"

Smack

"Posture." He practically growls in a low, gravelly voice. Letting out a tired huff as he tugs his tie off, he quickly undoes the knot in the silk before gagging you with it, tying a tight knot behind your head.

You were still trying to process the slap, your cheek still stung and he had caught you completely off guard. You snap out of it when Matt throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, starting to carry you towards the bedroom. You start to protest, words not being an option due to the tie in your mouth.

Your next best option is physical protest, so that's what you go with. You squirm and kick and hit, which only earns you a smack on the ass so hard that you feel it even through the clothes you're wearing. You gasp out in pain and wriggle some more on his shoulder, but he can smell the truth. He can smell how wet you are, he heard your heart race.

He tosses you on the bed unceremoniously, quickly crawling over you both to avoid you getting up, and to start undressing you. You know that you could realistically give him the signal and he'd stop dead in his tracks. Just tapping that certain rhythm you agreed on. But youre in the mood to play along, so you do. You struggle against him, which is conveniently helping him undress you. Only once you're stripped bare does he get off of you, pressing a large hand to the center of your chest and holding you down.

"Stay." He commands as he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, like you're some mutt he found on the side of the road.

And like a dog, you listen. But that doesn't stop you from glaring daggers at him while he rummages one of his drawers for something. You expected a lot of things, but his white Muay Thai ropes was not one of them. The blood on them was no longer the deep crimson they were on that night, implying that he'd washed them since then.

"turn."

You do.

He uses one rope to secure your arms behind your back, wrists to elbows. The other goes around your neck, then connects to your arms, arching your back slightly.

"That's good fucking posture." He growls, tugging on the ropes to jostle you into a kneeling position, facing the foot of the bed.

"do you know what you sound like when you slouch? I can hear your lungs being compressed and squeezed." He starts as he gets off the bed, the mattress silently raising. He walks around to where you're facing, popping the first two buttons of his shirt to reveal his salt and pepper chest hair. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, the other resting on his hip.

He has a 'what am I going to do with you' expression on his face as he speaks again, pacing back and forth.

"not to mention that your back pops like goddamn bubble wrap when you finally stand up. You know that's why you have back pain, right?" He says expressively as he paces, the hand that ran through his hair now waving around and making gestures like he's in court.

You let out a whine around his tie, only for him to take two steps forward to slap you across the face again and grab your jaw right after.

"don't interrupt me. I'm not done." He says dangerously.

"I tell you time and time again to sit up straight, kid. But you just don't listen to me! All I'm trying to do is help you and you just. Don't. Listen. It feels like I'm babysitting you at this point." He huffs, taking a deep breath that was supposed to calm him, but only floods his nose with your scent.

"seriously?" He scoffs, stopping in his tracks.

"are you seriously getting off on this?" He asks, almost incredulously.

You whine and squeeze your thighs together, trying to hide your scent and relieve some of the ache between your thighs.

He steps forward and wrenches your legs open, and as if the waft of your scent wasn't enough, he runs his fingers through the mess between your thighs.

"do you really expect me to touch you, kid? After that? I'll tell you what, I have had a shit day at work today. I am not in the mood for you to be brat on top of it all. If you wanted something tonight, the least you could have done was act like a human being rather than an animal."

You want to cry. You're soaking wet, drooling onto the silk sheets and not with your mouth. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit like a drum, and you know he can sense it too. He takes another deep breath, jaw tensing and brows twitching.

"you are going to stay like this for an hour. Then I'm going to untie you and we will go to bed. Nothing else will happen outside of that. And so help me god if I see you slouching again after tonight, I won't be so kind."

You couldve cum just from that.

"do you understand me? Or did you go stupid like you always do when I don't touch you?"

You frantically nod, humming an affirmation around his tie, which is now soaked in your saliva.

True to his word, he leaves you there for another hour, your back forced into a perfect posture just waiting for him while he takes a long shower to decompress from the day and even treats himself to putting on the one lotion he can actually stand on his skin.

When he returns, there's still a bit longer left, but he ignores your whimpers and whines. You tried once to grind yourself against the sheets, but that was quickly shut down by him gripping your hair and pulling your head back.

"you said you understood me. I didn't give you permission for this. Last warning."

You whimper and nod, forcing your hips to still. After your hour is up, he starts to untie you with such tenderness that it confuses you for a moment. He tosses the ropes aside, massaging your arms and checking your neck for any signs he can pick up of strain or discomfort.

"nothing hurts?" He asks softly as he removes his tie from your mouth.

"no, Matty... I'm okay..." You assure him equally as softly despite the fact that you are still more turned on than you've ever been.

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He can tell you're still so turned on, but he told you he wouldn't touch you, and always keeps his bedroom promises. So he removes the sheet that you dripped onto and he grabs a spare blanket. You both crawl into bed, and you cling to him like he wasn't berating, degrading, and slapping you just an hour earlier. Because despite it all, he wasn't wrong.

He just wanted to help your posture.

My masterlist | fic recs

[farfromstrange]

Chapter One: Heaven’s Half Hour

Silver Spoons and Butterknives.

[Previous Chapter | Silver Spoons & Butterknives Masterlist]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x President’s Daughter!Reader

Chapter Summary: On his way to work, Matt bumps into a ghost from his past that turns his world upside down.

Chapter Specific Warnings: DDBA Spoilers!, (past) major character death, Angst, allusions to politics, allusions to past heartbreak, Matt is going through it

WC: 3.8k

A/N: Hi! If you haven’t read the author's note for this series, here is a quick summary: this story takes place both in DDBA Season 1 present and College!Matt past. The majority of the following chapters (not including this one) are basically a very lengthy flashback. After that, I will jump back into DDBA canon. The only twist to this reader insert is the fact that I will be using a fixed last name; everything else will be left as neutral as possible so you can immerse yourself in it. Also, I felt like the whole college timeline in Daredevil was a bit confusing, so I did a whole Reddit deep dive and decided that for this series, Matt and Foggy already met in undergrad and then moved on to law school together. Seems like there are conflicting opinions on it, but it was never explicitly stated, and some of the years mentioned in the show don't make a lot of sense to me, so for the sake of the plot, I'm establishing my own timeline. Also, our girl Kirsten makes a little guest appearance here and there. Anything else? Oh yeah, have fun!

Read Me On AO3!

A breeze far too cold for September wafts through the streets of New York City. Then again, every day for the past year has been colder than the last. 

When the cherry blossom trees began to bloom in early March, their scent burned like acid on his tongue. He always loved how they offered a stark contrast to the green grass in Central Park, and even though Matt couldn’t see them, he loved listening to him ramble on about their unparalleled beauty as if he couldn’t imagine anything better. 

When he walked the cemetery again after a year had passed in a mere sixty seconds, the autumn rain froze into daggers, cut him open, and left a bottomless, bleeding pit where his heart once was. 

The pain and guilt have made a forever home in him. He let them eat away until all that was left was a pile of rotten flesh, and now the beauty he’d come to appreciate means nothing anymore.

Time and time again, Matt finds himself standing on that godforsaken rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen, in his daydreams and his nightmares. Because Foggy Nelson died, and there is no world or universe in which he can live without him. He haunts him. 

The wind brushes through his hair and seeps through the thin fabric of his new coat as he taps his cane along the sidewalk. He can taste the scent of cheap coffee from the café a few blocks down the street, and somewhere, someone is selling expired hot dogs to passersby.

The city sounds much like a broken record to him now. Cars honk, people argue, and the morning news play on repeat in brownstones all over the city, one device always a millisecond behind the other, and it never fucking stops. Everyone is screaming, laughing, or crying, but never louder than the fading heartbeat replaying in his mind.

The prayer card in his left-hand pocket weighs like a ton of bricks. Matt sometimes touches it just to make sure it’s still there. He puts it there in the morning, takes it out in the evening, and rests it on his nightstand when he sleeps. And when he wakes up in a cold sweat, his throat sore from the screams of anguish that have become second nature to him, he feels for it until his fingers find the Braille they put there just for him.

He hasn’t moved on. How could he? Moving on would mean he’d have to acknowledge the truth, and then he would have to feel everything all over again. 

He still remembers how the blood felt on his hands, his knuckles cracked, and his suit drenched with it. He still remembers how the air felt so much colder, and what it sounded like when Ben’s body hit the pavement. The night was eerily quiet then. Though it wasn’t the blood or the rage or the tears mixing with the copper on his tongue that he focused on, he focused on the one thing that was there until it wasn’t. He followed the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat until it was gone, and then he screamed. 

If Matt acknowledged that—if he allowed himself to let the agony out of the cage he stuffed it in—it would surely kill him. Karen left, Foggy is dead, and Matt doesn’t know what’s left for him to fight for. 

There is only so much suffering a person can take before they lose themself. 

The wind ebbs and picks up speed again. He breathes in, just for a moment, to taste the weight of the oxygen, but as the air fills his lungs, the gentle cocktail of jasmine, roses, and peonies with a hint of something entirely unique suddenly wraps a noose around his neck. The scent is so unique that no two people have ever smelled the same, and his senses start to burn with the familiarity of it all.

The first time he smelled it was his first year of law school. A soft breeze carried it across the lecture hall, incomparable sweetness clinging to salty skin and caressing his nose, and he got addicted before he knew what it meant or who it belonged to, even. 

Sixteen years. 

It’s been sixteen fucking years.

Matt’s dress shoes scrape over the asphalt underneath his feet as he comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, knuckles turning white around the handle of his cane. He must be hallucinating, he thinks. His mind must be conjuring up old, bittersweet memories to bury the new ones, but then he hears it. 

Your voice used to remind him of the softest silk. He would always compare it to the first rays of sunshine in spring as they whisked the cold away, painfully so sometimes. 

He never thought he would hear it again, neither the sound of your voice nor your heartbeat. The one that sped up whenever he made you laugh. The one he once fell asleep to like a lullaby, and the one that started racing almost as fast as his own whenever he touched you. But for every good thing he had with you, his heart shattered into a million more pieces when he lost you. 

The world around him disappears in the fog, and his senses zero in on you. You are approaching the limousine parked on the side of the street, smiling as you bid your thanks to the man holding the door open for you. Your head turns left, just to let the wind brush the hair out of your face, but when you see him, your heart stutters. 

Disbelief settles into the frown creasing your forehead. “Matthew?” you say oh-so-softly.

He tilts his head in your direction. Matthew. The sound of his name from your lips cuts his skin like fiberglass. 

Matt whispers your name in turn, trying to convince himself that you’re real—or perhaps he is trying not to. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that you are nothing but a fragment of his broken imagination. It would be kinder, he thinks, if you weren’t real.

That is, until you whisper again, “Yeah, it’s me.”

He doesn’t remember how many times he would lie awake at night, praying to hear you say, It’s me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But he knows God wasn’t listening. Even in his wildest dreams, you always end up leaving, and his happy endings turn into a nightmare. 

You’re too real, and that hurts more than when you were gone. 

“Hi,” you breathe. You even put on a smile for him.

“Hi,” Matt’s voice cracks. He’s not sure if you heard it. “What’re you–”

“Oh, I’m just–” You point everywhere and nowhere. “I’m just passing through.”

“Oh.”

“On my way to DC.”

“Right,” he says.

Of course, you are.

The nostalgia makes you weak in the knees. He has wrinkles now, a beard, and he is wearing a coat made out of the finest cashmere that, some time ago, he wouldn’t even have thought about buying. His once rectangular glasses have been replaced by round, dark-rimmed, and red ones. They are different, but they suit him. 

You’ve always thought this shape would suit him so much better. 

The Matt Murdock standing before you carries himself with such grace, it’s almost hard to believe he was ever shy or awkward to begin with. And yet, staring at your reflection in his glasses, you can almost see his unfocused brown-and-green eyes looking right through you. Those eyes, that voice, that laugh—you would recognize them anywhere. 

His eyes, once open windows to his soul, were only for you to see through. You could have stared into them forever. But there is a wall where those windows used to be, and he is so much colder now. 

You clear your throat before asking, “How are you?”

Matt stutters. “I, uh, I’m good,” he says. But good has never looked worse. 

“Yeah?�� 

“Yeah, I just… I wasn’t expecting to run into you. That’s all.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to run into you either. Especially not here.” 

He exhales a scoff. “Why? Because I’m still in New York?”

You shake your head. “Because you’re not in Hell’s Kitchen,” you say, and the scars on his heart start bleeding again.

Foggy. 

Karen. 

Daredevil. 

A year ago, his life fell apart like an elaborate house of cards. All the good he had made for himself out of all the bad he had been through turned to ashes that night, and the rain washed it down the drain. 

Hell’s Kitchen is not what it used to be. It serves as a reminder of a life that ended in a bloodbath, of having his heart ripped out of his chest over and over again. The city reminds him of his father, of Karen, and Elektra, and the happiness he lost. It reminds him of losing the one person who held him through it all—of losing Foggy. And it reminds him of you. 

Matt left it all behind in the hopes that a new life would somehow take the pain away, but running away has never solved much of anything.

New York feels tainted, yet when Karen decided to leave for San Francisco, he could not bear to do the same. No matter how hard he tries, he can never fully let go of the city that raised him, and so he moved away, but never too far. 

Matt taps his cane against the ground once. “Senator, huh?” he asks, though he is still as awful at deflection as he is a liar. 

He overheard the news on his neighbor’s radio a few months ago when he was drinking a glass of whisky on the rooftop of his apartment. 

At first, he tried telling himself that it wasn’t you they were talking about. When that didn’t work, he returned to pretending that not being able to touch you meant that you were gone, and you were never coming back. You were dead to him because that thought has been kinder to him than the truth. But you were never really gone, were you?

Your fingers brush over the delicate enamel pin on your jacket, the same way they once ran through his hair. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s been a hell of a year.”

Matt forces a smile, tipping his cane toward you. “Well, congratulations.”

Again, your heart flutters. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I mean, I know it’s always been your dream. To make a difference. So, it’s nice you got what you wanted.” But Matt can’t quite swallow the bitterness in his statement.

You’re quiet for a moment, retreating into your shell as you try to find the right thing to say. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, at last. It’s a loaded two-word sentence, yet not nearly good enough for the sorrow that hangs in the air between you. 

“For what?” he asks. 

“Foggy.” 

It hits him like a bullet straight to the heart.

Your voice quivers, then cracks. “I, uh, heard about what happened to him.”

The anger in his veins burns red, hot, traveling through his bloodstream like an unrelenting parasite, and it stings like a thousand paper cuts soaked in alcohol. 

“I am so sorry. He was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and he didn’t… He didn’t deserve what happened to him.” Your throat tightens. “I know how much he meant to you,” you say. “I know how much you loved him. If I could–”

“No!” His self-control shatters. “You don’t get to do that,” he snaps. “You don’t get to tell me you’re sorry. It’s been a year.”

He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. It has that quiet edge to it that makes every word shake just slightly, yet feel like a thousand deadly papercuts. 

“If you actually cared about him, about me, you would have called or texted, or–” He swallows. “You would have been here when it mattered.”

“I paid my respects to his family,” you try to defend yourself, but Matt only chuckles—bitter, broken. 

“Right, and what did you tell them?” he asks. “That you went to college together? That you were his friend? Did you also happen to tell them that you left sixteen years ago and haven’t talked to him since, or did you leave that out?”

“Matt–”

He cuts you off, “He was my best friend. Mine! And I won’t get to see him again. So, you don’t get to tell me you’re sorry when you spent the past sixteen years pretending we were already dead!”

He rips your heart out and shreds it. And the worst part is, he’s right. 

You want nothing more than to reach out, to touch him, but your hands fall weakly at your sides because you can’t. He’s too far away, and it’s killing you.

“You’re right,” you whisper, yielding. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” 

Matt shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

“Can we just… Can we talk? Just for a minute, please?”

It takes everything in him to ignore how utterly broken you sound, the desperation in your voice even more familiar than the sound itself. You don’t try to hide it, and he doesn’t want to care, but it tugs at his heartstrings anyway. You’ve always had that kind of effect on him. Right now, though, he loathes it. 

Matt lowers his head, sighing at the ground beneath his feet. He can feel you staring, and it hurts. 

“You know, I should go,” he says. “I’m already late for work, and this isn’t… This isn’t a good idea.”

You catch him by the arm when he tries to brush past. It’s a reflex, pulling him in, but the moment you touch him, he recoils. 

“Please,” you beg, and if the asphalt weren’t so cold, you would have fallen to your knees. “If you’d just give me a chance to explain–”

“It’s been sixteen years. You made your choice. I moved on. Foggy moved on, and now he’s dead. None of that has anything to do with you,” he says, “so just… drop it!” 

Every word from his mouth whips you across the face and tears into your flesh like harsh leather. 

He pulls away. “Good luck in DC, Senator.”

And you watch in horror as he slips through your fingers again, his words so cold and brutal that you no longer recognize him as the man you fell in love with all those years ago. 

Far too much time has passed for your excuses to mean anything now. You can explain, but you can’t fix this. You know that as much as he does, maybe even more, but it hurts just the same. 

Matt can still hear the clear thumping of your heart long after he has walked away. In this mirror dimension he’s trapped in, it is all that exists to him. He tunes it out, but there it is again. You are everywhere, even when you’re not.

You stand in the same spot for a little while longer, teeth digging into your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying. He can smell the faintest hint of copper in the air, but then you plaster the cracks in your façade and pull yourself back together. Just like that, as if nothing ever happened. 

You could be falling apart at the seams, but you would never let it show. Because that isn’t what you do. 

As you’re climbing into the car, one of the men asks, “Who was that, ma’am?” 

You don’t miss a beat. “He’s no one,” you answer.

The motor roars to life. Matt tilts his head. Thud, thud, thud, your heartbeat fades, further and further away until it is gone entirely. The iron fist around his heart releases its hold, and he can finally breathe again. Though when he inhales, your scent still lingers. 

You’ve dug your teeth into him. One hit of you and suddenly, the world, his world, is back to revolving around you. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he finds himself back in the old halls of Columbia University. He was twenty-three then, not a dollar to his name, a devoted Catholic who had faith in the future and the system because he believed in the greater good. Until you walked into his life, and every branch creating paths for his future rotted from the inside out.

Matt walks the entire way to Murdock & McDuffie on autopilot. His cane bumps against the door, and for a moment, he struggles to find the handle. Kirsten is already standing by the fancy espresso machine she insisted on getting, her heart beating steadily as she pours herself another latte, and he takes the window of opportunity to charge toward his office. 

She calls out before he can get even halfway there, “Matt?”

He stiffens.

“You alright?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” he says, “just need a minute. Excuse me.”

He’s burning up inside, sweat soaking through his dress shirt underneath his suit jacket and cashmere coat, but his skin remains cold to the touch. The memories he had long locked away in a vault inside his mind start to break free from their shackles, and the glass that stores his emotions threatens to overflow.

The smell of espresso reminds of the cheap coffee he and Foggy once pretended was the best damn thing they’d ever tasted because they could not afford much more. There was no expensive O’Melveny whisky or homemade dinners on the table (except for Thanksgiving and Christmas with the Nelsons), and hardly any privacy to go around in their tiny student apartment, but they were happy. 

You were a spoiled boarding school brat who’d never had to count a dollar in her life. Of course, you didn’t choose to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth; God knows Matt didn’t choose to be the son of a boxer who got paid to lose, either, but you both took what you were given and made the best of it. 

When he met you, he saw right through you. He never thought he would; to him, people like you had all been the same for the longest time. You were the first to prove him wrong. He grew up as far from privilege as you grew up from living hand to mouth, and he couldn’t have cared less for it. 

That silver spoon in your mouth had always been so painfully empty to the point that all you could swallow was resentment. It was one of the reasons why Matt fell in love with you, because you didn’t believe you deserved to be loved, and he’d suffered enough loss to believe the same. You were both products of the love you hadn’t received, and that made you as human as one could be. 

He was your home the same way you were his, but the last time he got to hold you, you left him a broken mess that Foggy had to put back together because, unlike everyone else, he never dared to walk out on him. 

Until he died, and Matt had to learn the hard way what it was like to be alone again. 

The empty mug on his desk, left from the night before, goes flying off his desk and shatters against the floor of the office. Cold coffee splatters all over the glass wall; it smells so much tangier now. 

Matt swallows a yell, almost as deafening in the back of his throat as the crash itself. Then, for a moment, quiet settles in. 

Kirsten bursts into the room not long after. “What the f–” She glances at the mess, then back at him.

He straightens his tie, or maybe he’s loosening it.

“What the hell happened?” she asks. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

She closes the door behind her. “Bullshit! C’mon, sit down. I’ve gotta clean this up before you cut yourself.”

She guides him to a chair before fetching a handful of paper towels from the first drawer of his desk. He opens his mouth to object, but nothing comes out. 

It isn’t until the floor, the wall, and his pants are clean, and Kirsten has the shards safely stuffed into the trash, that she asks again, “Mind telling me now what’s going on with you?”

“It’s nothing,” Matt insists.

“Matt.”

“I’m fine. Just had a rough day, that’s all.”

“It’s 9 am,” she tells him. “The day hasn’t even started.”

“I know, I–” He sighs. “I just lost it, I’m sorry.”

“Apologize to the poor mug.” 

That finally elicits a chuckle from him.

Kirsten takes another tentative step forward. “It’s okay to miss him, you know?” she says.

Again, he sighs. “I know.”

“If you want to go home for the day, I can–”

“Nah.” Matt waves her off with a forced smile that neither of them believes. “I’m good,” he says. 

She doesn’t buy it, not one second of it, but she knows it is futile to keep pressing him for answers when he doesn’t want to give them. So, she simply pats his shoulder. “Alright, well, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the conference room. We’ve got a new client coming in,” she says. “Take all the time you need. Preferably not more than an hour, though.”

He snorts, running a hand over his beard. “Alright. Thanks.”

The door opens and closes with her leaving, and in his newfound solitude, he is left wondering again; wondering why you left, wondering why Foggy had to die, wondering what his life would have been like if you’d stayed, and wondering why, after all these years, Matt had to run into you now. 

He reaches into his left-hand pocket. The prayer card is slightly crinkled, but the Braille underneath his fingers is clear as day.

In Loving Memory of Franklin Nelson.

He hates that this is all he has left. 

From across the room, he can almost hear him say, “You’re an idiot.”

A sad chuckle rumbles through him. “Yeah,” Matt murmurs, “I know.”

It’s not fair that after all this time, even after all that has happened, there is not a bone in his body capable of hating you. God knows he tried. 

Matt misses the way it feels to be with you, to smell and to touch you. And he yearns for you. He has no choice but to remember—remember what life was like when he was yours, and you were his, and that was all he’d thought he would ever need. 

But that was sixteen years ago. 

Like all good things in life, it was never going to last. You were a disaster waiting to happen, the calm and the storm, and he let it happen.

Tag List: @murdockchronicles

[djo]

Dragged me into this rinky-dink firm, Murdock, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for it.

DAREDEVIL 1.09: Speak of the Devil DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN 1.06: Excessive Force

[stevenrogered]

I did what I had to do and I let the system take care of the rest- Oh, you and your goddamn system! Christ! So what now? Every day, Bullseye goes to the chow hole, eats his slop, you know he gets to breathe the same air that you breathe. You feel good about that? 

[peterpcrker]

#pictures taken moments before disaster

DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN S1E02: Optics

[noodles-07]

absolutely obsessed with the dynamic between Matt and Frank it's gotta be one of my favorite character dynamics of all time. Frank kills people as a hobby and Matt has never killed in his life. they can't have a conversation without cursing each other out. they trust each other enough to hold one another as they jump off a building. they physically fight more often than not. Frank has seen Matt's bare ass. they're both in love with the same woman who respects herself too much to hook up with either one of them. Matt is a Catholic who believes every soul can be saved except for his own and Frank doesn't think either of theirs needs to be. can anybody hear me is this thing on

[emailprobably]

does he know? does he know what he's doing with this?

[guardianspirits13]

what they won’t show us

[awhora]

Foggy Nelson is haunting the narrative like a dead wife in an indie film

[lovelybucky1]

I am literally a sugar baby and ddba Matt is EVERYTHING I WANT OMG 😩🥵

- 🍬

murdock and mcduffie have a rule against relationships between employees at their firm. it makes things messy and complicated, and the last thing you want from lawyers is a conflict of interest.

matt has never been one for following the rules, or bending them at the very least. you’re not dating your boss, technically. it’s more of a transactional relationship, really.

he buys you expensive shoes and jewelry and makeup and purses, often leaving them tucked away in the bottom drawer of your desk for you to find. in return, you show your gratitude after hours behind the closed door of his office.

his favorite things to buy you are clothes. especially pencil skirts and blazers, professional outfits that you wear to the office. he loves knowing you’re kicking ass in court wearing what he dressed you in.

[daredevilsource]

a lot can be said about matt murdock’s mental health, if the person who had to give him a therapy talk was frank castle instead of his therapist girlfriend.

[rednth]

I don't have anyone to talk about this

[starspangledsteeve]

average experience watching daredevil born again s1ep1

[ciricegh0st]

canonically sleeps on silk sheets and drinks oat milk matt murdock is one of the girls confirmed

[xxdrixx]

Daredevil: Born Again Season 1 Episode 09 - Straight to Hell