#matt murdock is going to be the death of me

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

WHATCHA DOING- M. MURDOCK

day twenty six of the june bug masterlist

pairing: ex- boyfriend! matt murdock x fem! reader (fake dating)

word count: 3.7k

summary: your distant cousin invites you and your ex-boyfriend matt to her wedding, under the impression the two of you are still together. wanting to keep the peace, you decide to invite him with you as your "fake" partner, in hopes it can rekindle the flame.

warnings: SMUT, praise kink, petnames, choking, flirting, sexual tension, fake dating trope!, kissing/ making out, mentions of alcohol, swearing

 “whatcha doin' to me, baby? i’m scared to death/ that you might be the one to change me, you're in my head/ and now you're cloudin' my decisions, got me headin' for collision…”- whatcha doing, dua lipa

 The corner of the envelope dug into your skin as you grasped the thick material, scanning over the fancy cursive, in bright red ink.

A smudge on your name, making it appear as if it was blood.

A scarlet letter.

Matt’s name next to yours was something you hadn't seen in months. It was as if time had stopped for a second, and you were no longer in a rush to scramble out of your work clothes and to pour a glass of wine.

It had been a long, tiring day at the office, the piles of papers seeming to stack so high they’d topple over with a single touch. It was dark when you entered those clear, revolving doors, and it was dark when you left them for the rush and bustle of the city's nightlife.

But the day had slipped out of reach as you saw your name next to your ex-boyfriends from your cousin.

It had been months since you and Matt were together, and you had tried so hard to put that past you. Things had ended on decent terms. No fall outs, no vicious fights or nasty words shouted. Things had just… disappeared.

Long, lonely nights became too much for you to bear. Now they were your typical nights.

Your cousin couldn't have known, of course.

You barely spoke to her, as she lived hours upon hours away- both of you too wrapped up with work and your own lives to make time to talk. But here her name was, on an envelope- containing a wedding invitation.

The words “You’re Invited” seemed to stare back at you, permanently etched onto your eyeballs.

Of course you would go, it only seemed right to support Hannah. She was your family, after all- and you were sure she would do the same for you…

Thoughts of what you and Matt could’ve been swirled around in your mind, covered by a translucent white wedding veil.

No. No, this was not about you- this was about her. You would do this for her, no matter how painful it was.

You took a deep breath, tossing the paper to the side. You’d deal with this later. Now, you just needed a hot, hot shower and sleep. Forget the wine. All you wanted was your head against your soft pillow as soon as possible.

As you trudged to the bathroom, all you could think of was Matt. How would you possibly explain this to him? Or your cousin? You were sure you could send her a letter back explaining everything… but… did you really want to?

You missed Matt more than anything.

This was… an opportunity.

An excuse, if you will- to see him again.

Did you really want to let that slip through your fingers?

You peeled your clothes off, running a hand through your hair as you stared at yourself in the mirror which had started to fog up, hot water running from the showerhead. It was so hot it burned as you stepped under the trickling water, and you let it.

You were stumped on what to do. At least that's what you told yourself as you let the steam scorch your skin, washing yourself with lavender soap.

But no amount of soap could wash away the memories of Matt Murdock, even as they spun down the drain.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•· ·•—–٠✤٠—–•· ·•—–٠✤٠—–•·

Listen, I need your help with something. I know it's been months since we’ve really talked, and we aren't together anymore but you  said if I needed anything to call or get you so here I am, at your law firm.

You almost laughed out loud at how stupid that sounded. Here you were, on your way to Matt's office on a Friday afternoon, practically about to get on your knees and beg like a whining puppy. You didn't want to call him and ask, that seemed too… fake.

You had been together for three years, the least you could do was ask him to be your fake boyfriend/ date to this wedding in person. You owed him that much.

Unless he wanted nothing to do with you anymore. Then the phone call would be better, the rejection wouldn't be visible on his face and it wouldn't cut as deep.

It was too late now. You were nearly at his firm, nothing with you but your purse, and the invitation. Your pride and dignity was left at home. You felt yourself start to slow, taking a deep breath as you turned the corner to a street you knew all so well.

It had been a while since you had been around this area of the city. But it was as if you had never left. Nelson and Murdock reflected in the sunlight, the gold freshly polished, catching your eye. A contrast against the bright red brick, just like the envelope.

You were tired of red. All it reminded you of was Matt.

You yanked open the door, the lock seeming faulty as you struggled to twist it open. It was cold as you entered, the air on full blast- the walls in the hallway empty, and plain white. Your heels clicked against the tile floors past the empty offices before finally reaching theirs.

It had been months since you had seen Foggy or Karen, and you hoped they were there. Just because you and Matt were not speaking as much didn't mean you had to have a falling out with your mutual friends. It was just a lot more difficult when they were so far and worked with your ex.

You finally reached their office, ignoring the ‘Back in Thirity Minitues’ sign draped over the handle. From what you remembered, they usually had their lunch break here.

“Oh I’m sorry we’re just on bre-” She paused, realization coming across her features as you walked in.

“Y/N! Ohmygosh!” You smiled as Karen skipped over for a hug, gripping you tightly, swaying you back and forth.

“Its so good to see you again!”

“Its been so long. I’ve missed you.” you smiled, squeezing her hands as she entangled them with yours, squeezing them back. She looked well and happy, cheeks a rosey tint, smile bright on her face.

You really did miss Karen. She was always so kind to you, even when you and Matt had split.

“Is Matt here?” you asked, and her smile faltered.

“Yeah, just in his office. Why, is everything okay? I mean I figured you were here to see him but ya know, you havent been here since things..”

“I’m okay, really. I just need to speak with him. Do you think he’d be okay with me coming in?”

She nodded. “Of course! Just go back and knock.”

You thanked her, sending a wave to Foggy through his opened door, his legs crossed up on his desk. You took a deep breath, hand resting on the doorhandle. You knew Matt could hear your uneven breaths, and he knew you were here.

If anything, it made you more nervous.

You rattled your knuckles against the wood, poking the door open a sliver. “Matt? Can I come in?” you asked softly, and he poked his head up from his papers, his fingers leaving the braille.

“Y/N. I was waiting for you.” he smiled softly, that boyish grin so familiar to you.

You missed it. You slipped through the crack, shutting the door softly behind you.

“You were?”

“Well yes, your anxious pacing down the hall could probably be heard down the block.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Hardy har. Very funny Murdock.”

He smiled, rubbing his hand through his hair. “How've you been?” he asked, all teasing dropped from his voice. You sighed, letting out a gentle laugh. That was a loaded question.

“I’ve been okay. Just.. ya know.”

His eyebrow raised. You sighed, sitting down in the chair across from him.

“My cousin is getting married soon, Hannah- you know, you’ve met her. And she sent us an invitation.”

“Us?”

You anxiously fiddled with your fingers, wringing them out. “Yeah… she didn't know we broke up. And she sent an invitation to both of us, and I just don't wanna trouble her with everything, and make things more difficult than they need to be.” you mumbled.

“Understandable.” he said, tilting his head. You didn't know if he knew where this was going or not. Hesitant to go on you cleared your throat anxiously.

“Well, I was wondering… could you maybe be my fake date to the wedding?”

He laughed. “Fake date? Of course princess. I think I’ve had some practice with that.”

“You- you mean you’ll do it? Seriously?”

You let out a small sigh of relief. Jesus. Okay, this wasn't going as bad as you thought it would.

“Course I will. Is there an open bar?”

“Yes. At least I think so.”

He nodded, extending his hand out for you to shake. “Then I’m there. It’s a deal.”

You gripped his hand, the skin slightly caloused and rough against your soft skin, but he was so warm compared to your chilled body. You savoured the warmth as he took your hand and brought it to his lips, planting a little kiss to your knuckles.

“A deal. Thank you Matt, seriously. It really means a lot.”

“I told you you could ask for my help anytime, for anything did I not? I still care about you, Y/N.”

Yeah, but not the way I want you to care about me, you thought- clinging to the ghost of the past as his hand brushed yours. Your skin prickled with little needles as you slipped it back in your lap, replacing his touch with your own to self soothe.

“I know.” was all you could slip out meekly, biting your lip hard enough until you tasted coper.

“Just call sometime and tell me the details okay? I think I’ll have the hang of pretending to be your boyfriend. Past experience and what not, it's already on the resume.”

You couldn't help but giggle at his remark, so overcome with relief you felt slightly dizzy as you stood, a foot already out the door before you could muster a goodbye and another thank you.

Okay, so this was really happening. Matt was going to the wedding with you, as your boyfriend.

Your fake boyfriend.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•··•—–٠✤٠—–•··•—–٠✤٠—–•·

You stared at yourself in the mirror, the dim, yellow hotel lighting making you look almost sickley.

You felt sick.

You felt like your entire breakfast was going to come back up and out of you, all over the reflective surface.

You didn't know if you could handle Matt's touches and looks towards you when others stared, knowing deep down it wasn't real. But you had asked him- for Christ's sake to do this. You had to pull yourself together.

You brushed the anxiety to the side, trying to push down the nausea as you pulled up your dress. It fit perfectly, and you couldn't help but feel a smidge proud of yourself for how well it suited you. There was just one little problem.

“Matt?”

You stepped out of the bathroom, clutching your dress. His head turned to the sound of your voice as he sat on the end of the hotel bed, waiting for you.

“Could you um… help me zip up this dress?” you asked, wincing slightly at how coupley it felt.

He smiled, fingers curling- indicating to come over to him. He stood as you turned in front of him, breath hitching as he stood, towering over you, fingers tracing your curves before the bare skin of your lower back to find the zipper.

You sucked in a breath as he took his sweet time, slowly inching the zipper up until it was done up.

You didn't move. He took a deep inhale, as if trying to ground himself before mumbling in your ear.

“You smell really, really delicious.”

You reached for your clutch, then froze. And yet, he acted like nothing had happened.

“Shall we go?” he asked, placing his hands on your shoulders tenderly as he slipped by, off to the door with ease.

Like this was second nature to him.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•··•—–٠✤٠—–•··•—–٠✤٠—–•·

No amount of champagne could dull the thudding of your heart each time Matt touched you.

Which was a lot.

Always near you, a hand resting on your wrist as you sat at dinner, chatting with extended family- feeling your thumping pulse. An arm wrapped around your middle whenever you stood off to the side- giving you a little squeeze. He hadn't been so bold as to kiss you- but you wouldn't put it past him.

You had to give credit where credit was due- he was playing the shit out of this role. And the worst part? It didn't even feel like he was acting. It was as if the two of you had never changed. The dynamic was the same- from the way you looked at him- to the way his body seemed to mold perfectly next to yours.

And you couldn't even get upset at him for acting this well- because you had asked him to do this.

You had asked him to break your heart all over again, because it was a glimpse into the past, and the future. What could've been. You had placed that burden on yourself- letting yourself get pulled into this fantasy, this make believe that a spark was still engited. Despite it being a happy day, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment that things hadnt worked out between you and Matt.

This had just solidified the pain.

Maybe this was a stupid idea, you thought, nursing another glass of bubbly in the corner, sulking in the shadows.

Matt had disappeared to god knows where- which was good, it gave you time to be trapped with your thoughts as punishment. But before you could get too wrapped up in the chain of regrets, a hand brushed your lower back, just barely grazing your ass.

“You okay sweetheart?”

He had appeared as if he had heard your thoughts screaming for him telepathically. You hated him, for how well he could read you.

“I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No, you’re not. You forget that I know you.”

“I know you know me.” you snapped, instantly regretting your harsh tone. “Sorry, fuck. I’m really sorry Matt I didn't mean to snap. Its just been a long day, and still is going to be a long night, I’m just tired and a little intoxicated, my feet hurt and- now I’m rambling arent I?”

He chuckled, giving your ass a little reasurring pat, feeling pairs of eyes on you two. You sucked in a breath, hating yourself for how much the simple flirtaous touch effected you.

“Go on sweetheart. Act like no ones watching us, yeah?”

You nodded, sighing before you took another sip of your drink. “I just- I kinda regret inviting you. Honestly.”

“Am I not doing good? Shit I’m sorry Y/N I thought things were going well-”

“No, no its not that. I guess I’m just, not handling this as well as I thought I could. And I’m honestly, a little bit jealous of Hannah. Which is such an awful thing to say, especially today.”

You shrugged, chugging back the rest of your glass. You felt his thumb start to rub your back soothingly, feeling the emotions bubble to the top.

You savoured it. There was a part of you that just wanted to say fuck it, and give up all control around him. He was dangerous, in that way. All decisions were clouded- as if you were speeding on a highway in nothing but fog.

Perfect for collisions.

Surely, he had to know what he was doing. He was being too perfect. And you desperately craved to find something wrong- and it worried you that you couldnt. Matt Murdock still had your heart captured, held between his fingers.

All he had to do was squeeze.

“Its not awful to say. And I get it, its weird to be here, us- together but Y/N… I’m really happy to be with you again. I’ve missed you. And I’m so, so honoured you asked me to come.”

You froze. “You missed me?”

He nodded, shrugging, as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole wide world. “Who wouldnt?”

That made you flustered. “I-I um… I missed you too Matt. A lot. I’m glad you feel the same.”

He smiled, that charming, handsome smile that sucked you in over three years ago, leaving the same warmth in your chest.

“Shall we dance? To escape your aunt who is rounding the corner as we speak?”

Not wanting to listen to her ramble on for thirty minutes, getting you both caught up in the cross-fire, you set down your empty glass and followed him onto the dancefloor.

Hands free, and heart soaring with hope at the idea maybe, just maybe- this was a good idea afterall.

·•—–٠✤٠—–•··•—–٠✤٠—–•··•—–٠✤٠—–•·

You wanted to scream at him.

What are you doing to me?!

His hands wandered, whether it was for show or sincere, you couldn't tell. But they were everywhere. On your hips, on your ass, stroking his fingers delicately up your bare arm, caressing your skin softly as they captured your jaw.

It was intoxicating.

You couldn't help but laugh at his ridiculously jokes, following him by the arm as he went and got more drinks for the two of you. It wasn't long before the night had gotten the best of you. Now you were screaming at him.

For different reasons.

“F-fuck Matt-” you moaned, clutching the marble vanity as he fucked you from behind. It hadn’t taken much longer before slow teasing kisses on the sides of the ballroom turned into hauling him into some rich, fancy bathroom.

You prayed the music was too loud for anyone to hear you if they walked by. But you couldn't control your noises. He felt too good. And he didn't you want you to control them either.

“Yeah sweetheart you keep making those pretty noises. I’ve missed them. And I’ve missed her- that sweet little pussy of yours that fits me just right. Like you were made for me.”

Your eyes rolled back at his filthy praises, thrusting in deeper as he hiked your dress skirt around your hips. You clung for dear life, the counter practically imprinting your palms as he showed you no mercy.

And you loved it.

You prayed to every god he would come undone, be the needy, desperate, controlling man you loved so dearly between your sheets before. That, it seems, had never left.

“You know that sweetheart? Couldnt fuck anyone else after you. This pussy is too fuckin good. Thought of her everynight with my hand around my cock.”

“Mhmm missed you s’much baby..” you panted, watching the way your tits bounced against the restraint of your dress, your lipstick smudged from when he had hoisted you up against the locked bathroom door and ravaged them like a man starved.

“I know. I know sweetheart just- fuck- just like that. Doing so good for me.” he praised, hand wrapping around your neck, squeezing it gently, just the way you liked- guiding you to arch even further as he kissed you.

Broken moans were swallowed by his tongue- the music outside cranked even louder.

Fuck. You prayed no one was looking for the two of you right now. In fact, after this- you’d find a way to sneak away with Matt- to who knows where, just to get another taste.

“Matt- Matty I’m gonna cum-”

“I can feel ya honey, s’okay. Just let go for me, I got you. I always got you.”

A kiss was planted to the top of your head, so gentle and loving it nearly sent a tear dripping down your cheek. You hadn't realized just how much you had missed him, not only his touch but the way his words, and the way he just… understood. It was like some patched hole in your heart had been fully healed, hearing his praise.

And it was wrong, and you prided yourself on your independence. But you'd do anything to crawl back to him. And it seemed he was right there, down to crawl and meet you there.

You came around him with a cry, legs quivering slightly as he held you up with ease. Your head was so foggy you could barely even register his praises- sounding like they were coming from above the surface of the sea.

Sweet whispers of I got you baby, or You did so good honey, gonna cum inside okay? N’fill you up? Sounded like sweet melodies, and you nodded absent mindley as he filled you up to the brim, the warmth coating your insides.

“Matt- t-thank you.” you whispered as he slowly slipped out, planting a sweet kiss to your shoulder as his cum spilled down your inner thighs.

“Why are you thanking me honey?” he asked softly, grabbing some paper towels to try and clean you up the best he could.

“For making me feel so loved.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek and he froze, a concerned crease in his forehead as he spun you around, wiping the salty tear with a thumb, letting it slowly rub coaxing circles on your cheek.

“I’ve never stopped loving you sweetheart. I’m so, so sorry it had to be the way it did.”

You nodded, your lashes fluttering against your cheek as he pulled you in close, supporting your weight, your burdens, your fears as he held you to his chest. Letting you get out everything you needed to- no words spoken, just silent tears as your hands found their way to his suit jacket, fidgeting with the fabric.

“You wanna get out of here and feel loved some more?” he murmured, planting another kiss to the top of your head as he started to sway you side to side, like a rocking horse. Just as he used to do, when you were barefoot in the kitchen, in nothing but his t-shirt, slow dancing in the moonlight.

It was so calming you almost felt yourself drifting off against his beating heart, before you fully registered his words. Let yourself smile, and wipe away the tears.

“You really can read me, Murdock.”

[billionstarsandhereweare]

Charlie Cox on set of Daredevil: Born Again S2

not mine!!! but this came across my FYP on TikTok and uhhhhhh had to share, I couldn’t find these photos anywhere on tumblr

all credit to https://www.tiktok.com/@jess__00_?_t=ZP-8xAyqDZYlep&_r=1 (if you see this and you want me to take this down I can!!!)

[hipwell]

matt relapsed and went off the deep end daredevil mode. he has never looked more alive. smiling and pissing off everyone who loves him.

[witchofthemidlands]

going mildly feral at thought of seeing frank castle again tonight, hope he rocks up to matt's hospital room during a conversation between matt & heather in full punisher gear, nods at heather, throws matt's daredevil suit at him at tells him they've got some shit to fuck up.

[kwistowee]

Well, they did the thing. 8 minutes into the first episode and they did the thing. I sobbed. And not because I'm heartbroken. I sobbed because I'm furious.

[twilight-deviant]

Me compiling, for no real reason, all the times Fisk and Matt have successfully killed each other.* The winner with most kills may surprise you... It's Matt.

*(If I'm missing any instances, let me know.)

Matt Kills Fisk

[What If? (1989) #2]

An alternative to the Born Again arc where Matt, at the end of his rope after being put there by Fisk, kills him in an act of desperation.

[What If Karen Page Had Lived? (2004)]

What If where Karen lives (in hospital) and Matt's feelings become more vengeful than depressed. Mysterio kills himself when confronted, and Bullseye is apparently too sociopathic to punish? So Matt goes after Fisk for his smaller role in the event. (It's a good comic, even if the reasoning to get there feels convoluted and forced. Like I don't think he'd skip Bullseye.)

[What If? Daredevil Vs. Elektra (2009)]

Matt is killed in college but revived by The Hand with no memories of his former life. He becomes a killer, with Fisk being one of his targets.

[Daredevil: End of Days (2012) #1]

Fisk returning to the city after exile and striking a deal with the feds is apparently the last straw for this Matt. (DD S3, eat your heart out.)

[Spider-Gwen (2015) #28]

"Murderdock" worked for Fisk but killed his boss in order to take his place as Kingpin.

Technicality?

(This gets... half a point. Maybe.)

[Daredevil (1964) #380]

[Daredevil (1964) #380]

Incorrect rumors told by separate witnesses over what happened when a ship that Fisk, Matt, and others were on exploded. At least two of the three iterations appear to have Matt killing Fisk. I wouldn't say it counts because this isn't what actually happened, but storytelling is storytelling.

Fisk Kills Matt

[Powerless (2004) #6]

After other attempts fail to silence blind attorney Matt Murdock (not enhanced or Daredevil), Fisk kills him following one final confrontation.

[Daredevil 2099 (2004)]

Fisk's grandson, Samuel, recounts how Kingpin killed Daredevil, ending their rivalry. (Samuel is the new Daredevil. But also Kingpin as well.)

[Darkdevil (2000) #2]

Fisk gave the order to kill Daredevil and Daredevil was killed. I would say this counts. But what ultimately takes Matt down is getting in the way of bullets meant for someone else. The text box calls it a sacrifice. So yes? No? Is the act of sacrifice what killed him, or was he simply murdered? Would Matt have lived if he weren't protecting someone else? I suppose yes, we'll call it murder.

Technicalities

[Devil's Reign (2021) #5]

Fisk does and does not kill Matt here. He kills Matt's real/not-real twin brother Mike (who was pretending to be Matt) due to anger over his original memories of Daredevil's identity being erased from his mind. Unclear whether it counts. In its favor, not only is Fisk fully convinced he's killing Matt Murdock, but Mike is a creation based off Matt's original portrayal of him. He is and isn't part of Matt. Mike was a real boy with his own life at this point though.

[Marvel Knights: Millennium Visions (2001)]

It meets the basic criteria of being a universe where Fisk kills Matt, but this is all we have. Does one page of text really count? A lot of this comic (mostly text) is filled with jokes about other Marvel characters that aren't meant to be taken serious (like the other DD mention). While I like the concept they imagine here, I think it needs more effort than, "Be cool if..."

[Marvel Versus DC: Assassins (1996)]

This one definitely does not count because it's not Matt. It's not technically Marvel? It's a feminine Marvel/DC mashup of two separate characters, Daredevil (Marvel) and Deathstroke (DC), to create a completely new character. But the Kingpin/Riddler amalgamation kills her (by grossly ripping off little horns he previously had surgically grafted to her skull) so...

[deviouz]

the way he went “oh, sweetheart” all condescendingly had me violently frothing at the mouth and ready to explode into a billion trillion tiny little pieces.

matthew murdock i know what you are

[outoftheseine]

- BUCKY BARNES FIC RECS 4 -

i’m so obsessed with catws!bucky you have no idea | note: please be aware of the authors’ warnings before reading. fics include canon tw’s like: violence, death, grief. torture and ptsd. some fics have 18+ content so minors please DNI.

part one | part two | part three | main masterlist | also check my latest list: matt murdock pt 2

SERIES - MULTI-CHAPTERS

the blade and the crown • knight!bucky barnes x queen!reader

↳ by @fandoms-writings (smut, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, secret relationship)

avoidance | chaos | strangers | power • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @ultralightpoe (angst, hurt/comfort, tw: ptsd)

illicit affairs • biker!bucky barnes x stark!reader

↳ by @auroralwriting (enemies to lovers, age gap, angst, gangs)

between a dream | part two | part three • tws!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bcksbarnes (angst, comfort, fluff)

before i could say it • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @fawniswriting (angst, fluff, insecure!bucky)

lessons in lovemaking • bucky barnes x blackwidow!reader

↳ by @artficlly (smut, touch starved!bucky, fluff, angst, bickering, tw: trauma, sa)

foundations • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @vunblr (dad!bucky, fluff, a little angsty, smut)

not in that way • bucky barnes x fwb!gn!reader

↳ by @jaggedamethyst (smut, mutual pining, miscommunication, angst, fluff)

say don’t go • college!hockey!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @the-winter-spider (angst, mean!bucky, pining, smut)

wake up | part two | part three • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (very angsty)

the falcon, the winter soldier and static • bucky barnes x stark!reader

↳ by @theconstantsidekick

quiet down | stay quiet • roommate!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @adrinktostopyourthirst (smut)

the soldier’s keeper • bucky barnes x doctor!reader | soldat (part of the universe)

by @pome-seed (angst, kidnapping)

ONE-SHOTS - BLURBS - HC’S

be(tter) in reality with me • bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader

↳ by @t-lostinworlds (angst, hurt/comfort, fluff)

dear lover • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @johnkrrasinski (very fluffy, slight angst)

my girl • domestic!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucket-barnes (very fluffy)

the cure • bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @/bucky-bucket-barnes (very angsty, hurt/comfort, slowburn, fluff)

fast track • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @sidmakestuff (angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, insecure!bucky, little explicit)

the rain is always gonna come if you’re standing with me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (angst, tw: harassment)

for as long as you need me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @whatthetumblfck (fluff, hurt/comfort)

worthy • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @duuhrayliegh (fluff)

softened by time • bucky barnes x gn!reader

↳ by @heyitsme1040 (domestic fluff)

his girl • bucky barnes x enchanced!reader

↳ by @roguerogerss (fluff)

enemies • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @ro-is-struggling (angst, hurt/comfort, enemies to friends, tw: trauma)

the same thing • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @appocalipse (angst with happy ending)

rest had seemed the sweetest thing • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @violentdelightsandviolentends (sooo fluffy)

i know you • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @oneofstarkskids (angst, fluff)

road trip • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @munsster (fluff, a little angst)

come find me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (angst, hurt/comfort)

mercy kill • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (very angsty)

unspoken • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @maevedoodle (comfort, nightmares, fluff)

sweet like plums • cw!bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @mandoalorian (smut)

summer breeze • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @orithyia-eriphyle (very fluffy, hurt/comfort)

safe space • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @helaintoloki (angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, tw: ptsd, trauma, torture)

echos • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @brokenbarnes (very angsty but fluffy end, hurt/comfort)

trouble • bucky barnes x fem!reader /

↳ by @marvelwitchergilmore (enemies to lovers, fluff, fake dating)

a place to land • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @cheekybarnes (angst, comfort, tw: sexual violence, ptsd)

lost for words • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @daxisyzz (fluff)

his girls • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @artficlly (very fluffy, secret dating)

lovesick • bucky barnes x maximoff!reader

↳ by @ang3ltine (fluff, little angsty, tw: torture)

sparing you • beefy!bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader

↳ by @sergeantbarnessdoll (fluff, slight angst)

love bruises • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @multiversediaries (very soft, fluffy, domestic!buck, a little smutty)

hole in the earth• bucky barnes x mutant!fem!reader

↳ by @em1i2a3 (smut, angst, age gap, hurt/comfort, tw: panic attacks)

only you, doll • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @billionairebratenergy (fluff, kind of possessive!bucky)

home with you • roommate!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (oh so fluffy, lots of pining)

creamy or crunchy • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (so so so fluffy, protective!bucky)

mission mishap • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader

↳ by @mugglebornmarvelite (hurt/comfort, fluff)

bruised shadows • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @happy74827 (slight angst, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine)

what you do to him • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @xxthelovelyopossumiixx (domestic, smut)

scars to your beautiful • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @buckybarnesandmarvel (insecure!bucky, comfort)

blurred lines • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @ellemj (smut, angst, enemies to lovers, jealous,possessive!bucky, one bed trope)

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[monicfever]

dd n punisher characters with a hypersexual/overly hormonal reader? of course if you're not comfortable with this type of stuff you don't have to write <3

hypersexual!reader 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

matt pretends to be unbothered by how forward you are, but he absolutely notices every suggestive comment, every lingering touch, every flirtation. it always gets under his skin more than he lets on. he’ll smile that smug little half-smile, tilt his head like he’s trying to read you, and say something like, “you really don’t hold back, do you?” — but it’s always a little breathless.

he’s always listening. you think you’re being sneaky when you touch yourself in the other room, but matt hears everything. every breath, every rustle of sheets, every quiet whimper. it drives him insane. he’ll usually let you keep going for a while (just to hear it). eventually he’ll show up in the doorway, arms crossed: “having fun?” and the moment you smile at him, it’s over.

he likes the chase. you being constantly turned on doesn’t bother him, but he enjoys making you wait. you’ll try to crawl into his lap when he’s doing paperwork or patching himself up, but he’ll smirk and say, “you want something?” like he doesn’t already know.

he has rules, but you’re the exception. matt tries to set boundaries. “no distractions before patrol.” “not while we’re in public.” “not when i’m bleeding.” yet, somehow, your lips on his neck or your hand creeping under his shirt makes him forget every one of them. you’ll hear him groan out, “you’re gonna be the death of me.” while pulling you closer.

you fluster him more than he’ll admit. you’ve whispered things to him in church before. at nelson & murdock while foggy’s in the other room. across a dinner table while he's pretending to focus. every time, you catch the faint pink in his cheeks, the way he adjusts his posture like he’s suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. “you’re incorrigible.” he’ll mutter. and then he’ll kiss you like he’s punishing you for it.

sometimes, when you’re being especially over-the-top — dropping innuendos in public, texting him filthy things while he’s in court — he’ll give you that warning tone. quiet, dangerous, voice low and right at your ear.

when you’re feeling particularly needy, he’s infuriatingly good at switching the roles. “oh, now you want my attention?” he’ll murmur, catching your wrists as you crawl into his lap. “you seemed just fine earlier.” he knows exactly how to drag it out until you’re the one begging, and when he does finally give in, it’s intense, focused, and a little overwhelming in the best way.

aftercare means a lot to him, even if you’re the one instigating all the time. he’ll kiss your shoulder, your knuckles, the top of your head. he’ll ask, “you okay?” even if you’re giggling and glowing. “again? insatiable.”

on a heavier note, sometimes your intensity stirs something deeper in him. his own guilt, his conflict between pleasure and penance. there are moments when he’ll gently pull back, not to reject you, but to steady himself.

sometimes he worries he’s not enough. he knows you’re intense, that your needs don’t exactly quiet down. even though he’s more than capable of keeping up, there are nights where he wonders if he can keep satisfying you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

notices everything. every suggestive glance, every teasing touch, every time you slide up beside him wearing next to nothing. he won’t always react — not right away — but you’ll catch the slight tilt of his head, the shift in his breathing. he’s got that stillness that says don’t push me unless you mean it. and you always mean it.

he’s not one for words, especially not when it comes to sex. so when you’re being flirty, constantly on him, slipping innuendos into everyday conversation, he mostly just hums or raises a brow. when he does speak, it’s in that rough voice — something like, “you keep talkin’ like that, you’re gonna find out how far i’ll take it.”

he holds back for a while. you’re always testing the line, always touching, always turning things suggestive. he plays it cool at first, lets you push and push. once he gives in, he doesn’t hold back. it’s intense, fast, physical — he grabs, lifts, pins. after he’s quiet again. catching his breath. wiping his hand down his face like you’ve just unraveled him.

tries not to act like he cares about how much you want him, but the truth is it gets to him. you wanting him like that, so openly, so often; it gets to him. there’s something healing in it, something anchoring. sometimes when you’re curled up next to him afterward, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and murmur, “you’re trouble.”

he doesn’t judge. never once makes you feel like you’re too much. your neediness, your teasing, your constant desire doesn’t scare him, doesn’t annoy him. if anything, it pulls him in. you’re real, alive, shameless about what you want. frank’s been in the dark too long not to be drawn to that kind of light.

he tries to ignore you when he’s focused, but you are relentless. sitting in his lap while he’s working on something. whispering, “wanna take a break?” with your fingers ghosting over his chest. he doesn’t look at you at first — keeps his hands busy — but his jaw tenses and his breath slows, like he’s trying to pray his way through it. “i’m tryin’ to get this done.” he’ll rasp. you smirk, “i’m trying to get you done.”

he doesn’t like being teased when he’s busy, so when you push him too far, pressing against him while he’s fixing something or whispering filthy things in his ear when he’s trying to clean a gun - - he’ll give you a warning. just a look. if you ignore it? he shuts the whole world out and shows you exactly what happens when you don’t listen.

when you’re being dramatic about needing him, he’ll act annoyed, but deep down it kills him in the sweetest way. “frank,” you’ll whine from across the room, “i’m bored and horny and you’re ignoring me.” and he’ll sigh like you’re exhausting — but then walk over and manhandle you into his arms without a word. picks you up and lays you out like he’s been waiting for you to ask.

he worships your body in private. all that heat and teasing you throw at him gets returned in full once he’s got you alone. he takes his time, holds you still, tells you exactly what he’s going to do in that deep, steady voice. “you want this?” he’ll ask, even though he already knows.

but he’s also so soft after. runs his thumb along your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real. presses a kiss to your shoulder, your forehead, the curve of your hip.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he is constantly flustered. like. constantly. you’ll say something absolutely filthy with a straight face while he’s drinking his morning coffee and he’ll choke every time. stammering, red in the face, eyes wide. “you — you can’t just say that while i’m holding hot liquid!”

he brags to matt. not in detail (he’s respectful, okay), but he definitely walks around with that post-you glow, hair messy, tie a little crooked, sipping coffee like he’s untouchable. matt raises a brow. foggy just shrugs. “what can i say? i’m being thoroughly appreciated.” — casually mentions to karen that he “had a very energetic weekend” while sipping his fourth cup of coffee.

he pretends to be shocked, but he loves it. he lives for it. he’ll say things like “you are so inappropriate” while his hand is already on your waist, pulling you closer. he’s not fooling anyone, not with that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

he loves making you feel good. your neediness doesn’t put him off, he’s just thrilled to be the one you want. he takes his time with you. he listens. and when you’re breathless under him, gripping the sheets and begging for more? he looks at you like you hung the stars.

you make him feel like a king. you’re bold about it. you want him, loudly and often, and foggy melts. literally melts. “you want me that bad?” he asks, half in disbelief, half smug. and when you say yes without hesitation? he gets that cocky little glint in his eyes.

you make him nervous in the best way. like, this is a guy who can argue a courtroom into submission, but the second you lean in at the office and whisper something filthy in his ear, he loses all ability to function.

public teasing turns him into a mess. you run your hand along his thigh under the table, whisper dirty things while you’re walking beside him, and he’s just trying to not combust. “can you not?” he hisses through a grin, but there’s no real protest. he’s into it.

he calls you a menace all the time. lovingly. half-scold, half-swoon.

he tries to retaliate. he’ll flirt back. maybe even whisper something filthy of his own, thinking he’s got you now. you double down. he immediately regrets it in the best way. “okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, hands up. “you’re dangerous.”

he’s an aftercare king. gets you water, fluffs your pillow, runs a bath. holds you close while you both come down. if you so much as hint at being ready for another round he’ll fake-complain (“you’re trying to kill me!”) while already kissing down your neck.

when he tries to keep up with you, it’s adorable. you’ll say something filthy and he’ll try to match you with a slick comeback; but the timing’s off, or he blushes halfway through, and it just ends up being the cutest thing you’ve ever heard.

he’s a cuddler with no shame. after you’ve exhausted him (and let’s be honest, you do), he’s all tangled limbs and sleepy kisses. “you’re insane,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. “i love it. don’t stop.” his voice is warm, a little hoarse, completely smitten.

he can’t keep secrets. not real ones. if he’s been thinking about you all day, he’ll tell you. “you left me like that this morning and expected me to go to work like a functioning adult?” he texts you during court. you send back a selfie in something slightly obscene. he slams his phone face-down on the desk and mutters “i’m in hell” with a dazed smile.

“no more sending suggestive photos while i’m at lunch with matt’s priest friend.”

he loves you exactly the way you are. loud, needy, bold, inappropriate — he eats it up.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

she tries to be professional. she’ll be typing up a story, dead focused, and then you saunter in, leaning over her chair, whispering something that should absolutely be illegal. her jaw tenses, her eyes stay on the screen. “i’m working.” but she’s already shifting in her seat, biting her lip.

she has a secret mouth. when she wants to, she’ll say something so filthy it stuns you into silence. usually in a whisper. close to your ear. “you gonna beg for it, or just keep looking at me like that?” and then she just waits. calm. still. eyes on you, daring you to do something about it.

you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss like it’s urgent, touch like you need her; it leaves her reeling. she’ll try to keep her cool but you’ll catch the way she exhales a little too hard, or stares at your mouth a second too long.

she teases right back. once she’s comfortable with you, you’re in trouble. she’ll wait until you’re the one trying to focus, then lean in and say something devastating in that soft, matter-of-fact voice. “if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it to dinner.” and then just walk away. smirking.

but you also unravel her. she’s used to bottling things up, being composed. you’re all touch and need and hunger and affection. it pulls something raw out of her. when you’re whispering her name, clawing at her shirt, telling her how good she makes you feel, she loses her edge.

she’s fiercely attentive. your hypersexuality doesn’t scare her, doesn’t make her pull away. if anything it makes her want to understand you better. know your needs, meet them fully, love you through it. she’ll read you like a book — figure out exactly what makes you tick — and then use it.

she absolutely uses your energy to distract you. when she wants your attention, she’ll give you that look, chin tilted, eyes sharp, and say something devastating in a calm voice. “get over here.” and suddenly you’re the one undone, aching and obedient.

she knows when you’re trying to seduce her and lets you. she’ll play along like she’s unfazed, arms crossed, head tilted. “you think you’re being subtle?” she’ll say while you’re practically crawling into her lap. but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth? the way her eyes darken just a little? yeah, you’ve already won.

she does not shy away from intimacy. your neediness doesn’t embarrass her, it draws her in. she’s not here to shame you or play coy. she wants to be wanted like that. to be touched like she matters. when she gets overwhelmed, she clings. yeah, you’re the hypersexual one — but when she finally lets go, she gets wrapped up in it too. hands in your hair, lips on your throat, whispering your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

she absolutely teases you in public. she’ll press up behind you at the grocery store, whisper something obscene with the most innocent look on her face, then walk off like nothing happened. you’re the one standing there stunned, clutching a box of cereal like it just said something inappropriate.

gets handsy when she’s tired. maybe it’s after a long day, maybe it’s when she’s half-asleep on the couch, but her hands start wandering, slow and lazy and full of intention.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

absolutely thinks it’s amusing. from the start, she watches you with that signature, smug little smile every time you throw yourself at her like a live wire. her eyes are dark, hungry, like she’s daring you to want her more.

she matches your energy with terrifying ease. you flirt to fluster — she flirts to destroy. you say something filthy and she just smiles, leans in, and whispers something ten times worse in your ear while touching you exactly where it counts.

you don’t scare her. she welcomes all of it. feeds off of it. where others might pull away, elektra leans into it. and when you beg? her grin gets sharp.

she teases you to the edge of madness. she’ll touch you under the table during dinner, drag her nails over your thighs when you’re trying to focus, kiss your jaw and say, “you’ll behave, won’t you?” in public — knowing damn well you won’t. she wants you to break. that’s the game. taunts you when you’re needy. you’ll whine, cling, kiss her like you’re begging for something, and she’ll laugh — low and wicked. “you’ll have to earn it.” she’ll purr, dragging her fingers down your back.

she owns the aftermath. after you’ve lost your mind on her, desperate and clinging, she turns soft. unexpectedly so. hands gentle, voice low, fingers brushing your hair back as she says, “look at you. i do love how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

she lives for your attention. she won’t admit it, at least not easily, but the way you’re always reaching for her, needing her, dragging her in like you’re starving for her? it feeds something in her. reminds her she’s wanted.

she doesn’t believe in moderation. so you being constantly touchy, constantly turned on? she meets it with equal force. doesn’t ask why you want her again, just laughs, low and cruel, “on your knees, then.” like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

she gets mean when she’s turned on. in that smirking, dominant, slightly dangerous way. “what’s the matter, sweetheart?” she’ll say when you’re writhing under her, voice honey-sweet and mocking. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? all that begging…”

she tests how far you’ll go. she’ll push you in public, press a hand between your thighs under the table, kiss your neck just a little too long, and ask in your ear, “going to behave, or make a scene?” and when you shiver, grip her wrist, beg for more — that’s when she grins like the devil. “that’s what i thought.”

watches you like prey. doesn’t matter how many times you’ve kissed, or how many times you’ve begged her to take you apart, she always looks at you like she’s deciding where to sink her teeth next. you flirt with her in front of someone else? challenge her in that low voice? she’ll take you home and ruin you.

when you come onto her in a bad mood she melts. she could be fresh off a mission, furious, bloodied, but you crawling into her lap and saying, “let me help”? she softens instantly. not in a weak way, in a worshipful way. like your desire grounds her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

at first, he doesn’t know what to do with you. you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss him like it’s urgent, touch him in casual greedy little ways that short-circuit his brain. he tries to act normal, tries to hold himself together, but you catch him clenching his jaw, fingers twitching, chest rising a little too fast.

he gets obsessed fast. the second he realizes how much you want him — how openly, constantly, shamelessly — you flip some hidden switch in him. he wants more. needs it. suddenly he’s tracking your every move, memorizing the way you kiss him, the way you look at him like he’s the only thing on your mind.

he follows instructions like they’re oxygen. “sit.” “stay still.” “hands behind your back.” you say it, and he does it. instantly. without blinking. it’s instinct at this point — his body reacting before his mind catches up. the second he obeys, he’s looking up at you, waiting for approval, wide-eyed and aching for your praise.

he’s dangerous when you rile him up too far. you flirt too much, grind against him when he’s trying to behave, whisper something filthy in his ear when you’re supposed to be focused, and he snaps. drags you somewhere private, presses you against the wall, and just takes. it’s quiet, intense, almost reverent. “you drive me crazy.” he groans, forehead to yours.

he doesn’t know how to handle being needed. you tell him you want him — again and again and again — and it undoes him. makes him shaky. makes him cling. sometimes after you’ve worn each other out, he just holds you too tight and buries his face in your neck. like he’s afraid if he lets go, it’ll all disappear.

he gets flustered in the cutest, darkest way. you say something explicit and he freezes — eyes dark, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his neck. he doesn’t laugh it off or blush. he stares. silently. like he’s deciding how many rules he’s willing to break right now. spoiler: it’s all of them.

he’s so good at ruining you in return. the minute you start pushing him he gives it back, tenfold. pins your wrists. makes you beg. says nothing for most of it, just stares at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. when you come undone he whispers, “look at you… look at what you let me do.”

your neediness makes him feel safe. he doesn’t always say it. but knowing you want him that much? that openly? it quiets the noise. the guilt. the rage. he touches you like you’re salvation. holds you after like you’re the only thing keeping him on the edge of sanity. you are.

he spirals when you tease him and then act innocent. you’ll straddle his lap, whisper something obscene, kiss his neck, then just walk away like it didn’t happen. dex sits there, frozen, jaw clenched, staring at the wall like he’s trying not to snap a pencil in half. by the time he finds you again, he’s feral. “you think this is a game?”

he thrives when you lose control. the moment your composure cracks — the moment you beg, or whimper, or grab at him like you can’t take it anymore — his whole demeanor shifts. his lips curl into this possessive little smirk.

he's insatiable once you’ve broken the seal. if he’s gone too long without touching you he gets ravenous. rough, shaky hands. kisses that don’t stop. taking you again and again, like he’s trying to make up for all the hours he went without you.

he doesn’t know how to take it when you praise him. he stares at you like he doesn’t know how to absorb it. like part of him doesn’t believe he deserves that softness. but he needs it. and when you say it again, gentler this time, he kisses you like he’ll die without it. he adores being praised. when you tell him he’s good, or strong, or perfect, his whole body trembles, just a little. his breath catches. it’s like he’s hearing it for the first time, every time, and it shakes him to his core. “you like that, don’t you?” you’ll tease. and he’ll look at you with this raw, desperate expression. “say it again,” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, “please.”

he gets needy in the best way. the more you touch him, the more you praise him, the more desperate he becomes. the man who usually has all the control suddenly becomes weak for you. he’s a mess when you praise him during sex. when you tell him he’s good in bed, that he’s making you feel good — that’s when he absolutely falls apart. his hands go slack, his body goes rigid, and he’ll mumble, “don’t stop.” over and over. every word that spills from your mouth is like a drug, and it’s ruining him in the best way possible.

he loves when you take control. push him down. tell him not to move. give him orders like you expect them to be followed — because he wants to follow them. he wants to earn your touch, your words, your love. when he gets it he’s panting, melting, gripping the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.

his obedience isn’t about power — it’s about love. he doesn’t kneel for you because he’s weak. he kneels because he trusts you. because he knows that when you give him orders, you’ll also give him affection. and that means everything to him.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

tries to be cocky about it at first. smirking while you straddle him, talking shit like, “gonna take what you want, baby?” but the second you actually do — grab his wrists, grind down, whisper “be good for me” — his whole body shudders. the smirk fades. his jaw clenches. and he’s whispering, “fuck… okay. okay.”

he gets jealous of your attention. not just who you give it to — but when you withhold it. you tease him, flirt then walk away, or spend more time on your phone than in his lap, and he’s immediately pressing up behind you, voice low: “what, you done using me already?”

you catch him off guard constantly. dragging him into the nearest room, climbing into his lap during meetings, whispering something unholy while he’s trying to concentrate. and he plays it cool, sure — but the way he grips the edge of the table or clenches his jaw? oh, he’s losing it.

he becomes so obedient under the right pressure. you tell him stay still and he does. every muscle tight, breathing uneven, eyes locked on you like he’s waiting for his next instruction. he looks cocky, but that tension in his body? that’s need. he wants your praise. needs your permission.

he thrives off your desire. knowing you want him all the time, that you’re always thinking about him — it makes him feel powerful. desired. worshipped. he’ll tease you for it —“you really can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

but the more you want him, the more needy he becomes. it stops being a game and starts being obsession. now he’s the one touching you constantly, dragging you into bed at all hours, whispering, “just one more time, baby. can’t stop thinking about you.”

he’ll let you use him. no ego, no fight — just “tell me what to do.” if you’re extra desperate, pulling at his clothes and grinding on him like you’ll lose your mind without it, he lets you take it. lets you pull his belt loose and ride him breathless. hands on your thighs, eyes locked on you like you’re holy.

he melts for praise but tries to hide it. you call him good and he lets out this shaky breath, head dropping back, hands fisting the sheets. “fuck,” he whispers, like he’s embarrassed at how much it affects him. you tease him for how much he likes it. “look at you,” you’ll purr, dragging your nails down his chest, “mr. billy russo. ceo. soldier. killer. begging for my approval.” and he groans. because yeah. he is. and when you call him your pretty boy, your sweet thing, your favourite toy — he thrives. eats it up. all of it. he follows instructions so, so well. you train him without even meaning to. tell him how to touch you. when to stay still. where to put his hands. he gets desperate for your praise. he’ll push himself to the edge trying to make you feel good, looking up at you like a starved thing. “you feel good?” he pants.

he wants you to ruin him. not physically — emotionally. he wants you to strip him down. take all the masks off. make him yours in a way no one else ever has. when you say, “mine,” and grip his chin so he has to look at you? his body goes limp. he nods, quiet, obedient.

he’s competitive about keeping up. you want it again? again? oh, he’s rising to the challenge. he won’t back down — won’t let you think for one second he can’t handle it. but by round five, he’s on his back, breathless, hair damp, muttering, “jesus christ— what are you trying to do to me?”

he starts scheduling around your sex drive. literally moves meetings, delays calls, closes his office door and texts you a simple: now. and when you show up already knowing what he wants? he just leans back in his chair, unbuttons his shirt, and smirks — “i knew you couldn’t resist.”

but the second you get needy? oh, he crumbles. you press up against him, whine a little, tell him how bad you want him — and suddenly the smug façade shatters. he’s flustered, hands already on your hips, murmuring, “yeah? tell me what you need, baby. i’ll give you everything.”

he keeps things on him just in case. backup condoms. lube in his desk drawer. a change of clothes. because he knows you — knows you’re unpredictable, insatiable, always two seconds from crawling into his lap and making him lose every ounce of professionalism he has left.

he talks a big game but loses it so fast. he’ll say shit like “you gonna ride me like you mean it?” or “hope you can handle what you’re asking for”— and then you do, and suddenly he’s gasping, clutching at you, swearing under his breath like his whole body’s going haywire.

your appetite breaks his composure. you get him worked up in public, and suddenly mr. smooth-talker is stammering. distracted. flustered. he’ll pull you aside, grab your face, and growl, “you need to stop or i’m gonna fuck you in the nearest locked room.” (spoiler: you don’t stop.)

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

slow mornings where you can’t keep your hands off her while she’s brushing her teeth, trying to read case files, trying to drink her coffee — she doesn’t stop you, just mutters “insatiable” with a smirk. late nights on the couch with your legs tangled over hers, your fingers tracing the scar on her side, whispering everything you want to do to her — she listens quietly, then pulls you into her lap.

you call her detective when you're being flirty — she pretends to be annoyed, but the flush in her cheeks always gives her away.

she’s the calm to your fire, but when she snaps, when she lets go — you learn that she’s been holding back so much more than you thought. your need for touch grounds her; sometimes it’s the only thing that pulls her out of her head after a long day.

she’s not overly verbal during sex, but you are — and she loves it. loves how uninhibited you are, how you make her feel wanted in a thousand ways. sometimes she doesn’t say anything at all — just looks at you with that heavy gaze, hands on your hips, and you know exactly what she needs.

you send her texts during work: i need you, thinking about your hands, wear that button-down tonight — she leaves you on read, but always shows up exactly how you want.

she’s the type to make you wait. edge you for hours just because you’ve been too much all day and she wants to remind you who’s in control.

she sets boundaries with you early on — not because she wants distance, but because she knows your appetite could swallow her whole if she let its “you don’t get to touch me just because you’re needy,” she says, low and measured, her hand firm on your wrist — but she never pushes you away, not really.

she gives you rules. no touching without asking. no teasing when she’s on the phone. and god help you if you break them — she doesn’t yell, she disciplines. when you push too far, she doesn’t lose her temper — she goes cold, calculated. “take your hands off me. now. you don’t get me when you’re acting like a brat.” she uses your hypersexuality to train you — gets in your head, turns your hunger into obedience.

you test her constantly, and she lets you — up to a point. then it’s “knees. now.” and you’re on the floor before your brain can catch up. she loves that you want her all the time — but she makes sure you need her on her terms, not yours.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

he’s amused by how needy you are — not mocking, just indulgent. “insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” he says without looking up from his glass. he doesn’t initiate in public, but you can feel it in his stare across the room — the promise of what he’ll do to you later if you don’t behave.

he makes you ask. always. “use your words.” and if you whine or pout? “that’s not asking. that’s begging. i haven’t decided if you deserve it yet.” his discipline is precise — never cruel, always controlled. he doesn’t punish out of anger, but out of principle.

you learn very quickly not to touch him without permission. not because he doesn’t want you to — but because he enjoys denying you just enough to keep you desperate.

“if you can’t sit still through dinner without thinking about my hands, maybe you don’t need dessert tonight. or tomorrow.”

he knows your body like a weapon — keeps you right on the edge with barely a touch, just his voice, just the way he looks at you when you’re squirming in his lap. he buys you luxury — lingerie you’re not allowed to wear unless he puts it on you, jewelry that marks you as his, bruises that match your diamonds.

there’s a cold satisfaction in how he makes you obey. “no talking back.” if you try to argue he silences you with a kiss, a firm grip on your jaw, “i’ll speak when i want. you’ll listen.” he loves the way you bend to his will.

when you’re on your knees, obedient and desperate, he takes his time with you, savoring the control he has over your every move, over the way you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters. he loves when you’re desperate, when you can’t hide how much you crave him. “beg for it,” he’ll say, casually, and the way you do makes him smile with that dangerous satisfaction.

in those rare moments when he decides you’ve earned it, he’ll show a sliver of tenderness. a brush of his fingers on your cheek, a gentle word in your ear — it’s the only time you get a glimpse of the softer side he hides behind his icy control.

he doesn’t let you forget who’s in charge. if you slip up, if you get too demanding or bratty, he’ll pull back with a simple “that’s not how this works. try again.” he holds back just enough to make sure you’re always wanting more. when he finally gives you what you crave, it’s a slow, calculated act — drawing you to the brink, then pulling you back again, just to see how much you’ll beg.

“you’re not getting anything until you prove you can behave.” — you have to be good for him to get what you want.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

he calls you his favourite canvas, but he never means it metaphorically. his fingers drag across your skin like brushes, like he’s trying to paint need into your bones. he doesn’t understand restraint — when you want him, it feeds something primal in him. “say it again,” he demands, breathless and too close.

blood on his hands, paint under his nails, and you pulling at his shirt like you’re starving — he doesn’t care what time it is or what mess he left behind, not when you’re looking at him like that. he laughs when you get desperate, but it’s not mocking — it’s delighted. “look at you,” he purrs, “so hungry. like a little beast. i could make something beautiful out of that.”

he marks you in more than bruises — red smudges from pigment he won’t name, his fingerprints staining your thighs, your back, your neck — like he’s signing you. he gets obsessed with patterns — the way your body responds to certain touches, sounds, pressure — like he’s studying a new medium. “arch your back. no — slower. let me see the shape of it.”

he doesn’t like being told no. not because he’s cruel, but because he can’t comprehend being denied something he craves. your desire fuels his delusions of devotion. when you touch him, it drives him manic — like being wanted back is a concept he can’t entirely believe, and he spirals into reverence or obsession. sometimes both.

he doesn’t knock when he enters — he appears, silently, suddenly, like inspiration itself. and when you look at him with need in your eyes, he exhales like he’s relieved. “oh good. you’re ready for me.” he doesn’t understand why you crave him so often — but he adores it. treats it like proof. like you were made for him. like your desire validates the madness in his head.

he feeds on your desperation — physically, mentally, artistically. your need becomes his muse, your body the altar he builds madness on. when he ties you up, it’s not just for control — it’s a frame. your body, trembling and aching, becomes the exhibit. “stay still. you’re art now. don’t ruin it.”

he’s rough, but never careless. every bruise is intentional. every handprint, every bite — a signature. he gets frustrated when you wear something that hides his marks.

after, when you’re ruined and trembling and boneless, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering in rapid, breathless phrases: “my perfect, filthy little thing.”

and then he sketches. right there, with you still shaking, sprawled over his lap — he sketches the aftermath. the glow. the way you fell apart.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[venusheartsyou2]

bloody birds | matt murdock

summary: your ex shows up at your apartment, bruised and bloody.

pairing: ex!matt murdock x fem!reader.

warnings: lore accurate asshole matt murdock! angst. no use of y/n. mention of blood, needles, stitches. obvious lack of medical knowledge on my part. both reader and matt are both so unbearably stubborn. mention of heather glenn? kinda? barely?

wc: 3K

a/n: i love matt murdock but he would be the worst boyfriend in the world! bear with me!

You wake up to your phone vibrating against your bedside table. The clock reads 2:39AM. What the hell? Your eyes are heavy with sleep; you couldn’t pry them open even if you tried. You scramble to find your phone. It seems as though it’s hidden beneath all of your knick-knacks. Mainly books and trash. You should really clean as soon as you can. You grab your phone, and see a no caller ID. Who could be calling you at a time like this?

“Hello?” You answer. You feel yourself freeze when you hear the voice on the other line. It’s Matt. Of course it was Matt. Only Matt would be this presumptuous. Only he would have this much disregard for you. Matt says your name, his breath low and hot.

“The hell do you want?” You say, viciously.

“Don’t be like that,” Matt starts. “I need your help.”

You’re quiet for a second, unsure of what to say. Was he serious? Did he think he could just walk back to you so easily? For what, another stitch-up?

“Who’d you hurt this time?” You say, passive-aggressive. Matt’s silent on the other line. He sits in the tension. “No one.” He finally states. “Open the door.”

You hear a knock on the door. You’ve got to be kidding me. 

“You’re at my fucking apartment?”

“It used to be ours.”

“Are you bleeding out on my front-fucking-doorstep?” You ask, but you’re already up to get the door. You’ll see for yourself. Matt asks you to stitch him up from time to time, but there’s been a brief hiatus where Matt hasn’t been appearing in front of you, half dead and bloody. A brief period meaning 2 weeks, of course.

You open the door to see the bane of your existence at your front door: Matt Murdock, in all his awful glory.

“Not really. This isn’t the worst it’s been.” Matt answers your question, while ending the call. You stare at Matt, dumbfounded. It was pretty bad. Deep gashes are speckled all over his torso. From the skin you can see, he was bruised all over. His fresh red bruises were on top of his recovering yellow bruises. It was grotesque. He was grotesque.

“I don’t need heightened senses to know that’s a bunch of bullshit, Matt.” You joke, dryly. Matt chuckles. 

You hear the voices of your concerned friends flash throughout your head. Whispers of, “He’s such an asshole.” and “He doesn’t value your time.” float in your mind. While, yes, they were right, Matt was never one to make it fair. How could you turn away a man who was near death? You weren’t religious, at least anymore, but it felt like a cardinal sin to turn him away. You knew Matt well enough to know he wasn’t going to the hospital. You knew he was Daredevil. He couldn’t keep the secret long enough. You were suspicious enough to snoop, and he was careless enough to leave evidence out in your old, shared apartment. You tried your best to plead with him and tell him that this “vigilante bullshit” was going to kill him, but with the way he talked, he seemed like he already accepted it. You couldn’t stay to watch it happen.

“Come in.” You say, defeated. You grab the first-aid kit that lays beneath your coat rack. Maybe a part of you knows you can’t get rid of Matt, and maybe an even smaller part of you isn’t ready to let go of him.

You assemble your usual “fuck-ass Matt Murdock first-aid kit”, as you like to call it. Matt never comments on the name. Gauze, stitches, gloves, adhesive bandages, and more are splayed all over your living room coffee table. Matt sits on the couch, after you frantically place a towel over it. You’ve done this way too many times to make the same mistakes. Like that one time he left a suspiciously large blood stain on your couch. You’re lucky Matt’s a lawyer, and that you were somehow able to get that stain out - with enough patience and peroxide.

You kneel in front of Matt and peel his blood-stained shirt off his stomach. You can never forget the invasive smell of blood thanks to Matt. You wipe the wet blood with an old rag. He hisses as his sensitive cuts are brushed over with the rough rag.

“Easy.” he whispers. You don’t respond. Your mind is filled with all the things you want to say to this douche, but your tongue can’t bring itself to move.

“I know you’re mad,” Matt says, “Your heartbeat is racing.”

“You’re being intrusive.” You mumble.

“I’m not being intrusive, I can’t help it. You know that.” He retorts. You place gauze on a cut, and start prepping your stitches. You’re not a nurse - you attempted nursing school, but you dropped out 2 years in - so this process never gets any less nerve-wracking. You struggle on getting the thread through the needle. Matt winces and looks away.

As you finally get the stitch ready, Matt attempts to grab your hand to squeeze. “It helps him handle the pain”, he likes to say. You swat his hand away.

“Need both hands.” You say, as you always do. Your obvious lack of care never discourages Matt. He’ll do this the next time he stumbles in your apartment. You start to dig the needle into Matt’s skin, and he reacts by gripping the couch’s arm rest. He bares his teeth, hissing with every poke and prod of his skin.

“You’re not being gentle.” He comments.

“Stop talking.” You spit out.

“Look, I know I’m an asshole, but can’t you go easy on me?” Matt pleads. You ignore his comments, as you have to stay focused.

After finishing the first stitch, you look at Matt. “You are an asshole. And you’re lucky I’m dumb enough to help you.” You say. Matt lets out an entertained huff. 

“I guess I am lucky.” He says. He smiles enough to show his eye crinkles. You always loved his eye crinkles, so you force yourself to look away.

You finish the other two stitches Matt needed, and bandage everything up. Your hands are covered in Matt’s blood, a sight you see far too often. You scrub your hands raw in your kitchen sink, determined to get the blood off your hands. The water is scorching hot. The steam fills the air. Matt lingers around you, his hands grazing your old, shared apartment kitchen.

Matt wants to say something. It’s written all over his stupid, beautiful face. He chews on his lip for a second, thinking about how to open up the conversation.

“I still think about your banana bread.” Matt says, trying his best to get his words out before you inevitably cut him off. “I always ask for banana bread with chocolate chips now.” Your head drops and you let out a sigh. It was the phase of the night where Matt reminisces on the past. Your banana bread was always heavily praised by Matt. When the two of you were together, you were appalled to find out Matt had never tried chocolate chip banana bread before. You would make it for him frequently when you were with him, and you would add sugar on the top so it would have a nice crunch. You realize Matt’s getting what he wanted: for you to reminisce on the past. 

“We’re not doing this again.” You say.

“Doing what?” Matt feigns ignorance. You wipe your hands off violently with a towel. Your hands are red, and you can’t tell if it’s from his blood or from how rough you scrubbed your hands.

“What do you think is going to happen if you try to make me remember the past? That I’m going to remember everything good about our relationship and I’m going to run back to you?” You questioned.

Matt shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just missed you, that’s all-” Before Matt could finish his sentence, you cut him off by lightly chuckling.

“No. No, you don’t.” You grin while cleaning your bloody countertop.

It’s times like these where you wish you could hear Matt’s heartbeat, or smell the sweat beading and falling on his head. It’s unfair he can do all that but you can’t. You just have to watch how his face moves, but it never does. It’s always impossible to read him. You knew that Matt could see through your brash attitude. You knew he could hear your heart beating from out your chest, and that he could sense your throat closing up from all the anxiety. It wasn’t fair.

“You’re giving me a hard time.” Matt says, after a period of silence.

“Yeah, I am. You think I don’t deserve it?” You argued.

“I think that I don’t deserve it.” Matt responds. Positive self-talk. You purse your lips.

“What, you got a therapist now?” You ask, bluntly. Matt didn’t seem like the type to go to therapy, with his whole “independent-and-self-isolating” thing going on.

“Slept with a therapist. About the same thing.” Matt shrugs. You let yourself laugh. Thinking about Matt with other women wasn’t something you necessarily wanted to think about, but it would be the mature thing to do to not make a deal about it.

After a moment, Matt takes a breath before saying, “I could only think of you. When I was with her.”

“Oh, Jesus, Matt.” You cringe at his words. “God, that’s awful.”

“I’m sorry, I-” Matt responds through small awkward laughs before he suddenly clutches his side in pain. “Ah, fuck!” He yelps.

“Matt?” You rush to him, faster than you’d like to admit. Matt’s shirt is slowly stained by a new stream of blood. “I think one of the stitches ripped.” Matt mutters.

“Fuck.” You whisper. Again, you weren’t a nurse. You were only Matt Murdock’s next best option. It seems as though you didn’t tie the knot in his last stitch tight enough. It had unraveled. You’re quick to tie it back together. You’re quiet and focused, at least more than you were before. As much as the sight of Matt fills you with unbridled rage, you couldn’t bear to see him in pain. It makes you angry how much you care for this asshole.

You finish re-tying the stitch knot, and your hands are covered in blood again. At least it wasn’t as much as last time. You wash your hands again in silence, and Matt is left to watch you. He does just that, watching your every move.

His presence is suffocating. He’s this reminder of your past. Of what you would let slide, or of what bullshit you would do for love.

You want to say so much to him, but something’s always held you back. Maybe it was your desire to always be the bigger person. It was the smart thing to do, but it was never the satisfying thing.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed out there, Matt.” You say, finally. Matt looks up. He hears your steady heartbeat. You’ve had this conversation with him before. How hypocritical of you. To yell at Matt for bringing up the past but replaying this conversation, for old times sake.

“You know why I do what I do.” Matt says, flatly.

“You’re ignoring my sentiment.” You say.

“You know me well enough to know I’m not going to stop.”

“You know me well enough to know I can’t watch you kill yourself.”

Matt and you sit in the silence. Matt lets out an amused huff, smiling to himself. You and Matt were different. It’s clear why you two didn’t work out. Every problem in your relationship stemmed from the fact that Matt had to live his life as Daredevil.

A long pause passes.

“I still love you.” Matt drops. Jesus. “God, Matt.”

You shut your eyes and let that weird, awful feeling in your chest simmer. This was new from him. Usually, when he crashes half-dead in your home, he’ll leave after you force him out. Maybe you should’ve showed him on his way out before he even got the chance to ruin your night. Well, maybe you should’ve never dated this nightmare in the first place. But you can’t beat yourself up about that. As much as you criticise Matt, you loved him at one point. He gave you some of the best years of your life. Until he let Daredevil consume him.

“I don’t want to let you go.” Matt adds, pleading. He takes his glasses off, placing them on the countertop. He reaches for your hand, and you’re too much in your own head to stop him from grabbing it. He places your hand on his chest. His heartbeat is steady. That bastard isn’t lying.

“Please don’t stay silent. Say something, please.” Matt whispers, as he looks at you, pushing a thick strand of hair behind your ear. You nearly crumble at the soft touches. Matt has a way of making you forget. You would’ve forgotten about all the shitty lies and gaslighting if Matt would just spend a single night with you. At one point, you would’ve even forgiven Matt for all the bullshit. That was another power Matt had. Not just the heightened senses.

“I can’t fucking stand you.” You laugh. You’re not sure when these small tears fell from your eyes, but Matt was quick to wipe them away. He holds your face in his hands. You try your best not to forget about everything he ever did and take him back right then and there. You really hated the effect he had on you.

“And the worst part is..” You start. “I know you’re not going to stop coming to me to patch you up. And I know I’m not going to stop helping you. You don’t make it fair, Matt.”

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He says, in that low voice that always got you.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’m sorry.” He says, while he finally lets go of you. Maybe he’s starting to get it through his thick head that this is over. No matter how much he begs and pleads.

You clear your throat and straighten your posture. “Get it together," you remind yourself.

“I should go. Thank you. For everything.” Matt says, as he grabs his glasses and heads for the door.

“Right.” You manage to mutter.

As Matt heads for the door, he stops as he opens it. “I’ll find someone else.”

“Someone else for what?”

“To deal with my shit.” He says, mainly pertaining to his medical care. However, a small part of him is referring to him. All of his baggage. It was clear you were trying your absolute fucking best to move on. As much as Matt wants to rip all of it down and make you take him back, so he could relive the best part of his life, he couldn’t do that to you. He’ll go and ruin someone else’s life.

You watch him let go of you. It was what you wanted, in theory, but you couldn’t ignore the haunting feeling in your stomach trying to claw its way out. Him leaving meant it was really over. As much as you put up this careless facade, Matt leaving would mean you would actually have to move on. You could no longer simply pretend that his absence didn’t bother you, since he was never truly gone. The sinking feeling of change started to terrify you.

All of this time you’ve spent trying to be the bigger person; maybe it was time to be selfish, and take a page out of Matt’s book.

“I still love you too.” You say. Matt looks at you, his face blank, shocked at your transparency. He laughs.

“You’re right. That does feel fucking awful. I’m a pretty shitty person, aren’t I?” Matt chuckles, awkwardly.

“Yeah.” You nod while letting out an amused breath.

You start to chew on your lip. You’re preparing yourself to be brave, to stand up for yourself. It wouldn’t be fair to Matt if he didn’t know why you couldn’t let yourself back with him. Although, he should already know why, at this point.

“Matt.”

“Yeah?”

“Your need to save others is killing you. Daredevil is stripping you of your life. You lie constantly to the people who love you. You give up time you could spend with others to beat people up instead. You ghost the people you love. You’re so willing to give yourself for others and yet you get confused when others try to give themselves for you. I will always admire your cause, caring and saving others because the system can’t do it themselves. But it’s just not realistic. You’re going to die. Some evil bastard is going to get you quicker than you can react. You’re not God. What if you’re too reckless and I’m not there to watch you die?”

You let yourself ramble, for once. Matt doesn’t say anything. How could he? No one would be able to react to that. Matt fiddles with the door handle, and the hinges squeak in an awful way. Maybe he does it so something else can fill his mind, so that he doesn’t have to think about what you said. Classic Matt, trying to avoid facing his personal problems, head-on.

Matt’s quiet. You made him nervous, and you can’t lie, it feels good. You swear you could hear Matt’s heartbeat. Finally, Matt breaks his silence.

“I’ll call you when it happens. So you’ll have enough time to come see me.” Matt says. He’s joking, in a time like this. You take a deep breath in.

“I’ll just have to hope that that’s true.” You say. No use in wishing Matt could take things seriously for once.

Another excruciating silence. Matt knew this would have to be the last visit. He couldn’t handle the way your eyes would dilate when you felt like crying. He couldn’t stand the way the air smelled when your salty tears filled the room. You and Matt sat in the moment.

“I love you.” Matt says, after a minute of silence.

“I love you too.” You say back.

“I’ll see you.”

“See you.”

Matt shuts the door. You’re glad he shut the door when he did. You bury your face in your hands and weep. The agonizing silence surrounds you. God, you want to throw up.

[deermurdock]

poor thing | m. murdock

NSFW a/n: this is kindaaa a full version of the blurb i posted a couple of days ago because i've been in a mood so uhm. just a lot of horny stuff. the reader is very touch starved and also uses hearing aids. so! have fun with this :)) uhm this got super self indulgent at the end but i think it's pretty good-- not to toot my own horn or anything but uhmmmm enjoy!! warnings: dom/sub dynamics, nicknames, Matt flipflopping between being a soft dom and a hard dom bc i couldnt make up my mind, oral (fem receiving), p in v sex, uhhh dirty talk, cursing, reader is suuuuper touch starved wordcount: 4.3k

You have brunch plans for tomorrow morning.

You, Matt, Karen, Foggy and Marci—Nothing but mimosas and French toast.

If you can make it through the night, of course.

Okay, fine, it’s not that dramatic. But sometimes, you think you might die—Right then and there, cause of death? Matt Murdock.

You had planned to stay the night, bringing an overnight bag with you to work. And at around 1 a.m., after a homecooked meal, a movie and sitting curled against his side, the two of you realized you should probably get some sleep.

You brush your teeth in his bathroom, take your medication in his kitchen, and then you go to get changed. You dig through your bag, trying to find your pajamas—Your shorts are here, but not the tee shirt you were planning to wear.

Not in any of the little pockets of your overnight bag.

You twist the shorts in your hands awkwardly, watching as Matt pulls out sweatpants from his drawer to wear.

“Matthew?” You say softly, tilting your head.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He wonders, tilting his head back to you.

“Could.. I borrow a tee shirt? I guess I forgot mine.” You see a smile form on his face.

He shuffles through his drawers, fingers running over tags. Then, he turns back to you, and hands you a black tee shirt. You look at it for a second, reading the text on the front of the shirt. Then you grin.

“My Chemical Romance?” You read. Matt’s face flushes a bit.

“I had.. a bit of an emo phase in High School, okay?”

“That’s all I get? You’re gonna drop that on me and not give me anymore details?” You wonder.

“Let’s just say for a blind man, I am.. very good at doing eyeliner.”

You giggle.

“You’re probably better than I am.” You’re not big on makeup.

“Just go get changed.” He tells you, turning back to his drawer.

You oblige, heading into his bathroom to change. When you slip the tee shirt over your head, you pick the fabric up and put it up to your nose, inhaling his scent. You can’t help yourself. He’s got this very subtle vanilla smell to him. Then, you make your way back to his bedroom, tossing your clothes over your duffle bag.

You stand by the doorway, sort of.. taken back by the look of him. He’s sprawled out in his bed, just in a pair of fuzzy socks and sweatpants. Your face flushes. You’re about to sleep in a boy’s bed—With him in it!

You shake your head, chasing the silly thought out of it.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” He doesn’t even have his glasses on. When you realize this, your heartbeat picks up. You’ve only been going out for about two weeks, just enough for you to become curious about his eyes.

“This is weird..” You mumble, and his head tilts curiously.

“What do you mean?”

A smile breaks out on your face.

“I don’t know,” You confess, “It’s just.. I can barely handle it when you kiss me in front of our friends, I’m overwhelmed at the idea of like.. cuddling all night.”

“Well, this isn’t in front of our friends.” He reminds. He pats the bed next to him. “Come sit,” He offers. He stays still, as if he’s scared you’ll run off like a skittish animal.

You move to sit on the bed, an inch or two away from each other. Matt’s hand finds yours. You lean your head against his shoulder. Then, you remember something, tilting your head to face him, leaning your chin on his shoulder.

“Matt, I won’t be able to hear your alarm clock go off,” You remind. Your hearing aids will be out while you sleep, and you’re not likely to hear his alarm clock. “We’ll be late and—”

Matt kisses your forehead.

“I’ll wake you up,” he says.

“Promise?”

“Promise.” You smile and press a soft kiss onto his lips. He stops, basking in the initiated affection.

You take out your hearing aids, and then melt into the bed, waiting for Matt to wrap his arms around you. He does, his arms snaking around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your next. Then, he says, right into your good ear so you could hear him,

“This okay?”

You smile.

“Yeah.” You promise, your hand wrapping around his arm, squeezing it tightly. You’re kept warm all night. There’s this moment at around three a.m., and your eyes flutter open as you wake up.. rather randomly.

You take a minute to admire Matt’s sleeping figure in the dark. His face is.. peaceful. Your lips twitch up. Then, you lean in and press a soft kiss on his jaw. You’re not used to physical affection.. But you’re doing your best to change that.

-

In the morning, Matt keeps his promise.

He removes his hand from your skin to turn off the alarm clock blaring,

’10:00 a.m.’

His hand runs over your back, since you’re now laying on your stomach, hugging Matt and a pillow. You breath deep, and for a moment, Matt tries to imagine what you’re dreaming about.

Your family?

Your job?

Him?

But, he knows you have to get up soon, so he begins to kiss you—

He starts at your cheek, before moving to your neck, and then, when he reaches your clothed shoulder, he moves your sleeve up your arm, beginning to kiss your arm, as his fingers tease the hem of your shirt, unsure if you’d kill him if that’s how you wake up, when your eyes flutter open.

“Good morning,” he smiles. He talks at just the right level so you can understand him.

“What’re you doing, Matthew?”

“Just waking you up,” He leans down and kisses your arm again. A shiver runs through your body.

“Okay, I’m awake now.” You grin.

“Okay, great,” You lean over and grab your hearing aids, putting them on. “Let’s go out to dinner tonight,” he requests, “My treat.”

“Like.. a fancy dinner or just something casual?”

“Fancy.” He confirms. “Fancy clothes and everything.”

Your heartbeat quickens.

“Kay.”

Matt leans forward and kisses your cheek.

He almost moves to get up, but he stops to ask,

“What were you dreaming about?”

You smile a bit.

“The Taj Mahal.” He laughs.

“The Taj Mahal?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re so..”

“Weird? Annoying? Nerdy?”

“Fascinating.”

He takes note at the way your heart races when he says that.

-

After brunch that morning, you and Matt split up to go get ready for your date, and you’re mostly successful.

But, you struggle with your eyeliner.. And then you remember something Matt told you last night. So you wait for Matt to get to your apartment. When he does, he comes with flowers. You smile as he kisses you hello, and you take the flowers.

You come back to him as you’re slipping on your shoes.

“I have a favor to ask,”

“Anything,” He smiles.

“Do my eyeliner?” You offer him your eyeliner pen, and he smiles.

“Sit on the couch,” he gestures, taking the pen from you. You sit on the couch, and Matt kneels down a bit, leaning in to feel around your face, getting a good feel of where your features are. Then, he grips the pencil in his hand and uses those handy heightened senses to delicately do your eyeliner.

He smiles when he finishes.

“Okay, all done. Do mine?” He asks, and you smile.

“Sure, how do you want to—” and before you can finish, Matt has moved quickly to sit on the chair before pulling you onto his lap. You let out a squeak, your face red. He grins.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He feigns innocence.

“You’re such a pain.” You huff, and he just smiles, leaning into kiss your cheek. You blush, avoiding looking at him now.

“C’mon, just do my eyeliner for me,” he requests, and you let out a huff as you gently tilt his head up towards you.

“You know you need to take your glasses off, right?”

“I know,” he smiles, and his hand is removed briefly from your waist to take off his glasses. Then, slowly and methodically, you begin applying the eyeliner, trying to ignore how nervous this whole thing is making you.

“Your heart’s beating pretty fast,” He smirks. You bite back a sarcastic comment, and his hand begins to rub up and down your side. You pause your application of the eyeliner to squirm a bit in his lap. “What’s the matter, baby?” he coos.

“Oh, you’re such a dick.” You mumble, your grip on his chin tightening as you finish applying his eyeliner. He smiles and slips his glasses back on, as you climb off his lap. “C’mon, I’m starving—”

“Me too,” he says before grabbing your arm, and pulling you in for a long, deep kiss. His tongue brushes against your lip before slipping inside your mouth. After the initial urge to run away dissipates, you lean into the kiss, only for Matthew to pull away. “Alright, let’s head out.”

You try to find words, but you’re breathless from that kiss. Instead, you betray yourself. You let out this needy little whine, and Matt just smirks.

“What? If you’re whining over one kiss, I can’t imagine how you’ll be later.”

You tilt your head, cautiously. Matt wants to tell you how dog like that is, how it’s easily one of his favorite things about you.

“What do you mean, later?”

He kisses your head, and opens the door to your apartment, gesturing for you to walk out.

“Use that pretty head of yours. What do you think I mean?”

Your face flushes as you take a few steps out of the apartment.

“I don’t know.”

He closes the door behind him, and then his arm takes yours.

“Guess.”

-

To you, Dinner feels like it takes a million damn years.

You suspect that’s partially because of the way Matthew insatiably teases you.

His hand stays on your thigh throughout all of dinner.

When he wants you to try something, he gathers the food on a fork and glances to you.

“Open,” he says, and when he puts the fork in your mouth, you bite the food off the fork. “Good pup,” He hums, and of course, you blush.

He licks his lips like he’s quietly begging for a taste, and at some point during the dinner, he leans over the table and asks you quietly,

“Do you think I can’t smell how wet you are, kid?”

So by the time you two get home, it’s all you can do not to get on your hands and knees and beg him for something more than just a couple of teasing words. Maybe that’s what he wants. You’re not sure—Your brain is fuzzy.

You step into Matt’s apartment and toss the jacket that he wrapped around your shoulders onto the couch as he steps in, putting his cane and glasses down first.

“Can I ask you a question?” You finally blurt out.

He smiles, sensing your anticipation.

“Sure.”

“Are we.. are we gonna sleep together tonight?” You can’t help but ask. Matt chuckles gently.

“Do you want to sleep together?”

“Yes, please,” you finally answer.

“Go sit on the couch.” He orders softly, and he hears no objections as you take off your heels before sitting on the couch. He breathes deep and cracks the bones in his neck. He knows you have no idea what you’re in for.

He runs a hand over his jaw, trying to decide how he’ll start. He knows no matter how he does it, he’ll absolutely torture you, poor thing. So, he starts with sitting down next to you, placing his hand on your thigh.

He smirks as you squirm.

“What’s the matter, baby?” He coos softly.

“Oh, you know damn well what’s—”

Matt moves his hand from your thigh to grip your chin.

“Shh..” He starts, “If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to knock off the attitude,” He demands gently.

“Can’t help it—”

“You haven’t even tried.” He scoffs. “Come on, just be good for me and I’ll make all the thoughts disappear from your pretty little head.” His grip on your chin tightens, and he leans forward to brush his lips against yours. “Answer me.”

“Okay,” You breath out, “Okay, sure, I’ll be good,” You promise, and Matt kisses you in approval. But he doesn’t pull away after a moment. Instead, his hands move to cup your cheeks. He deepens the kiss and doesn’t stop you as you reposition yourself, now sitting on his lap.

His hand trails down, beginning to massage your thighs as you kiss him. He can smell how wet you are, hear how fast your heart is beating.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips again, so that he can explore your mouth. He studies it like its his damn job, and he relishes in the tiny gasps and moans that he’s able to draw out of you.

You begin rocking your hips against him, and his hands move to your hips, holding you in place. He pulls away from the kiss, and is met with your whining.

“What’d I tell you about the attitude?” He wonders, and you bite your lip, just desperate for him to continue. One hand releases your hip and reaches up to tug your hair. You let out a whimper. “Answer me.” His voice is steady, but deep—He knows exactly the effect he has over you.

“To stop it,” You answer, and he clicks his tongue. You try not to react, but Matt smirks at your attempt at self-control.

“Poor thing,” He coos, “You just need someone to take care of you, huh? Order you around, fuck you dumb..” He hums. When you squirm a bit in his lap, Matt decides to kiss you again, wanting you as brainless as he can get you.

He slowly pulls away, and he takes a second to stop, to catch his breath. He knows you need the second too, so he just inhales as he listens to the sound of your heartbeat, anxiously awaiting his next move.

“If you want to stop, you just say ‘Lava’. Got it?”

“Lava, got it.” You know he’s looking for verbal affirmation, that you understand what’s about to happen might get.. less than vanilla. He nods, and places an uncharacteristically soft kiss to your lips.

“Take your dress off,” He commands softly, “And then get on your knees for me.”

For a moment, you contemplate being bratty. You contemplate not following his order. But, you decide against it. You stand and slip out of your dress, left in just your jewelry, underwear and pretty makeup.

You kneel between his legs and watch as his lips form this smile that makes your stomach churn.

“Good dog,” and he chuckles when you lean your head against his thigh. “Poor thing,” He repeats his early sentiment, before he stands up. He takes a step towards his bedroom, and then, his hand comes down to pet your hair—

Before he grips it, starting to pull you by your hair all the way to his bedroom, listening as you whimper, trying to keep up with him. When he releases your hair, you pant softly from the pain as you sit next to his bed, watching as Matt unties his tie, wrapping it around his hand like you would a bandage.

“Sorry, honey,” he coos, suddenly soft, “That was mean, wasn’t it?” He wonders, and you pause, not sure if he wants you to actually answer. His lips twitch into a smirk. “Go ahead, you can answer.”

“Yeah, it was,” You finally answer, “The fuck did you do that for?” Matt lets out this dry chuckle.

“There’s that attitude again,” He hums. He leans down and effortlessly scoops you up with his arms and puts you on his bed, “Yeah. I was mean.” He nods, “Let me make it up to you?” He’s not really asking for your permission, and he proves that by grabbing your ankles and pulling you to the edge of the bed.

“Are you going to stop being mean to me?” You wonder, and he can’t help the smile that forms on his face.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He moves to lean closer to you, before unwrapping the tie from his hand and then, he ties it around your head, making sure to lay it right over your eyes. “I never promised that. I just promised I’d make it up to you. Ask how I’ll do that.”

You inhale and exhale, a little thrown out of the moment.

“How?” You ask, desperately in love with him either way.

“I’m gonna ruin that pretty eyeliner,” He kneels between your legs.

“How are you—” You gasp when he pulls down your underwear quickly, slipping it down to your ankles, and then throwing them to the side.

“You’re a smart kid, I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon.” He says, before leaning in to lick a stripe across your cunt. Then, he starts to lick and suck on your folds, devouring you. You moan loudly, hands finding his hair as you try to get used to the feeling.

And after a couple of moments of eating you out, You do get used to it, and you absolutely melt into the bed, suddenly forgiving him for all his mean moments earlier. You’d forgive anything he did if he just stays on his knees, eating you out.

His fingers come up to your clit to gently rub circles into it, before moving his fingers to slip right between your folds, relishing in the way you whine, in the sound of your moans. His fingers begin to pump in and out of you.

He licks stripe after stripe into your cunt, his scruff scratching your thighs as he eats you out. You pull and tug at his hair.

“I’m—I’m close,” You finally manage to gasp out,

Matt just hums out an, ‘Mhm’, too busy lapping up your juices on his tongue. His nose brushes against your clit, and you’re suddenly coming undone as his licks your juices up. You ride out your high with Matt’s face between your thighs.

After a couple of minutes, he slowly comes up for air, head tilting upwards.

“Feeling okay?” his voice is soft now.

“Yeah,” You breath with a breathy sigh. “Just.. thinking.” Your hands absentmindedly comb through his hair.

“’Bout what, baby?” He asks, and leans in, pressing a kiss to your clit. When you whine, he coos mockingly, “Aw, poor thing.. Answer the question.”

“..You.” You try, and he scoffs, before biting your thigh.

“Try again, brat.”

You blush.

“It’s embarrassing!”

“I just buried my face in your pretty pussy and you’re worried about an embarrassing thought?” Matt asks, and you huff.

“Well, when you put it that way—” He bites your thigh again. “Fine! Fine,” You huff. “I’m thinking about the seven wonders of the world.”

A beat.

Matt lets out a low chuckle, and your face flushes.

“Matthew!”

“What? I can’t help it,” He giggles, and as you start to move away, but he grips your thighs and pulls you closer, “Okay, okay. What about the seven wonders of the world?”

“I’ll tell you if you take off the blindfold.”

“Oh,” He lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, poor thing, this isn’t a negotiation.”

“Seems like it is—” He scoffs at this, “It is! You’re the one on your knees, I’ve already came, seems like I have a bit of leverage here—”

Matt rolls his eyes, and stands up, his hand coming up to your head to the blindfold. He pulls it off and takes just a second to brush hair from your face. Then, he wraps the tie around your neck. He pulls a bit, just snuggly tugging and applying a bit of pressure. He towers over you now, and he pulls the tie up a bit so that you’re looking at him.

“Listen to me, you little brat,” He growls, “What did I say about the attitude?” You just let out a whimper, and he clicks his tongue again. “I bet I can fuck the attitude out of you. Or at least, I can try.” He snaps, tightening the tie around your neck.

Then, he works on his pants and tugs his dress pants down just enough for him to pull his cock out. Then, he shifts the two of you so that you’re sitting on his lap, his tip teasing your folds.

He tugs on the tie, pulling you forward so he can bite and suck on your neck, and you begin to moan, whine at the feeling of. Matt just bites down, marking you in every way he can.

“Not used to all this attention, huh?” And then, Matt says his phrase of the night, “Poor thing,” He hums. His hand comes up to uncharacteristically kindly move the hair from your ear, and then begins to kiss every inch of your skin.

You’re like puddy in his hands. Mendable, soft.

He guides his cock to your folds, and then, as he distracts you with kisses and hickeys, guides you to sink down onto his cock. When you do, you let out a breathy moan, unused to the feeling of being so full..

After giving you a minute to adjust, Matt begins to thrust into you, encourages by your moans and egging you on with whispers of encouragement,

“Taking my cock so well for me,” He praises, planting kisses down your neck, “Like you’re made for me to fuck you like this,” He gasps as he feels you clench around him. “Fuck, So good for me,” He says. It’s like he’s addicted to kissing you, to kissing your neck and shoulders and every inch of skin he can get his lips on.

He fucks you intensely, and you feel every single thrust as it echoes through your body, and the longer he goes, the more he whispers in your ear, (“Come on, pretty thing, just keep taking my cock, just like that—Oh, god—Fuck, Baby, you feel so good,”) the closer you get to your climax.

“’m gonna—”

“I know, I know,” He hums, and then he smirks as he smells salty tears in the air. Tears run down your face, and Matt knows he’s won. “Aw, baby.. Did you ruin your eyeliner?” When you don’t respond, Matt pulls your hips down, commanding you to answer.

“Yes!” You whimper, a sob escaping your lips.

“Poor thing,” he coos, and his thrusts are particularly intent as he continues, “Poor, poor baby,” He hums, kissing your shoulder before biting down on it. And without another word, you grip his arm as you clench around him, cumming around his cock. He thrusts a few more times, “Gotta pull out before—”

“No!” You whine, “Just come inside, it’s fine—”

“Are you sure, I don’t want to—”

“Matt,” you whine, beginning to roll your hips, desperate to feel him come inside you. You whimper softly, as Matt thrusts into you, finally coming inside you. He rides out his own high before his thrusts come to a slow.

“Fuck,” He gasps, sweat dripping down his neck. “You were even better than I could imagine..” he confesses.

For a moment, the pair of you just breath. His hands slowly rub up and down your sides. Thoughts seem far away.. in the best way possible.

He knows you need a bath. He knows he needs to clean you and himself up. He knows he needs to teach you to suck him off. He should ask you how that was, what he should do again, what you would’ve preferred. He has a damn list, but all he can think to ask is—

“What were you thinking about earlier?”

“What?” you ask, cock still buried deep inside you.

“After I ate you out,” He starts, “You were thinking about the seven wonders of the world. What about them?”

You study his face. There’s no mocking intent, no malice in his voice.

“I was thinking about The Gardens of Babylon. How deeply I relate to them.”

“What? How can you relate to ancient architecture?”

“Well, we don’t know if they were even real. Maybe they were, but there are theories that it was all just.. poetic. That they weren’t real, and that the story is just.. something we choose to believe.”

His face twitches in confusion, trying to process what you mean, how can you relate to ancient architecture, especially ancient architecture that you don’t even know the certainty of.

“So, which one would I be?”

He expects you to ask questions for confirmation.

Instead, you answer almost immediately.

“The Roman Colosseum.” You grin.

“The colosseum?” He questions.

“Strong. Stable. Gorgeous. Breathtaking.” You pause, a smirk on your face. Your finger comes up to his nose. You run it down the shape of his nose, “Roman.” He grins.

“So, we’re the Gardens of Babylon and the Roman Colosseum?”

“No, no,” You shake your head, “we’re not the Gardens of Babylon and the Roman Colosseum! We’re the wonder of the world that’s built out of white marble, a wonder made because death doesn’t stop love-- We are the Taj Mahal.” You offer.

“Oh, my mistake.” He grins. “We’re the Taj Mahal.”

“See? You get it.” You smile back.

Matt thinks for a moment.

“So this morning, when I asked you what you were dreaming about this morning.. Technically, you were dreaming about us?”

You smile.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Matt just kisses you deep, pushing you back onto the bed as he begins to unbutton his shirt, tossing it off to the side.

The two of you spend your night intermittently going back and forth between passionate lovemaking—Part of Matt’s love language and talking and expressing how much you love him in an abstract way—Part of your love language.

Neither of you get much sleep that night.

[savemefromanepicoftimewasted]

Forgive me father, for I have sinned

Matt Murdock X F!Reader

He needed to get to you, to make sure that no one had managed to lay even a single finger on your head. The sound of his steps was nearly silent as he lunged over the side, dropping down harshly onto the fire escape. Breath foggy, a reminder of just how close he’d come to losing everything tonight.

A/n: hello! It’s been a while since I’ve posted, and it’s been even longer since it’s been a marvel fic, this is just Matt being a slut if I’m honest

Warnings: smuuuuut, mentions of bodily injuries, mentions of blood, mentions of death

The wind was sharp, the cold stinging the open cuts that seemed to multiply as he stood atop the building. His heart was still beating, for now.

He needed to get to you, to make sure that no one had managed to lay even a single finger on your head. The sound of his steps was nearly silent as he lunged over the side, dropping down harshly onto the fire escape. Breath foggy, a reminder of just how close he’d come to losing everything tonight.

Lips pulled back into a snarl, fingers digging into the metal of the stairway, he vaulted over, pulling himself higher until he reached his apartment. He stopped, listening closely for your heartbeat.

Thump…thump…thump.

You were sound asleep, soft breaths echoing inside his bedroom as you slowly rolled over. You didn’t need to see him like this, like a monster.

It didn’t matter how often you rebuked that statement, claimed he was better than he’d ever seen himself. Daredevil was a monster inside and out, a way to express himself without causing harm to those he loved most. After he’d lost Foggy, things were blurry, as if he was remembering everything through a thick veil. Nothing made sense anymore, a reminder of how quickly things could be ripped from his hands.

Karen left not long after the funeral, stating she couldn’t stay in the same place he’d been murdered. Matt hadn’t left his apartment during those few weeks, his hands still stained with his best friend's blood. Sure, Dex might be behind bars for the remainder of his life, but it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

He opened the door slowly, his attention focused solely on you as the latch shut with a soft click. Your breathing hadn’t so much as shifted, letting him know he could head down without worry.

You’d nearly killed someone tonight, someone that has a family they go home to.

Matt’s heart slammed into his chest as he grabbed onto the handrail, heel nearly slipping out from underneath. 

“No, he,” Matt cleared his throat, the skin of his knuckles breaking open once more as he struggled to compose himself.

Does she know what you do at night? How do you attempt to save the city by nearly killing people? Innocent lives will be lost by your hands.

“No!” Matt reached up, harshly yanking off the mask  that kept his identity hidden from the rest of the world. 

The air stilled as the cool air of the apartment began to brush over his heated skin, the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead in the moonlight. The red lenses of his helmet dimly, the mask held loosely in his hands, fingers curled ever so slightly.

How could he ever begin to believe that, even for a moment, he wasn’t the true monster of the world? His sins spreading far and wide, the inky blackness that slowly corrupted him sinking into those he cared for most. Foggy had already been ripped from his hands, the reminder that he couldn’t be by his side as he took his last breath, his final heartbeat echoing in Matt’s mind. Was he a monster for trying to keep the city streets safe? Or was he no better than the men he was going after?

“I’m nothing like them,” his steps were silent as he reached the base floor, movements fluid as he stepped over to the chest that normally hid his suit.

He halted in his haste to strip down as you shifted in bed, the sound of the silk sheets rubbing against your soft skin, a breathy sigh slipping through your lips.

His blood burned hotter in his veins, hands nearly ripping the suit off in his haste to shove it, none to kindly, into the case. The only sound he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, the blood rushing like rapid waters.

Her skin will be tainted with your sins, Matthew, are you ready to damn her as well? To bring her to hell alongside you to burn for eternity?

Matt growled low in his chest, hands clenched into fists as he stood nearly naked before the chest. His body littered with bruises that would heal before he could begin to worry about them. Feet turning towards the bedroom, his heart raced as he slowed the closer he got to the bed.

Fingertips traced over the soft material, calluses catching ever so slightly on the barely frayed edges. Your breath was slow, heart beating slow and steady. An angel lying before him.

“My darling,” his voice was soft as he gripped onto the blanket covering your body, slowly sliding it away until you were bared before the world.

Though he couldn’t see your body properly, Matt knew you looked ethereal bathed in the soft moonlight. Breath catching in his throat, his brow furrowed as he realized you’d gone to bed nude, the taste of your arousal thick in the air.

Swallowing thickly he slowly crawled onto the bed, listening intently for any change in your heartbeat. Hands pried open your thighs further, his lips trailing soft kisses along your smooth skin. Teeth sinking into the supple flesh of your thighs.

Your head twisted around on the pillow, thighs pressing against his ears as you attempted to both escape, and relish in the sensations. His tongue lapped at the mark, groaning low in his throat as he trailed the appendage closer to your soaked core.

Fuck, he’s never smelt something so divine in his life. 

His eyes slipped closed as his lips wrapped around your swollen clit, suckling gently. Your essence coated his tongue like the sweetest candy, a delicious treat he’d gladly let himself drown in if you’d let him. His palms slid up to press against your belly, pressing your body into the mattress before sliding up to your chest.

Your legs squeezed tighter, eyes flicking back and forth behind your closed lids. Matt never left you unsatisfied, it was egregious that anyone ever dared utter the words around him. His tongue trailed down to your slick entrance, sliding in and curling up towards your g-spot.

Though your eyes remained closed, Matt could feel the way your cunt tightened around his tongue, your orgasm soaking his mouth and chin. He palmed your chest gently, thumbs sliding over your nipples as he felt the skin tighten beneath his touch. He pressed closer, sliding his tongue back up to your overly sensitive clit, practically able to feel your heartbeat through it.

Subconsciously he began to utter prayers, tongue and lips assaulting your clit. Your thighs clamped around his head harshly, an intense scream ripping free from your chest, your eyes flying open as you looked down at Matt.

“Fuck, baby,” your thighs shook as you ran a hand through his hair, gently gripping the soft strands as he ate you out as if it were his final meal.

It was almost as if Matt was deafened by everything surrounding him, his hands squeezing your chest as he lapped his tongue harder against your clit. Your eyes rolled back as a second orgasm washed over you, hands pulling harshly. 

“Baby, please,” you could hardly catch your breath, heart racing as you tried to come down from the intense climax of your second orgasm.

Normally Matt would never push you past your limit, he loved you too much to ever hurt you. However, tonight was nothing like normal. His palms slid from your chest, your nipples sore and aching as he grabbed the fat of your thighs and ass, pushing you closer to his face as he rolled onto his back. Your eyes flew open as you realized exactly what he’d wanted.

“Jesus,” your voice was barely above a whisper, hips grinding down against his mouth.

Matt gripped your thighs harder, moaning against your skin as your essence dripped down onto his jaw. His cock strained against the tight fabric of his briefs, the tip leaking as he drank you in. His hands traced up your spine, pushing your body forward so his nose grazed your clit.

Your head dropped between your shoulders as you came for a third time, tears dripping down your cheeks as you struggled to keep yourself upright. 

“Matty,” you gripped the headboard, carefully pulling yourself up and off before plopping down onto the bed.

His eyes were closed in bliss, chest rising and falling harshly as he licked his lips of your taste. Arousal flooded your body as you watched him, ignoring how battered his body was, again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t wake you,” Matt let his eyes open slowly, looking over in your general area.

“Trust me, that was an amazing wake up call,” you’d finally managed to catch your breath, a soft laugh slipping out.

He couldn’t help but smile, eyes crinkling as he reached up to gently graze his fingers over your thigh. You’d never seen him look so beautiful before.

“However, it looks like you need some help,” you scooted down the bed, hooking your fingers into the fabric of his briefs before pulling them down and off.

His cock slapped against his stomach with a wet slap, precum seeping into the thick hair on his stomach. The skin was nearly purple, hot to the touch as you gently stroked him.

“Fu-fuck!” His back arched off the bed, hands gripping onto the sheets as he did his best not to cum right then and there.

You cooed softly, leaning down to press a kiss to the base of his throat, lips trailing down his chest and stomach before reaching the tip of his cock. Taking him fully in hand, you wrapped your lips around him, giving gently kitten licks as you kept your eyes on him.

Matt couldn’t contain the guttural moans that echoed inside the bedroom, hands blindly searching for you as his hand tangled in your hair. You immediately pulled off his cock, squeezing the base as a warning.

“You’re going to behave and keep your hands to yourself, do I make myself clear?” You reached back with your free hand, untangling his hand from your hair.

One thing no one would ever expect to find out, is that Matthew Murdock, is an absolute sub.

“Yes miss,” Matt’s throat felt tight as you began to take control, laying his hands down onto the sheets.

You watched him for a moment to ensure he wouldn’t pull another stunt as he just had, leaning down to take him back into your mouth once more. He could hardly focus on anything other than how your tongue felt tracing over the underside of his cock. The air felt thick, drowning the both of you as Matt tried to focus on not cumming. You pulled off with a smirk, fingers sliding down to gently cup and squeeze his balls.

“You’re doing so good for me, bet you wanna cum, huh?” Your tone was condescending, teasing in a way that riled Matt up intensely.

He nodded hastily, eyes squeezed shut as his body shook from head to toe.

“Please,” his breath caught in his throat as your hand wrapped around his cock once more, pumping quickly.

Before he could utter a single word, even a warning, he was cumming over your hand, cock throbbing intensely as he whimpered.

“Look at that, such a good boy for me,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek as your hand continued to stroke his cock.

Matt felt his breathing pick-up as the intensity of his orgasm began to slow, the overstimulation setting in. His lips parted to bed for a reprieve, to beg you to stop if for even just a moment.

“C’mon, I know you’ve got one more in you,” you giggled, letting his cock lie against his stomach as you straddled his lap. He hadn’t even softened in the slightest.

His hands slid to your thighs, thighs shaking as you dragged your soak cunt along the underside of his cock.

“Baby, fuck, baby please,” Matt was ready to plead, to pray to any god that would listen if it meant sinking in to your heat.

You ignored him, hands pressed against his chest as you rocked your hips slower, the tip of his cock pressing harder against his stomach each time. To anyone eavesdropping it would be obvious what was happening, a man having what could only be considered the most intense orgasm of his life.

“I’m not stopping until I am done, do I make myself clear?” You pushed yourself up onto your knees, taking his cock in hand as you slowly sank down onto him.

“Ye-yes, ma’am,” Matt nearly went cross eyed as your heat enveloped him, jaw slack as he sighed happily.

Your movements were slow, deliberate in a sense as you took his hands off your thighs, sliding them up to your chest. Matt wasted no time in pinching and squeezing your nipples, thumbs rolling over the skin.

“So beautiful,” Matt could write sonnets about how beautiful he found you, fingers tracing gently over your skin as he quickly pushed himself up, pulling your bodies flush together.

“I love you,” you pressed your foreheads together, panting softly against his skin as you rocked your hips faster, his cock gliding deliciously against your tight walls.

“I love you too,” Matt leaned up, pressing a kiss to your lips, arms wrapping around your waist as he fucked up into you.

You dug your nails into his shoulder with a loud cry, moaning against his mouth as you struggled to keep up with his intensity. He cupped your jaw, pressing kisses along the skin as he chased your orgasm, your cunt tightening around him.

“Let go for me, come all over my cock sweetheart,” Matt gently nipped at your neck, slamming his cock in once, twice, thrice before you came all over his cock, your body locking up as Matt’s eyes squeezed shut once more, his hot cum filling your sore pussy.

He slowed his thrusts before stilling completely, your bodies still fully connected as he pulled away from your throat.

“Are you okay?” Matt pressed kisses all over your face, the fear that he could’ve hurt you in any way tearing at his soul.

“I’m doing fantastic, might not have feeling in my legs right now,” you laughed against his hair, fingers gently caressing the indents from your nails.

He carefully laid you down, pulling out slowly before making his way into the bathroom to get a damp washcloth. You watched as he came back into the bedroom, body covered in a light sheen of sweat as well as cum sticking in the hair covering his chest and stomach.

“Just warn me if I’m too rough, okay?” Matt had always been gentle when it came to aftercare, even if you didn’t have such intense sex.

The cloth was warm as it pressed to your core, cleaning up your mixed fluids. Normally he’d toss the cloth into the hamper to be dealt with later, instead he folded it over, cleaning off the inside of your thighs slowly, meticulously.

“Don’t forget yourself,” your eyes trailed down his chest slowly, even when you were on the brink of exhaustion you couldn’t get enough of him.

“I was thinking a shower would do us some good, if you’d be okay with that,” Matt leaned up, tossing the washcloth into the hamper before sitting on the bed beside your hip.

You mulled it over in your mind for a brief moment, could you even handle standing up long enough to get clean? Then again a shower would actually get you clean.

“Yeah, let’s take a shower,” you sat up slowly, not wanting to worry Matt by making yourself dizzy.

Matt stood up, lifting you up bridal style before heading into the bathroom. The room wasn’t that big, especially not for two people to fit comfortably. Carefully setting you down onto the sink he turned back towards the shower, turning it on and stepping back to let it heat up.

“Be more careful next time, okay?” You traced your fingers along his spine, the fresh bruising more obvious in the dim lighting.

“I’ll try, I promise,” Matt turned to face you, hands pressed on the sink on either side of you.

You pulled him into a soft kiss, lips moving languidly with his own as your chests pressed flush together. The taste of yourself lingered faintly on his mouth, your skin heating up at the recent memory.

As the room began to fill with steam Matt pulled from the kiss, his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifted you up.

“Shall we?” His lips pulled into a smirk as he stepped into the small shower, slowly setting you down.

“My, my Mr Murdock,” you giggled, resting your hands against his chest as the water glided over your skin.

Matt didn’t let his hands stray far, fingers tracing over every dip and curve that he could reach. Your own hands traced along his chest.

Soft words were whispered between the pair as Matt carefully washed your hair, fingers scratching at your scalp as you did your best to keep your eyes open. 

God damn that man and his amazing hands.

He didn’t so much as let you lift a finger as he scrubbed your body from head to toe, being more gentle on any areas that could be sore from earlier. Never protesting as you grabbed his own soap, scrubbing down his body with a bright smile.

Matt felt his chest tighten as you turned to rinse off the loofah, your back pressed against him. He’d never thought he’d have something so domestic, so loving.

“Marry me,” the words slipped out before he could stop them, his heart pounding in his chest.

Your hands stopped altogether as you looked up at him from over your shoulder, eyes wide.

“Really?” Could this be a joke? A slip of the tongue, and Matt hadn’t realized his mistake yet?

“Yes, I have a ring hidden away, I know I’m asking you in the most unconventional way possible, but I want to marry you,” Matt listened to your heartbeat, hearing how it beat harshly behind your ribs.

You waited for a moment, gathering your thoughts as tears welled up into your eyes, a bright smile pulling up your lips.

“Yes!” You didn’t waste a second, turning to face him as you threw your arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Matt was stunned for a brief moment, mind slowly catching up that you’d said yes! His arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you in tight, kissing you back hastily. You’d actually said yes to marrying him, the woman he couldn’t believe at times had chosen him.

“I fucking love you,” he pulled free from the kiss, hands squeezing your soft flesh.

“I love you too,” you laughed through a sob, tears mixing with the water from the shower head.

He reached back, shutting off the water so that you could both get out and head back to your bedroom.

He scrubbed your body town with a towel, hands moving faster than you’d seen them before. Your giggles echoing in the small bathroom as you watched him. Matt smiled as he wrapped you in the towel, wrapping one around his own waist.

“Go sit, I have to get the ring,” Matt patted your ass gently, making his way out to the chest he’d hastily shoved his suit into earlier.

This night he was more than thankful you never pried into his lifestyle as Daredevil, you would’ve found the ring months ago, ruining the surprise. Grabbing the small box he held it tightly in his hand, making his way back to the bedroom.

You had somehow managed to change the sheets while Matt was busy, having changed them to clean, dry sheets. 

“You’re too perfect for me,” he smiled, kneeling down in front of you before popping open the box.

Your jaw dropped open as you saw how gorgeous the ring was. Had he somehow found your Pinterest and given it to a jeweler to perfect a ring for you? That seemed like the only logical explanation.

“Matt, oh my god,” you pressed a hand to your mouth as he carefully pulled the ring free, grabbing your left hand before finding your ring finger, sliding the cool band over your skin.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together. You make me the happiest man alive,” as the ring settled on the base of your finger you couldn’t stop staring at it.

This was going to be your forever.

And you couldn’t wait to start the beginning of forever.

tags: @gaylemonshark @mel-thefrog

[mcrdvcks]

— warm

summary: After Matt tells Angela to not worry about her uncle's notes about missing people and Track 61, she turns to you, a PI.

'cause i'm cool on my own but it's warmer in your arms

word count: 4k+ pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader notes: i had this idea when i first watched the episode 6 - what if it was you instead of angela who got kidnapped and the reason why matt becomes daredevil again? also, i got the title from ariana grande (i love the deluxe of eternal sunshine so muchhh). anyways, enjoy! <3 warnings/tags: angst, mentions of blood, murder, and violence (canon-typical), mention of death, no heather (sorry not sorry), slight pining?, confession(s)

“Angela!” You exclaimed, standing up from your desk to walk over to her. “What a surprise, what’re you doin’ here?”

Angela looked around your office—it was just a small room, but it was good enough for your PI business. She shakily spoke, “I need your help. Mr. Murdock won’t help me, but I thought you would—”

“Matt?” You cut in.

She moved to sit down at a chair, “my uncle was onto something. He was investigating something. All those kidnappings, he started to track them.”

You sat back down, tilting your head as you thought. “What did Matt say?”

Angela sighed, frustrated, and looked away. "He told me to go to the police. He said he’s just a lawyer, and that it wasn’t safe for me to get involved."

You bit your lip, nodding slowly. "Well, he’s not wrong. But then again, this city isn’t exactly known for safety. Can’t really blame you for trying to do something."

"I know." Angela leaned forward, determination shining through her worry. "That's why I came to you. Hector trusted you. He always said you were smart and good at your job—said you had better instincts than most."

You smiled softly. "Your uncle was always too generous." You tapped your fingers gently against the desk. "Do you have anything specific he was looking into?"

Angela handed you a worn notebook, filled with scribbles and notes. "He was tracking the missing people, see?" She flipped open to a marked page, pointing urgently. "All along the old Q line, near Track 61. He thought someone was using the tunnels to hide."

Your gaze flicked over the notes, eyebrows furrowing. "These tunnels have been closed off for years," you muttered thoughtfully. "You sure Hector didn’t mention anyone suspicious? Anything strange before—"

"No," Angela cut you off quietly, shaking her head. "Nothing. But he seemed nervous. He wasn't sleeping. He was different."

You leaned back, sighing deeply. "Alright," you finally said, glancing up to meet her eyes. She seemed nervous, maybe a little hesitant to let it go. You licked your lips before speaking. “How ‘bout this? You tell me and show me everything Hector knew about Track 61 and the missing people, but under no circumstances are you to go there. It could be dangerous.”

Angela relaxed slightly, relief evident in her eyes. "Deal."

You nodded and leaned forward, flipping through Hector's notebook again. "Did he say anything else? Any details at all?"

Angela frowned, thinking carefully. "He mentioned graffiti. Kept saying the murals were important, but he never said why."

You paused. "Graffiti? Like those creepy murals popping up?"

She nodded quickly. "Yeah, those. He thought they were connected."

"Alright," you murmured, your voice quieter now as you concentrated. "I'll see what I can dig up. In the meantime, promise me you'll keep your distance from all this."

"I promise." Angela stood up, gathering her things. She paused at the door, turning back to you. "Thank you, Y/N."

You smiled gently. "Be safe, okay?"

"I will." Angela left quietly, shutting the door behind her.

You took another glance at Hector’s messy notes and let out a long breath. Your instincts hummed in quiet unease. Murals, kidnappings, and Track 61—it all felt like trouble. Hector had good instincts, and yours were starting to kick in as well.

You grabbed your phone, scrolling until Matt’s number showed up. Your finger hovered, hesitating. The silence stretched, heavy with memories you’d both been avoiding.

You shook your head and pressed call anyway.

Matt picked up on the second ring, voice careful. “Y/N?”

“You have a visitor earlier?” you asked lightly, leaning back in your chair.

He sighed. “Angela.”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, twirling your pen between your fingers. “She came here after you told her no.”

“You didn’t agree to help her, did you?”

“I’m a PI, Matt, remember?” you countered. “Helping people’s kind of my whole thing.”

“Y/N—”

“She’s desperate. Hector was onto something important,” you interrupted gently. “And if she’s right about Track 61, people might be in serious danger.”

He was quiet a moment, clearly conflicted. “You shouldn’t go looking into this. It’s too risky.”

You smiled a little. “Almost sounds like you care, Murdock.”

“Of course I care,” he replied, a subtle softness creeping into his voice. “Listen, just... promise me you won’t go down there alone.”

You hesitated, eyes drifting back down to the notebook. “I can’t promise that.”

“Y/N.”

“Matt,” you echoed firmly. “I’m not gonna sit back and ignore this. But, if it makes you feel better, I promise to be careful. How’s that?”

He exhaled softly through the phone. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

A pause lingered, neither of you sure what else to say.

“Be careful,” he finally murmured, voice quiet and sincere.

You nodded softly, though he couldn’t see. “Always am.”

You hung up and stared at your phone for a long moment. Hector's notebook lay open in front of you, his messy handwriting hinting at hidden secrets and unseen dangers. You knew Matt meant well, but sitting idly by wasn't your style—especially when something felt so deeply wrong.

So you'd tread carefully, like you'd promised, but you wouldn't stop. Not until you found answers.

---

Angela was onto something with the murals. You peered at a clean-up crew who had been spraying at the paint for at least an hour.

It hadn’t come off.

The paint was stubbornly stuck to the brick wall, not even budging with a power washer or some kind of solvent. You stepped closer, crossing your arms as you observed the crew’s frustration.

“What’s it made of?” you called over the sound of machinery.

A sanitation worker glanced your way, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Hell if I know. Some sorta epoxy. We tried every solvent we've got, but it ain't goin' anywhere.”

Epoxy. That explained the resistance. You stepped closer still, examining the mural more carefully. It was unsettling—something about the swirling, abstract shapes felt hauntingly deliberate.

“You ever see anything like it?” you asked, turning to him again.

He shook his head grimly. “Never. Word is they're all over town now. The Mayor’s pretty pissed about it, I hear.”

“Mayor Fisk?” you asked skeptically.

“Yeah, apparently he doesn’t like graffiti, especially ones that won’t come off.” He paused, glancing around as if someone could overhear. “Between you and me, heard a rumor these murals might be more than just paint.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Meaning?”

He hesitated. “Blood.”

Your breath caught slightly. You swallowed back a shiver, forcing yourself to nod calmly. “You have proof, or is this just talk?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Word spreads fast. But if you ask me, there’s a reason this paint won’t wash off easy.”

You murmured a quick thanks and stepped away, pulling your phone out of your pocket. This was worse than you thought.

You automatically hovered over Matt’s contact, but something stopped you.

He didn’t seem happy that you were investigating, let alone the fact that he hadn’t been Daredevil in a year.

Matt was no help to you.

You sighed, pocketing your phone. If Matt didn’t want to get involved, fine—you’d handle it yourself. That’s what you’d always done, after all. Still, a tiny ache lingered in your chest, quiet but insistent. Once upon a time, you’d have tackled this kind of thing together, without hesitation.

Not anymore.

You pushed the feeling away and turned back to the mural. The unsettling reds and blacks stared back at you mockingly. Blood. You shook your head, grimacing. This city always found new ways to get darker.

A voice startled you from your thoughts. “Admiring the artwork?”

You turned sharply, finding Detective Brett Mahoney watching you with his usual calm intensity. You knew him well enough—paths crossed often enough that you’d gained mutual respect. But he also knew your connection to Matt, which made interactions… interesting.

“Detective Mahoney,” you greeted dryly. “Here to arrest the wall or me?”

A faint smirk crossed his face. “Neither, if you behave yourself.”

“Since when do I cause trouble?”

“You got an hour?” he quipped lightly, stepping closer to examine the mural himself. His expression hardened a bit. “Should I even ask why you're here?”

“Following a lead.”

His gaze shifted to you carefully. “Connected to the missing people?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about it?”

“I know someone’s been busy,” he answered cryptically, scanning the paintwork again. “And not in a good way.”

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” you asked softly, following his line of sight.

His jaw tightened. “Officially, that hasn’t been confirmed.”

“Unofficially?”

He sighed. “Yeah. It’s blood.”

You crossed your arms, unsettled. “Whose jurisdiction is this?”

He chuckled without humor. “Mayor’s apparently putting together a task force to deal with it. Fisk handpicked everyone personally.”

You snorted bitterly. “That’s comforting.”

Mahoney eyed you thoughtfully. “This case isn’t a good place to be poking around alone, Y/N. Be careful, alright?”

“You’re the second person today who’s said that.”

“Maybe you should listen,” he pointed out calmly.

You hesitated, meeting his steady gaze. “And if I have information?”

“Share it with me.” His voice was genuine, quietly urgent. “Let me help.”

You nodded slowly, a bit guarded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Mahoney gave the mural one last lingering look, before stepping back. “And if you talk to your friend—” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “—make sure he’s careful too.”

“Matt’s not involved.”

Mahoney looked skeptical. “If you say so.”

He walked away, leaving you alone with the eerie mural and your tangled thoughts.

You took a deep breath, glanced back at the stubborn blood-red paint, and turned sharply on your heel. You had work to do.

---

You had one last thing to do before going into Track 61. You called Angela, and she picked up almost immediately.

“Angela, I need you to do something for me. If I don’t call back in an hour, I need you to call Matt.”

There was a long pause. “Why wouldn’t you call back?”

You sighed softly, glancing toward the darkened tunnel entrance. “Just a precaution, Angela. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

“You don’t sound very convinced,” she said nervously. “Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“I’ll be fine,” you cut her off gently. “Just promise me, okay?”

She exhaled, reluctant but compliant. “Okay, I promise. One hour, Y/N.”

“Thank you.” You ended the call and pocketed your phone, adjusting the flashlight in your grip as you stepped into the abandoned tunnel.

The air inside was cold and stale, heavy with dust. You aimed your flashlight forward, the beam cutting through the darkness.

“C’mon,” you muttered quietly, “what were you onto, Hector?”

Every footstep echoed unnervingly against the walls. Graffiti streaked across the old brickwork—colorful, disturbing images illuminated by your passing light.

A sound shifted somewhere ahead. You froze instantly.

Silence.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. “Relax, Y/N, you’re fine,” you whispered, mostly to convince yourself.

You pressed forward cautiously, scanning the shadows. It felt colder the deeper you went, the uneasy quiet pressing against your nerves.

“Hello?” Your voice echoed slightly. “Anyone down here?”

A low, rustling noise answered from somewhere ahead.

You tensed, flashlight trembling just slightly in your hand. “Hello?” you called again, steadier this time. “Who’s there?”

No response—just that subtle shifting sound again, teasing at your ears.

You took another careful step forward.

Then everything happened fast.

A hand clamped roughly around your mouth from behind, muffling your startled scream. You struggled instantly, your flashlight clattering uselessly to the ground.

“Shh,” a voice hissed chillingly close to your ear. “Don’t scream.”

Your heartbeat thundered frantically in your chest as you twisted violently against the person holding you.

“Relax,” he said coldly. “You’re gonna be part of something beautiful.”

Panic flooded your senses, adrenaline surging hot and fierce. You fought desperately, thrashing and kicking.

“Damn it—hold still!” he snarled angrily, tightening his grip painfully.

You managed to elbow him sharply in the ribs, forcing a grunt of pain. The brief moment of distraction was all you needed—you broke free, gasping for breath.

You sprinted blindly forward through the darkness, adrenaline blurring your vision. Footsteps echoed close behind, and before you could think, a harsh impact sent you sprawling to the ground.

You rolled onto your back just as the figure loomed above you—a grotesque mask covering his face, streaked with blood and grime.

“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” he whispered softly, voice darkly amused. “Good. That’ll make it more interesting.”

You scrambled backward desperately, nails scraping uselessly against stone. “Stay away!”

He stepped closer, unbothered by your warning. “You don’t understand. I need you.”

“Go to hell,” you spat fiercely.

He laughed softly, crouching down beside you. “After tonight, Y/N, we’ll both be there.”

Your stomach dropped at your name. He knew who you were. You opened your mouth to scream again, but something sharp pressed swiftly against your neck.

Darkness claimed you quickly, your last conscious thought a desperate, regretful wish:

Matt.

---

While investigating Track 61, Matt’s phone vibrated. “Call from Angela. Answer or decline? Call from Angela—”

“Hello?” Matt answered.

“Mr. Murdock? It’s Angela.”

"Angela," Matt replied sharply, an immediate sense of dread creeping into his voice. "What's wrong?"

"Y/N—she made me promise to call you if she didn't check back in," Angela explained, anxiety clear in every syllable. "She was going down into Track 61 to look around—it's been more than an hour. She hasn't answered her phone."

Matt’s breath hitched. His grip tightened instinctively around his phone. "Damn it. I told her not to go down there."

"I tried to talk her out of it," Angela said quickly. "She insisted. I don't know what to do—"

"Stay calm," Matt cut her off gently, forcing his own panic down. "Did she say exactly where she was going in the tunnels?"

"No, but she had Hector’s notes, the ones about graffiti," Angela responded quickly. "She mentioned something about the murals—she thought they might lead somewhere."

Matt ran his free hand through his hair, a heavy breath escaping him. "Alright. Listen carefully, Angela: stay at home with your parents. I'll take care of the rest."

Right after he ended the call with Angela he dialed nine-one-one, letting the phone ring while he stared straight ahead, mulling over what to do.

Finally, the call connected. “911, what is your emergency?” Matt brought the phone to his ear but paused before saying anything. “Hello?” His heart pounded as he held the phone at his side. “Hello? 911.”

“Fuck it.” He muttered.

---

Matt ran past the train as it travelled quickly past him on the tracks, spotting Muse at an entryway.

Muse turned sharply, the grotesque mask glinting in the dim tunnel light. Daredevil didn’t hesitate, lunging forward instantly and striking him with full force.

Muse stumbled backward, slamming into the wall. He recovered fast, reaching out to strike back, sharp and precise. Daredevil narrowly dodged, his senses heightened, listening carefully for any sound—your heartbeat, faint but still present in the room beyond.

Muse attacked again, quick and violent. Daredevil parried with his billy clubs, blocking blow after blow, feet shuffling through the tunnel as they traded rapid hits. Each strike echoed sharply against brick and metal.

Muse snarled angrily, grabbing at Daredevil’s throat. Matt twisted expertly, shoving Muse’s weight sideways. Muse lost his balance, but recovered instantly, swinging out wildly in retaliation. The fight moved quickly through the narrow entryway, deeper into the darkness.

They crashed into the room filled with paint cans and grotesque murals, disturbing tools and brushes scattering loudly across the concrete floor. Matt’s focus narrowed immediately onto the quiet rhythm of your pulse, a faint thump echoing weakly from your direction.

Muse seized a blade from his belt, lunging at Daredevil. Matt reacted sharply, ducking and countering, his billy clubs spinning with practiced ease. He connected harshly with Muse’s side, eliciting a pained grunt. Muse swung back, knife slicing sharply through the air.

Daredevil twisted swiftly, Muse’s blade narrowly missing his chest. Matt kicked out, knocking the knife from Muse’s grip. It skittered across the floor. Muse growled, charging aggressively forward.

Matt’s attention was split—Muse’s heavy breathing, violent movements, and your pulse, quiet and uneven in the corner of the room. His jaw clenched tightly, and he struck out again, determination fueling every precise movement.

Muse slammed Daredevil roughly against the wall, hands grappling at his throat, pushing relentlessly. Matt’s breath was short, strained. He twisted fiercely, kicking Muse away. Muse stumbled backward, crashing into paint cans and sending them clattering loudly.

Matt stepped forward again, sweat dripping down his face. Muse snarled fiercely, fists raised, attacking again with renewed fury. Matt matched his aggression blow for blow, movements fluid and powerful.

Muse swung brutally, managing to hit Daredevil squarely in the jaw. Matt staggered briefly, blood tasting sharp on his tongue, but immediately retaliated, sending Muse sprawling backward onto the floor. Matt’s senses picked up your weakening heartbeat, dread filling him with urgency.

Muse struggled to his feet, glaring hatefully. Daredevil moved swiftly, wrapping the cord of his billy clubs tightly around Muse’s neck. Muse gasped, choking as Matt pulled the clubs tightly upward, hoisting Muse from the ground, feet kicking desperately.

Suddenly, Matt's breath caught—your heartbeat stuttered and stopped entirely.

“No—” Matt choked out sharply, horror flooding his veins.

Muse’s body slumped, unconscious. Matt immediately abandoned him, rushing over to you.

He tore the IV harshly from your leg, hands shaking. His fingers felt desperately for a pulse—nothing.

“Damn it, Y/N,” he whispered fiercely, climbing onto the table beside you. He began chest compressions quickly, rhythmically. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t.”

He pressed harder, focused only on the faint hope of your heartbeat returning beneath his fingers. “C’mon, sweetheart, breathe,” he pleaded quietly, voice thick with emotion.

Seconds felt agonizingly slow. Matt’s breaths came in desperate, frantic pants. “Please, Y/N—”

Your chest suddenly rose sharply, and you gasped loudly, eyes snapping open in panic. Matt immediately cradled your face gently between his hands, voice urgent but tender. “It’s okay—I’m here. You're safe now.”

You blinked, confusion slowly fading into relief. “Matt?”

“Yeah,” he whispered softly, relief flooding his voice. “I’ve got you.”

Your breathing slowed, shaky but steady, your eyes filling with tears as reality sank in. Matt stayed close, thumbs stroking your cheeks gently, offering quiet reassurance.

“You came,” you managed weakly, voice breaking slightly.

“Always,” he murmured fiercely, pressing a relieved kiss to your forehead. “Always, Y/N.”

---

When you woke up, there were bright fluorescent lights above you and a needle taped to the inside of your elbow.

You blinked groggily, squinting at the too-bright room around you. Slowly, awareness trickled back—you were in a hospital. You shifted uncomfortably, your body feeling weak and drained.

“Hey.”

Matt's voice drew your attention immediately. He sat beside your bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His expression was tight, unreadable.

“Hey,” you managed, throat dry and scratchy. You cleared it gently. “How long have I been out?”

“Couple of hours,” he said softly, relief evident in his tone. “You lost a lot of blood. They're giving you a transfusion.”

You glanced at the needle taped securely to your skin and grimaced. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Matt's jaw tightened. “You scared me.”

“I scared myself,” you admitted quietly.

For a moment, there was silence, heavy and loaded. Matt finally exhaled sharply, leaning back in the hospital chair.

“You could’ve died, Y/N,” he said sharply, suddenly angry. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You flinched slightly at his tone, surprised by his anger. “Matt—”

“No.” He shook his head fiercely. “You promised me you’d be careful. What part of going down into dark tunnels alone with a serial killer running loose sounded careful to you?”

“I was trying to help,” you shot back weakly, frustration bubbling up inside you. “People were dying, Matt. Hector died. Angela asked for my help, and she was right. I wasn’t going to just sit by.”

“You almost became one of those people,” he snapped harshly, voice rising. “Do you understand that? You almost became another damn mural on a wall.”

You turned your head, biting your lip, eyes stinging slightly. His voice softened just a fraction.

“I know you think you have to handle everything on your own,” Matt said quietly. “But you don’t.”

You stared stubbornly at your hands, still not meeting his gaze.

“You could’ve called me first,” he added, frustration clear again. “You know I would’ve gone with you.”

You scoffed softly. “Would you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sighed, finally looking back up at him. “You’ve barely spoken to me since Foggy died. We’ve both avoided each other for months, and every time we talk it’s only about work. Would you really have gone with me? Or would you have given me the same speech you gave Angela about safety and not getting involved?”

Matt hesitated, jaw clenched tightly. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s exactly fair,” you argued softly. “Ever since Foggy, you’ve pulled away. Maybe I have too, but it’s not like we’ve been exactly open with each other.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he muttered, frustration and hurt tangled in his voice. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“From what, Matt? From this life?” You gestured weakly around the hospital room. “This life is exactly who we are. Foggy knew that, and so do I. You can’t protect me from it.”

“Maybe I wanted to protect you from me,” he finally said roughly, his voice breaking slightly. “You’ve seen what happens around me. Foggy died, Y/N. You almost did too. And it always comes back to Daredevil. I didn’t want you caught in the middle of that anymore.”

Your heart softened instantly at the guilt in his voice. “Matt—Foggy’s death wasn’t your fault. And tonight, that was my decision. You can’t keep taking responsibility for everyone around you.”

“You’re missing the point,” he murmured tightly, shaking his head. “The point is I can’t lose you too.”

Your heart skipped slightly, and you swallowed. “Matt...”

He let out a shaky breath, leaning forward again. “When your heart stopped—” he paused, voice breaking with emotion, “it was the worst feeling I've ever had. All I could think was that I waited too long. That I never told you...”

“Told me what?” you whispered cautiously, your pulse suddenly quickening.

“That I love you,” he admitted quietly. “God, Y/N, I’ve loved you for years. Long before Foggy died, long before I tried to pull away. But I pushed it aside because I thought it was safer. For both of us.”

You stared at him, breath caught tightly in your throat.

“Matt—” you began again, voice soft and trembling.

He reached for your hand, holding it tightly in his own, desperate and firm. “I almost lost you tonight because I was too damn stubborn and afraid. But I’m done hiding. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I don’t care if you tell me it’s too late. But you have to know—I love you.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking back sudden tears. “It’s not too late.”

His shoulders slumped in visible relief, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. He leaned closer, voice barely audible.

“Say it again,” he breathed softly.

You smiled faintly, tightening your hold on his hand. “It’s not too late, Matt. I love you too.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against your hand for a moment, breathing deeply, letting your words settle inside him. When he opened them again, he smiled—a small, gentle smile filled with quiet hope and gratitude.

“You’re still infuriatingly reckless,” he murmured, voice teasing gently. “But God, I’m glad you’re okay.”

You chuckled weakly, squeezing his fingers. “Sorry about scaring you.”

Matt lifted your hand, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. “Just promise me, next time, you won’t go alone.”

“Promise,” you said softly.

He exhaled in quiet relief, resting his head against your joined hands. You smiled faintly, exhaustion pulling at your eyelids again. His quiet presence beside you was comforting, familiar, safe.

“Stay?” you whispered quietly, voice thick with fatigue.

“Always,” he murmured softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[littlebirdygirlywriting]

Unpleasant Anniversaries

Daredevil Masterlist || Based on this request!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: Every year, it was the worst week of your life. A week absolutely brimming with unpleasant anniversaries. But when you sleep through your alarm for work, you don’t expect a certain Matt Murdock to come knocking at your door. Or that you’d confess the feelings you have for him.

Author’s Note: I can’t believe I reference a game of truth or dare so often in this fic just to not be able to come up with what the dare would be. Smh. Sorry guys. You can use your imagination I guess. 😂 Thank you SO MUCH for the request anon!! I hope it’s everything you were hoping it would be and that it’s not too cliche… (And that it’s not too long, because this baby really got away on me. 😬) This is actually my first time writing (or at least posting) for the DD fandom, so please let me know if I’m OOC!

Warnings: Angst (but with a happy ending), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, References to Parental Death, Cussing, References to Alcohol and Hangovers, no use of y/n (I’m getting pretty good at back flipping and somersaulting around it, but I still apologize if it comes off clunky), Fluff at the end (because what’s the point of hurt/comfort if we don’t have some cute, fluffy comfort??), Love Confessions. I’m posting this without editing, and yes, that is a warning. (I am SO going to regret this decision later, but I am way too tired to edit).

Word Count: 2.3k

———————————————————————————

This cannot be happening. I cannot be falling in love with Matt Murdock.

It was stupid, really. The stupidest thing that had caused you to realise it.

Freaking Foggy.

Granted, you couldn’t entirely blame him. You were far too old to succumb to peer pressure anyway. Far too old to be playing Truth or Dare with a six-pack of beer and the exhaustion of an emotional week under your belt.

A week absolutely brimming with unpleasant anniversaries.

The anniversary of your mother’s death, the anniversary of your long-term boyfriend breaking up with you for your best friend, your birthday. Bing, bang, boom…back-to-back.

Every year, it was the worst week of your life, and you just wanted something fun and lighthearted and silly enough to make you forget about the ache wrenching your heart in two.

Stupid. Stupid anniversaries and stupid emotions and stupid, stupid, STUPID, idiotic game.

It was juvenile, and you cursed yourself for going along with the idea. Because now, you had another item to add to the list.

And the week wasn’t even over yet.

A steady thumping at your door matched the rhythm pounding in your head, your name spoken through the thin wood.

Peeking through cracked eyelids revealed afternoon sunlight streaming into your apartment, the alarm clock beside your bed happily displaying 12:05pm.

Shit!

You bolted upright in bed, groaning as your head throbbed in protest. Another series of knocks rapped against your door, followed by your name again. Double shit!

Matt.

Stumbling out of bed, you grit your teeth against the headache and tripped your way to the door, fumbling with the lock and cursing your hangover. The drinking hadn’t stopped once you got home, and you were really starting to regret that decision.

The lock clicked, and before Matt even had a chance to step into the apartment, apologies were spewing from your lips.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Matt. It won’t happen again. I must’ve slept through the alarm or forgot to set it or something, but it won’t happen again, I promise. I—”

The words were spilling out of you like a river, and even you were struggling to make sense of them. Embarrassingly, tears pricked the backs of your eyes, something that only deepened the ache pounding through your skull.

“Hey.” Matt dropped his cane in the entryway, door closing behind him and strong, steady hands placed groundingly on your shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not mad. Foggy, Karen, and I were just worried when you didn’t show up to work. We thought somebody better come check on you.”

That was…really sweet.

And the floodgates opened.

Gut-wrenching sobs tore through your body, every ounce of hurt and despair and loneliness bottled up for the last several years breaking through your carefully-constructed walls and flowing like a wellspring onto the hardwood floor.

For a second, Matt froze, stunned, and you wanted to kick yourself. This was not what Matt had signed up for by volunteering to come check on you. If anything, he was probably wishing right now that Karen or Foggy or literally anyone else had offered to go instead.

“I’m–I’m sorry.” You tried to apologize for crying, for not showing up to work, for being a crazy, messed-up disaster that Matt certainly shouldn’t have to deal with.

His arms wrapped around you, warm and comforting, and despite your best intentions, you found yourself melting into the touch, clinging to the front of his dress shirt and probably ruining it with your tears.

“I’m–I’m sorry, Matt. I–”

“Shhh.” He interrupted you with a hum, gently resting his chin on top of your head, strong arms locked securely around you.

Still, you felt the need to explain.

“It’s–it’s just a really rough week for me, but I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. I always end up fine. I just–”

He shushed you again quietly, warm hands running soothing strokes up and down your back. The tears began to slow, and you hiccuped before attempting to take a long, controlled breath.

“That’s it. That’s good. Just breathe.”

His hands didn’t stop moving, and you closed your eyes, savouring the touch for however long it would last. Burying yourself in the comfort of it.

Maybe you could make a piece of this moment last forever.

When a deep, shuddery sigh expelled itself from your lungs, Matt stepped back, head tilting as his hands rested back on your shoulders, seeming to be listening for something. What, you didn’t know. Concern marred a crease on his forehead though, and another wave of guilt roiled in your stomach.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice was small and weak, pathetic. “Matt, I’m so–”

“Stop saying you’re sorry.” His tone was firm, brooking no argument. His hand started stroking up and down your arm. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I was late for work.” The words fell to the floor with your gaze.

“We got by for the morning.”

You squinted against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the ache behind your eyes barely manageable. “I made you guys worry.”

His tone remained smooth, calm. “That’s okay. You’re okay, and that’s all that matters.”

“And…” You fiddled with the hem of your shirt, worrying your lip between your teeth. “I got tears on your shirt.”

A wry smile tilted his lips, and you could just picture the amusement dancing behind those red glasses. “I’ll live, and it’ll wash.”

“I just…” You sighed, digging the palms of your hands into your eyes, trying to uproot the headache that seemed to be drilling a hole through your skull. “I just wish this week was over.”

The tips of his fingers danced over your arm, and his voice became low, tender. “Why?”

Tears sprang to your eyes again, but you forced them back, swallowing down the lump attempting to rise in your throat.

Could you tell him? Could you really, truly trust him with this information? Would it make him look at you differently? Would it make him see you as broken?

“It just…” You paused, hesitating. “It’s just got some bad memories attached to it, is all.” Then, before you could stop yourself. “Did you know my mom died six years ago yesterday?”

Matt frowned, lips twitching like he wanted to speak.

But you kept going.

“Heart attack. The doctors never saw it coming. I was in my first year of university…” You swallowed, bitter memories you regularly kept locked away rising to the surface. “I was on the plane when she passed—didn’t even know until my dad met me at the airport.”

Your name drifted from his lips, hushed and sad. It should make you stop—it should make you shove the feelings back into a box, lock them up tight, and forget about them forever. Instead…

“Two years later, this great guy came into my life. Smart, funny…” Almost as handsome as you. You pushed the thought aside and continued. “We were talking about marriage. Family, kids. We would buy a house on the coast, right next to his parents. We were going to be so happy…”

The memory played out before your eyes. Big house, a dog, 2.5 children—you’d even talked colour schemes, baby names. Had tentatively set a date for just after graduation.

“Until the doctors thought they found something on one of my routine screenings. Suddenly, ‘in sickness and in health’ became a little too close to home. He was sleeping with my best friend before I even had a chance to tell him it was a false alarm.”

By the hard set of his jaw, Matt was less than pleased to hear about your piece-of-shit ex, lips pressed firmly together like he might be trying to keep himself from having a word with him this very moment.

A near-hysterical laugh floated up from your chest, heart ripping apart inside you.

“It was really a stupidly shitty thing to do on someone’s birthday, but hey, live and learn I guess. Just gives me one less reason to celebrate. It hasn’t been the same since my mom passed anyway…”

His head tilted sharply. “Your birthday is this week?”

A small, pathetic nod tipped your chin. “Today, actually.”

Matt’s jaw worked, expression so pained you thought for a second he might be more hurt by the knowledge than you were.

“And then, of course, I’m stupid enough to play Truth or Dare, get so outrageously drunk that I sleep through my alarm, and if I worked for anyone other than you, I would’ve been fired on the spot, so…” The headache was splitting your brain in two. You needed an aspirin. “Icing on the cake.”

Walking into the kitchen to dig through your cupboards for the pill bottle and a glass of water, you genuinely hoped Matt would leave it as is. It was stupid—nothing but a hard week and an off day and two minutes of word vomiting. Or maybe closer to ten. Either way, you just wanted to keep your head low and forget about this little outburst until the end of the week, when you could cry properly.

Of course, you should’ve known better than to think Matt would leave it alone.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, following you into the kitchen, “you would not have been fired from any other job. You’ve been nothing but punctual every other day of the year—one bad day doesn’t scrap a perfectly good record. And second–” he interrupted your protest with a furrowed brow and his hand raised in the ‘stop’ position. “You were not that drunk when you left the office yesterday. What happened?”

You winced, embarrassment flooding your cheeks, and you delayed by popping the aspirin in your mouth with a swig of water. When you were finished, Matt was still waiting.

“Nothing.”

He scoffed, and you tried not to let it hurt. “Nothing?”

“That’s what I said, Matt.” Whoa, you did not mean for your tone to be so sharp, but there was no stopping it now. “Maybe I had a few more when I got home. Maybe I had a whole case. Maybe—” your voice cracked, and tears pricked your eyes again. “Maybe I just didn’t want to think about my dead mother or my cheating ex or the fact that when I took that fucking dare yesterday, I didn’t realise I had feelings for you until it was too late. And I—” Tears flooded the dam, dripping down your cheeks, your words breaking on a sob. “I can’t have feelings for you, because all they ever do is get me hurt…and I can’t handle any more hurt, Matt. I can’t! I can’t–-”

For the second time that day, you dissolved into sobs, the sheer force of pain clefting you in two like a tidal wave.

Through a haze of tears, you watched Matt hesitate, hand flexing, before stepping forward and slowly wrapping his arms around you, keeping you together when you were sure you would fall apart.

The reality of what you’d just confessed washed over you, embarrassment now mixing with the sadness to create a whirl of agonising pain.

You wanted to choke on the feelings.

“I’m–I’m sorry, Matt.” Your words were so garbled, you have no idea how he understood them.

But he did.

“What did I say earlier?” he soothed, warm hand stroking up and down your back again. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

God, you wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that you hadn’t just ruined your career confessing feelings for your boss. Wanted to believe that he wouldn’t just slowly disappear from your life, like a ship in the night, fading out of friendship, out of reach of a lighthouse.

Your body bucked and hiccuped, lungs struggling for air through the emotion filling your chest. His arms tightened around you.

“Shhh, sweetheart. Shhhh.” His lips graced your hairline—a soft kiss, tender—before he again rested his chin on top of your head. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe, okay?”

You shook your head, the salt-stained fabric of his shirt swishing against your ear. “No. Matt, I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I ruined everything!”

Grasping fistfuls of his shirt in shaky hands, you felt his jaw shift atop your head.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper. “I—God, I…I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

You sniffed, wiping the tear stains off your cheeks with his shirt. “Told me what?”

He paused, chest expanding with a breath, like he was preparing himself for something.

“That I…I have feelings for you too.”

“Don’t patronize me, Murdock,” you snipped, attempting to push out of his arms, because that’s just what you didn’t need, someone to make fun of the emotions that you already knew were stupid.

He held you fast.

“I’m not. I promise you I’m not.” The conviction in his voice was almost enough to convince you of the truth on its own. And if it wasn’t, his heart racing against your fingertips, chaotic and wild, certainly was. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time, sweetheart. I–I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

He smiled sheepishly, and the world moved in slow motion.

“You…love me?” A whisper is too loud to describe the question you breathed, but Matt chuckled, the tips of his ears flushed a dusty shade of pink.

“Yeah.” His head tilted, slight crease between his brows, carefully regarding your reaction.

“Matt Murdock…” you breathed, wiping the final few tears off your cheeks and looking up into his red glasses. “This is the best birthday I’ve had in a long time.”

He frowned. “Then we really need to fix that.”

You laughed, a real, genuine laugh, probably the first one this entire week, and melted back into his arms.

[chvoswxtch]

follow my lead

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: matt's first mission with the mysterious s.h.i.e.l.d. agent and his quest for answers doesn't go as planned.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, death, guns, and violence

word count: 3.4k

a/n: i'm absolutely blown away by the reaction to the first chapter and this series. i'm so excited that y'all are so excited, and that you're already enjoying it so much. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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“You know it’s rude to keep a girl waiting.”

The material of Matt’s worn gloves creaked in protest as he clenched his fists in annoyance, and his boots thudded harshly against the rooftop as he strode over towards her with purpose. He hated that she was always so calm, but what he hated more was being left in the dark. For three days since their encounter he’d been on edge. He knew the only way he was going to get his answers was by showing up tonight. She’d purposefully withheld information to force him to comply. 

But Matt wasn’t leaving this rooftop until she told him what he wanted to know, and neither was she.

As soon as she turned to face him after hearing his footsteps approaching, he reached out to grab onto her arms and shoved her back against the brick wall behind her roughly. He kept her pinned in place with his body so she couldn’t move, dipping his head to her height so their noses were barely an inch apart. His voice was gruff as it cut through the background noise of the city below.

“You’re going to answer my questions, and if you’re lying to me, I will know.”

“Well someone’s not having a very good day.”

Gritting his teeth, Matt gripped onto her tighter and shoved her harder against the wall, his paperthin patience one thread away from snapping. 

“Enough. I don’t give a shit if we have to stay up here all night, you’re not leaving this goddamn rooftop until you tell me-”

“For fucks sake, fine. What? What are you so pissy about?”

Matt clenched his jaw and his nostrils flared as he let out an aggravated exhale.

“How do you know about me?”

“I already told you that, dumbass.”

She didn’t struggle or fight against his hold. Her heart was thumping loudly, but not out of fear. It was anger, which made him let out a dry scoff. Matt didn’t think she had any justification to be angry in this situation. His hand flew up to grab her face aggressively, and he leaned in closer, his top lip faintly curled in a snarl as his voice took on a dangerous edge.

“Then tell me again.”

“You know, maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass, you would’ve heard me the first time.”

In a sudden movement, she grabbed at his wrist and twisted to make him let go of her face while simultaneously bringing her foot around his leg to shove her heel at the back of his knee. The action made him sink slightly with a grunt, putting his chest in perfect proximity from her knee that she’d suddenly lifted to push at his chest forcefully. Matt quickly grabbed onto her arm again and pulled her against his body, so when he fell backwards, he brought her with him. 

Gripping onto the back of her tactical suit, Matt yanked her body over his prone form, causing them both to roll in a somersault that crowned Matt on top. But his reign was temporary. In a split second, she wrapped her legs around his waist, and with a surprising amount of strength, twisted to flip them over, making Matt land on his back with a grunt. As she straddled him, she quickly reached for the baton in the holster on his thigh and slipped it out to press it hard against his throat. 

Matt grabbed onto her wrist while his other hand flew up to wrap around her own throat, applying the exact same amount of pressure she was to him. He could feel her pulse pounding against his fingers, even through the glove.

“I’m a little disappointed you’re holding back on me.”

She panted out as she looked down at him, a grin slowly stretching across her lips while cocking her head slightly to the side. He could feel her eyes wandering over him beneath her.

“Although, this isn’t entirely unenjoyable.”

Matt’s lips pressed into a firm line at the playful tease in her voice. He let go of her throat and shoved the baton away from his neck.

“You were baiting me.”

“I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

Her demeanor was entirely too casual for his liking. After slipping his baton back into his thigh holster, she stood with a graceful fluid motion and let out a deep breath.

“But, like I was saying, I already answered that question. S.H.I.E.L.D. has a department dedicated to street level persons of interest.”

With a grunt, Matt launched his body in a kick up to land on his feet, twisting his head slightly to crack his neck.

“Then why wasn’t I approached sooner?”

“We didn’t have a use for you.”

Matt let out a deep sigh, placing his hands on his hips as he shifted his weight to his right foot.

“I still don’t understand how you know.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has eyes and ears all over the city. I told you, just assume we know everything.”

“Yeah, but how?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Matt’s voice boomed across the rooftop like a clap of thunder, the volume of it and his tone both betraying his fraying temper.

“This isn’t a goddamn game. This is my life. And both halves of it are mine.”

Amidst the soundwaves of fury, there was an undercurrent of something that caught her attention. It was faint, buried beneath the frustration that his most coveted secret had been uncovered so easily, but she could hear it. A hidden layer of panic.

They weren’t going to make any progress until she put his mind at ease. That anxiety had to dissolve so he could focus his attention on the task at hand. Letting out a sigh, she took a step closer towards him.

“Look, we have nothing to gain from telling the world who you are. We kept our distance because we didn’t have a use for you until now, and because you’ve been taking out some heavy hitters on our radar. We’ve even taken counter measures to keep you from being discovered.”

Matt tilted his head to the side in puzzlement, his lips parting to let out a breath.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not as careful as you think you are.”

Matt’s mouth snapped shut in annoyance. There wasn’t a single falter in her heart’s rhythm. She was telling the truth. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t dangling his secret over his head as extortion. But what caught his attention was how steady her heart was when she said he wasn’t as careful as he thought he was. When had he slipped up? And how? 

She turned to walk towards the edge of the rooftop and then paused, looking at him curiously over her shoulder with a subtle smirk.

“By the way, you have an astounding number of canes you’ve tossed all over the city. Do you buy those in bulk? Commit a Sunday a month to retrieving them all at once?”

Under his cowl Matt rolled his eyes at her comment, the amusement evident in her voice grating on his nerves. Okay, maybe there were some things he wasn’t careful about. But no way in hell was he about to admit that to her. He brushed past her as he headed towards the ledge of the rooftop without an answer, his voice rough with irritation. 

“Can we focus.”

“Oh now you want to focus? Five minutes ago you were going all ‘Daredevil’ on my ass.”

“Five minutes ago Tarasov’s men weren’t here.”

Her footsteps quietly echoed on the ground as she approached Matt, standing beside him at the ledge of the building. He could sense a change in her body language, and her tone was laced with mild annoyance instead of amusement.

“You didn’t read the file.”

“I read most of it.”

“But not all of it.”

The accusation immediately made him defensive.

“I do have a day job, you know. I don’t have time to just-”

“Tarasov isn’t the ring leader.”

Matt abruptly paused, letting those words hang in the air between them. Dropping his head slightly, he swore under his breath. He’d known about Tarasov, and after reading his name in the file she’d given him, he just assumed he’d been on the right track, and he hadn’t finished the rest of the pages. He’d been more concerned with how S.H.I.E.L.D. knew who he was rather than the operation he’d been investigating for months. In his selfish panic, he’d rendered himself unprepared.

Knowing now was not the time to white knuckle his stubborn pride, Matt let out an exhale of resignation.

“Then who is?”

“Niko Constantin.”

“He sounds like an asshole.”

“He is an asshole.”

Matt cocked his head to the side, his tone betraying his curiosity.

“You’ve met him?”

“I’ve encountered him.”

“Do you ever give definitive answers? Or are they all annoyingly vague on purpose?”

“Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Matt rolled his eyes again at the dry sarcasm laced within her tone. As she pulled out a pair of binoculars, Matt decided to make up for being informatively unprepared by telling her something she didn’t know for once.

“There’s seventeen of them.”

“I can only see twelve.”

The confusion in her voice was evident, and Matt smirked as he stepped up onto the ledge.

“Well, sight is overrated. I guess S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t train you to do everything.”

Matt reveled in the glare she shot in his direction when she heard the cocky condescension in his casual comment. As Matt prepared to jump onto the roof of the warehouse below, her hand suddenly shot out and gripped his arm.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“We’re here to take them down.”

“Yeah, efficiently. In case you hadn’t noticed, every single one of those guys is heavily armed. One gunshot and our cover is blown.”

“Y/L/N, I’ve been the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen for years. I know what I’m doing.”

“You do know that Hell’s Kitchen is like three blocks, right?”

Matt’s cocky demeanor instantly dissolved as he turned his head in her direction. She could see the offense written clearly across his features even though half of his face was covered by the cowl. It made a subtle smirk flash across her lips while she subtly shrugged her shoulders.

“I’m just saying. This operation is a lot bigger than three blocks. And this isn’t your back alley bullshit. I can’t get the information I need if you’re beating the shit out of everybody.”

“So what do you expect me to do? Politely ask them not to shoot at us and turn themselves in?”

Matt asked in barely concealed exasperation, gesturing down below, annoyance clear in his body language and voice.

“I want you to leave Constantin to me.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to know which one he is?”

“I’ll tell you.”

Matt clenched his jaw, making a muscle feather beneath the dark shadow of facial hair. He sank his top teeth down into his bottom lip and dipped his head back, which only emphasized the sharpness of his jawline. Raking his teeth over his bottom lip, he exhaled harshly through his nose and rolled his shoulders.

“And what if he doesn’t show?”

“Then I’ll go after the next best thing. Look, this is my mission. You wanna stay on it, you follow my lead.”

Matt frowned in displeasure as she headed towards the stairwell. Letting out another frustrated exhale through his nose, he muttered under his breath, mimicking her voice in a childish way.

“You wanna stay on it, you follow my lead.”

The docks were quiet. It was Saturday night, so most of the NYPD’s focus was assigned to the rowdy weekend crowd in the city. Or it had been bought specifically away from Pier Nineteen. While she surveyed the crew standing around with automatic weapons, Matt focused his senses on the men inside the warehouse.

“How does it work?”

“What?”

“Your…senses, I guess. I don’t really know what to call what you do.”

“What, it wasn’t in my file?”

Rolling her eyes at the sass in his voice, she turned to shoot him an annoyed look which he was able to decipher by the way her face tightened. 

“No. It wasn’t. It has the details of your accident, but that’s it. No experiment gone wrong. No special powers. No expendable bank account to pay for your hero fixation. Just a blind guy that can do weird shit.”

Matt could hear in her heart’s rhythm that she was being honest, and he felt a sense of relief that at least something about him was private to her knowledge, and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. He wanted to keep it that way. The less they knew, the more control he had.

“It’s kinda hard to explain. You really wanna talk about that right now?”

He subtly gestured to a car that he could hear approaching. Letting out an annoyed sigh, she pulled a small device from her pocket and pressed a button. A high pitched frequency started to beep in rapid succession.

“Can you hear this?”

Matt winced at the noise, twisting his head away from it with a grimace.

“Yeah, why?”

Being able to see his physical discomfort, she quickly turned it off.

“Because I can’t.”

Matt cocked his head to the side, puzzled by her confession. 

“This is a tracking device. If you hear it go off, then you’ll know I’ve got Constantin, and you’ll know where we are.”

“And if I don’t hear it go off?”

“Then I won’t be upset if you say this is the worst first date you’ve ever been on.”

Matt scowled in her direction, his lips pursed in disapproval. Meanwhile, she was smirking at his obvious lack of amusement.

“Just keep those horns sharp, devil boy.”

Matt snuck towards the docks while she disappeared into the back of the warehouse. Silently slipping one of his batons out of the holster on his thigh, he took out the crew member closest towards him with a swift hit to the head, the body collapsing to the ground with a thud. The noise of the baton clattering on the ground pulled the attention of the other men.

While they quietly moved towards the source of the sound in pairs, Matt silently climbed to the top of one of the nearby cargo containers. Waiting until they’d passed by completely, Matt went after the small cluster of three that had remained standing guard by the dock. Jumping from the top in a flip, he knocked one of the guys out on his way down. Before the other two could react quick enough, Matt detached his Billy club in two and swung one end to his right. The hit knocked the closest man unconscious, as well as a few teeth loose. 

With a swift kick to the other man’s chest, the satisfying crack of four ribs sounded in Matt’s ears, and the man let out a yelp as he stumbled backwards, falling over the ropes into the water with a splash. Picking up the discarded automatic weapons on the ground, Matt removed the clips and tossed the disassembled pieces into the water.

The group of men that had left to investigate had returned, guns cocked, now following the sound of one of their own in distress. Matt leapt into action and was in the midst of taking out the remaining men when a gunshot accompanied by a loud scream pierced through the night. He immediately froze, a sharp needle of icy panic pricking at the back of his neck. But abruptly something stood out in his brain, and warning bells went off.

It wasn’t a woman’s scream.

With a grunt he struck his fist across the last man’s jaw, picked his batons up from the ground, and took off running towards the warehouse in a sprint. He froze in his tracks when he sensed four lifeless bodies on the ground, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood was thick in the air. Hearing commotion coming from the second floor, Matt dashed up the old creaky grated steps of the warehouse. 

There was a man tied to a chair that she was standing in front of. Her voice was clear and calm as she spoke in Russian. Matt didn’t know what she was saying, but the man was whimpering, repeating a phrase over and over in the foreign language. She lifted her foot and pressed her boot against his knee, and the more pressure she applied, the louder he screamed. The gunshot had been fired into his kneecap, the bullet shattering the bone, and Matt could hear the sickening crunch of the pieces splintering under her boot.

She lifted the barrel of the gun and aimed towards the man’s head, repeating the same question again. Without thinking, Matt tossed his baton towards her wrist, making her drop the gun, the metal clattering against the floor. She whipped her head around to look at him, removing her foot from the man’s knee. Her features twisted up in anger as she turned to face Matt.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“You didn’t say you were gonna kill him!”

Matt stalked towards her, panting from the physical exert of the fight and from running up the stairs. 

“This isn’t Constantin-”

“You didn’t say you were gonna kill anyone!”

Matt’s voice was loud as it filled the empty space of the warehouse, his anger and distress echoing off the worn walls. 

“I don’t have to tell you what I’m doing. I have my orders, and you have yours. Stand down.”

When she went to retrieve the gun, Matt reached out to grip her arm and yanked her towards him forcefully so there was barely an inch between their chests. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips, and her eyes were locked on the garnet colored lenses in the cowl that appeared almost black from the shadows that the dim light cast on his face. 

“No.”

There was an edge to his voice, and his chest rose and fell quickly from how shallow and choppy his breathing was. He could sense her clenching her right hand at her side, and his free hand slid down to grab the handle of his baton, both of them now locked in defensive stances.

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

There was a subtle warning in her voice, and an edge that was as sharp as his own had been, but he didn’t back down. His fingers tightened around his baton, the material groaning under the force of his strength. He’d noticed her right hand was her dominant one, and it was currently shifting back slightly, like she was preparing to strike. But he was ready for that.

“And I don’t like repeating myself.”

There was a brief moment that passed where neither of them moved or said a word. It seemed like she was waiting for something, but Matt didn’t know what it was. He’d gotten a taste of what she could do on the roof, but Matt hadn’t been the only one holding back. She could probably put up a hell of a fight, and maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. had trained her well. Maybe she’d been top of her class. 

But she didn’t have his training, or his senses.

When she started to raise her right fist, Matt reacted immediately, releasing his grip on his baton to reach out with his own right hand to grab her wrist with the intent to block her hit. But she didn’t even attempt to punch him. Instead, she caught him off guard by raising her left hand, and it was far too late that Matt realized he’d left himself unprotected. 

Suddenly he heard a crackle of electricity, and a jolt of immense pain licked at his neck and shot throughout his entire body, making him let out a guttural yell as he fell to his knees, shaking violently. With a swift spin, her foot connected with his head in a harsh blow, and his unconscious body collapsed on the ground with a thud. 

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