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anti-heroesanonymous · 2 days ago

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hiiii there, number 2 from the touch prompts with matt pretty please :)

i know whatever you come up with will be scrumptious no matter what it is <3

moonstruck

pairing: matt murdock x reader prompt: a fist knotted in the collar of a shirt. (wc: 541) a/n: thank you c for the request and the kind words! : ] so sweet <333

As if the heat can break itself only by a deluge of equal force, the rain has turned heavy, pressing on relentlessly past sundown. The soaked hem of your jeans licks cold at your ankles; you’d been half-slipping all the way from the apartment, only catching yourself each time with an awkward hop-step Matt’s definitely filed away for later teasing.

The line for the pop-up stall’s longer than usual. For this reason, you’re glad Matt’s pressed close. Not only is he a furnace, but he’s a joy to mess with, his face glistening in the jaundiced glow of the candy-yellow umbrella you’re twirling just to annoy him.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says, and you give it another lazy spin. His hair is already darkened through, beads gathering along his temple. You watch them trace along his face until he swipes at them with an open hand.

“And what if I am?”

“Careful with the spokes, then. You’re gonna poke me in the eye.”

“Oh noo,” you say, lightly bumping the stick of it against his head. “Guess I better stop. You might go blind.”

He snorts. Satisfied, you start in on the menu, describing to him what you can make out from here, though your attention keeps drifting—jerking around and shifting your weight like a restless child.

You’re still talking and bouncing on the balls of your feet when you clip too close to a stranger’s elbow. But when you shift to let them pass, the bricks underfoot are slick, treacherous—

“Oh SHIT—”

—and your heel slides out from under you. With a panicked yelp, your whole world yanks sideways, umbrella jerking and air and rain blurring in your periphery, and your hand shoots for the nearest anchor—catching hard in the collar of Matt’s shirt.

You hit him flush, knuckles knocking against the base of his throat. His hand’s already on the small of your back, locking you in place with a broad palm, steadying you on instinct.

And for a beat your breath doesn’t catch so much as vanish. Pulse jumping from the slip, your body lagging behind the moment—all you can register is Matt, as if your existence has been reduced to only what’s beneath his hand, his heat burning through you completely. Undone under the moonlight, your focus is singular, fixated on a droplet of rain tracking down the sultry skin of his throat, a bead of quicksilver disappearing beneath your grip. A shooting star gone before you can wish on it.

His heartbeat is right under your touch.

“Careful,” he says again. It’s so low you feel it more in his chest than in your ears.

You blink the rain from your lashes, force your weight back onto your heels. “I am careful,” you mutter petulantly, but when you loosen your hold, it’s only to let your fingertips drag over the edge of his collar, stealing the warmth from his own skin.

Matt’s mouth curves faintly.

“Yeah?” His voice is almost lost under the rain pattering on nylon. “I think you did that on purpose.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

At least the heat in your cheeks is a welcome burn against the cold, you tell yourself. And when you step back into the shuffling line, the wind doesn’t seem to bite as sharply as it did before.

send me a number + dex/matt <3

#matt murdock x reader

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anti-heroesanonymous · 2 days ago

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through concrete and metal

also on archive of our own

word count: 2,277

dex doesn’t walk like someone who’s healed. every step’s a little measured, like his body’s doing math on the fly to keep the pain from spiking. even after the adamantium surgery, the metal fused to his bones leaves him cold, stiff, achy. mornings are the worst. waking up feels like trying to move through concrete. his middle and lower back, fused and fractured from years of injury, radiates sharp and burning some days, dull and gnawing others. dr. oyama restored his ability to walk, sure, stabilized the fractures, fused the vertebrae with cognium, but the surgery didn’t erase the memory of trauma in his body. the metal is supposed to hold him together, keep him functional, but it aches when it rains, locks up when it’s cold. layers aren’t just habit or fashion, they’re armor against weather that his bones feel before his skin does.

josie’s happened, and no one talks about it the way it should be talked about. matt threw him off that roof like a bag of garbage. dex hit concrete head-first, cracking his skull, choking on blood, slipping out of consciousness for a few terrifying moments. medically he was almost dead. he woke up in the hospital restrained, immobile, fighting against people trying to save him, but his body couldn’t obey. weeks passed before he could stand. months before he could even move properly. the medical records, cold and bureaucratic, call it “suicidal,” but the truth is worse: it was a body betrayed by physics, by trauma, by someone else’s hands.

after josie’s, the skull fracture left him with migraines, light sensitivity, and disorientation that never fully went away. sometimes he wakes up forgetting where he is. his neck is stiff, his head aches in ways that aren’t headaches. they’re reminders, echoes of concrete, of metal biting into fragile bone. even minor sounds can disorient him; inner ear damage from the fall makes sudden noises reverberate through him, muffled or distorted. fast head movements make him dizzy, so he tilts or rotates carefully, silently calculating each motion, pretending it’s intentional when it’s purely survival.

his spine is a different kind of betrayal. the impact compressed vertebrae already fused with metal. every step is an exercise in endurance. sharp pain radiates from his neck down his spine, sometimes pulling his left leg into dragging limps when exhaustion hits. knees and hips burn after too much walking. standing still makes the spine lock. sitting too long makes him ache in ways that are impossible to ignore. nerves misfire randomly, jolting through his back or legs like firecrackers in the dark. he flinches sometimes, but masks it with a calm that terrifies anyone who knows him, because it’s obvious he’s calculating, measuring, hiding.

dex’s fine motor control isn’t what it used to be. his left hand trembles subtly, almost imperceptibly at first, but when fatigue sets in or adrenaline spikes, the tremor becomes harder to hide. and terrifying even to him, because he knows how precise he needs to be. every time he pulls a trigger, it’s a negotiation with his own body, a constant awareness that a single slip could ruin everything he’s trained for. even simple tasks, holding a pen, unlocking a door, adjusting a lockpick, require micro-adjustments, careful thought, and effort.

the scar along his cheek, a leftover from josie’s, isn’t just cosmetic. the skin over it is hypersensitive; the nerve underneath is unpredictable, sometimes half-numb, sometimes a sharp burning. chewing too hard, talking for long stretches, or sudden facial movements can make it flare, a small but persistent reminder that his body is fragile in ways it never used to be. surgical scars along the side of his head from the fall hide beneath his hair, but in quiet moments, they pulse almost like they’re alive, a constant echo of trauma. mirrors are almost unbearable. they reflect not only the scars but the betrayal of his body, the way it failed him when he needed it most. looking at them forces him to acknowledge the parts of himself that can’t be hidden, that can’t be controlled, no matter how much skill or rage he layers on top.

sleep is no refuge for dex. his spine aches constantly, the metal in his vertebrae pressing and burning whenever he shifts, and the phantom pain from his skull fracture makes even lying down feel dangerous. the fear of slipping into unconsciousness only to never wake up keeps him alert long after his body wants rest. sleep aids barely touch it, they numb nothing but his anxiety for a few hours. weighted blankets offer some pressure, some sense of containment, but they can’t erase the stiffness, the ache, the way he has to contort himself just to keep from triggering a flare in his back or neck.

migraines come without warning. light becomes a knife, sound a hammer. he curls into himself, hands pressing against his temples, every nerve on edge, every pulse in his skull amplified. even the smallest movement can make the pain spike, so he waits it out, rigid and tense, counting time in breaths until it passes.

and yet, even in combat, these vulnerabilities don’t stop him. every fight risks setting off migraines, vertigo, or sudden nerve pain, but dex has learned to work around it. he favors ranged attacks when he can, moves his head with calculated care, and times every dodge to minimize strain on his spine. it’s not just skill. it’s survival instinct molded by obsession, by the knowledge that his body is both weapon and liability. each calculated movement, each measured strike, carries the weight of pain, and he carries it silently, turning suffering into precision.

dex’s chronic pain isn’t just something he feels. it’s a part of him, woven into the way he experiences the world. it’s psychological as much as it is physical, a constant reminder that control has been ripped from him over and over. fisk’s manipulation, matt’s violence, the years of strict training and conditioning. they didn’t just break him, they rewrote how his body reacts to the world. every twinge of nerve pain, every flare of stiffness, is a trace of ownership that was once not his. it’s proof that his survival wasn’t guaranteed, that he had to fight for every inch of agency, and that even now, the memory of being overpowered lingers in his muscles and bones. the pain doesn’t excuse him, it doesn’t absolve him of what he’s done, but it is inseparable from who dex is now. it has sharpened him, made him unpredictable, honed his body and mind into something both dangerous and precise. the trauma carved him as much as his choices did.

he moves through the world like someone constantly calculating risk, someone living inside a body that could betray him at any moment. the limp is subtle, almost invisible, but every step is measured, a negotiation between bone and nerve. if he twists wrong, sits too long, or miscalculates a movement, the spine locks or flares with sharp pain. storms, cold nights, rain, they aren’t just uncomfortable, they’re anticipatory. he knows the pain will spike before the weather hits, and he factors it into every step. it’s a rhythm he’s learned to live with, a constant background he neither fully ignores nor can overcome.

even healed, dex carries trauma like armor fused to his flesh. migraines flare unpredictably. his left leg drags when he’s overextended. fingers tremble at crucial moments, just when precision matters most. casual observers might not notice, but the betrayals of his body are relentless and intimate. they shape everything. how he fights, how he walks, how he sleeps, even how he thinks. mind and body are inseparable now; the gnawing burn along scars, the pull of nerves, the constant tension in his spine. they are extensions of his memory, reminders of falls, fractures, surgeries, and violence endured. frustration, anger, low-level panic. they all rise when his body fails him, echoing every trauma he’s survived.

the chronic pain doesn’t just shape dex’s body, it shapes his mind. every flare, every twinge, every ache is a reminder that he survived something that could have ended him. it leaves him on edge in ways no one else can see. he’s hyper-aware, not just of his surroundings, but of his body, constantly measuring, calculating, predicting what will hurt, how much, and for how long. that awareness bleeds into everything: he anticipates confrontation before it happens, notices subtle shifts in tone or movement in others, and sometimes misreads situations because his mind is already running calculations to protect his fragile frame. the paranoia isn’t just fear of people. it’s fear of his own body betraying him, and that awareness never sleeps.

chronic pain has carved impatience and irritability into him. small inconveniences. a tight door, a misaligned step, a sudden noise, can trigger disproportionate anger or frustration. it isn’t conscious, at least not at first. it’s instinct. his body is still negotiating pain he can’t erase, and when the world doesn’t accommodate that, the friction manifests as sharp words, sudden snaps, or cold withdrawal. he doesn’t want to be cruel, but the irritability is a side effect of surviving trauma; it’s defense, a way to keep people at a distance before they can see him fail or falter.

chronic pain makes spontaneity nearly impossible. it feels as though everything all requires physical and mental energy he can’t always spare. he learns to pick when and how to expend effort, and sometimes that means disappearing into silence, avoiding eye contact, or keeping a calculated distance. it isn’t rejection; it’s self-preservation. it’s exhausting to explain why he can’t keep up or why he moves with such caution, so he stops trying. isolation becomes a shield, a way to hide weakness from the world, but also from himself.

he carries a low hum of grief and frustration. there’s mourning for the body he had before josie’s, before fisk, before every fracture, every scar. it isn’t sentimental. it’s bitter. he resents the limitations, the reminders, the invisible strings that dictate what he can do and when. sometimes that bitterness turns inward, surfacing as self-criticism for weakness he didn’t choose, guilt for limitations that interfere with what he wants to accomplish, or shame for moments when he can’t perform as he expects. it’s a quiet, constant companion.

pain fuels hyper-vigilance and control in everything he does. routines, schedules, careful placement of objects, avoidance of unnecessary movement. all are strategies born from necessity. but they also leave him rigid, sometimes obsessive, and prone to spiraling if any element of control is disrupted. a sudden noise, a slip in temperature, a minor accident can spiral him into irritation or panic because it’s proof that his body, the one thing he has to trust above all else, can still fail him at any second. that mistrust extends to others, too; he’s slow to delegate, slow to trust that anyone else can anticipate danger, because experience has taught him that survival is personal, and the cost of error is high.

his mind rarely rests, even outside pain spikes. he’s always calculating: how to preserve strength, how to minimize pain in a confrontation, how to mask fatigue, how to keep the tremor invisible. that constant mental load is exhausting, and it leaves him emotionally thin. patience is fleeting. small failures feel catastrophic. the emotional consequences of physical limitations accumulate like invisible bruises. dex is sharper, yes, more dangerous, but also more fragile in ways no one would guess.

and yet, there’s a quiet resilience in how he navigates the world. the chronic pain, the migraines, the nerve flares, they shape him but do not define his agency. he adapts, he strategizes, he finds workarounds. but adaptation comes at an emotional cost. there’s loneliness in it, a quiet ache of being trapped in a body that demands constant attention, a mind that can’t switch off, a self that has to negotiate every interaction, every movement. it makes him cunning, observant, and coldly efficient, but it also makes him human. fragile, complicated, aware of every scar, every misstep, every betrayal his body still carries.

chronic pain is a shadow in dex’s psyche. it heightens fear, sharpens reflexes, magnifies frustration, deepens isolation, and fuels the obsessive control that defines so much of who he is now. it isn’t just something he endures. it is part of the architecture of his mind. surviving, managing, and negotiating it constantly has made him precise, lethal, and calculating. it has made him resilient, but it has also left him quietly haunted, always aware of how close he came to breaking, and how close he still is every time his body reminds him it remembers.

dex is in his prime, yes. deadly, skilled, terrifyingly capable. but the pain doesn’t vanish just because he’s better at masking it. it’s a shadow, a ghost of josie’s, of fisk’s penthouse, of years of near-death experiences. he’s learned to use it, to move through it, to hide it. but it shapes him, anchors him to the cost of survival.

watch him closely and you’ll see it: the micro-adjustments in his gait, the way his shoulders tense with even the slightest movement, the faint tremor in his hands when fatigue sets in, the subtle tilt of his head as he recalibrates after a sudden noise. dex doesn’t just live with pain, he negotiates with it constantly. it is relentless, intimate, inescapable, and it has become a tool, a part of his identity. surviving it, mastering it, weaponizing it. this is as much a mark of dex as his aim, his intelligence, his ruthlessness. it is him, fully and unflinchingly.

#bullseye #benjamin poindexter #chefs kiss

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anti-heroesanonymous · 2 days ago

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Aluminum, Steel, and Everything Real

Pairing: Clark Kent x GN!reader Content: Fluff!!, probably ooc, Clark eating things he's not supposed to ear, lol a/n: First time writing for Clark, so if he's ooc, I'm so sorry :(. Anyway, this fic is 13 years in the making. In the second grade, my friends and I would write self insert superhero comics, and my self insert was best friends with Superman. It was a running gag (the gags in those comics were nonsensical) that my self insert would bring Superman metal scraps because of all of those comics where he eats inedible stuff. So, here we are, Superman having infected my mind like a long lost lover who was off at war. The juxtaposition of my hyperfixations makes me giggle, though. Superman is full of whimsy, and Bullseye is full of whimsy for those with eyes to see, ig. Enjoy :P Masterlist

━ ⎚-⎚ ━

The first time you saw Clark eat metal was on your first date. You already knew he was Superman; you’d deduced it before he even asked you out. You thought you were prepared for all of the strangeness that came from dating an alien, but his diet definitely took the cake.

Clark had chosen a quaint place for dinner, a hard find in Metropolis. He’d sheepishly admitted that he wanted to impress you. Honestly, he could have taken you to McDonald's, and you would have been just as smitten.

He’d been talking about Revenge of the Sith, but you were too busy admiring him, hearts in your eyes. He was undeniably hot as Superman, everyone knew that, but he was just so adorable when he was Clark Kent, just for you.

He’d stopped talking, staring at you expectantly. He must have asked you something.

“You weren’t listening, were you?” He says, punctuating his question with a spoonful of the cake you two were sharing.

“I’m sorry, you’re just so cute,” you say, “It’s distracting.”

The blush that rises above his collar is enough to put the red sun to shame. Somehow, he’s even cuter when his eyes widen. However, the sound of metal snapping in his mouth breaks your immersion.

Clark must not notice, too caught up in stuttering out a response to your compliment, but when he sets the spoon down, the head is no longer there. In his hand in just the handle. He had chewed and swallowed the other end along with his bite of cake.

You laugh in disbelief, “Clark? Did you just eat your spoon?”

He’s still red in the face, the heat of his embarrassment rolling off of him in waves. He looks down at the spoon, and you swear he turns burgundy.

“I was-you make me nervous!” is his only explanation on the matter.

You’d laughed it off that day, thinking it just a product of having super strength.

━ ⎚-⎚ ━

One date turned into two, and two turned into many more until Clark finally asked you to make it official. You were surprised he hadn’t asked you if you wanted to try ‘going steady’ when he asked. Not that you had any doubt, but he ended up being the sweetest boyfriend ever. You would go as far as to say you might be the luckiest person on the planet.

He’d given you a spare key to his apartment a week after you started your relationship. You had tried to argue, saying you’d just call him when you wanted to come over, but he’d just smiled that easy way he does, and told you he would love to have surprise visits from you, that he’d always make time for you. You still called every time before you showed up.

Except for right now. You felt guilty, dropping in on him and stealing his free time, but it was late, and you really didn’t feel like making the walk back to your own place. You’d been to his apartment before, but unlocking a door to a place that wasn’t your home felt surreal. You kick your shoes off at the door and call out to him, announcing your arrival.

He is in front of you in seconds, gathering you up in a heart-palpitating, life-altering, earth-shattering kiss that makes you see stars. He seemed to be good at doing that sort of thing.

You hum when he pulls away, “I’m sorry for dropping in on you like this. But I was in the area, and you said-“

“Don’t apologize, really. I’m glad you’re here,” he smooths his hand down your arms like he’s trying to rub the guilt out of you. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

You nod, and Clark leads you to his couch, pulling you down and nestling you into his side while he flicks through options to watch. You snuggle closer, infinitely amused at how good he always seemed to smell. That’s when your eye catches the bowl sitting on his coffee table. You recognized it, having woken up many a morning to Clark serving up Ma Kent’s grits recipe in the blue-trimmed porcelain.

But that’s not what throws you off. No, the bowl itself is innocuous. The thing that draws your attention is the contents of the bowl.

Nuts and bolts. Nuts and bolts are in the bowl. There is even a spoon leaning against the rim, making it look like a very shiny bowl of cereal.

Yeah… you’re starting to think that incident with the spoon was a little bit more enjoyable than he let on. You don’t mention it, but you can’t help but wonder. Does he keep a jar of metal scraps in his pantry? Where does he even get that many metal pieces? Is finding a washer in his metal trail mix the equivalent of when you find an onion ring in your fries?

Clark brings you out of your thoughts when he suddenly stands up, reaching out to gather his bowl. The nuts and bolts clink against the porcelain as he turns around to smile down at you.

“Do you want something to eat?” You can’t help but admire how large he is.

You shake your head, “I’m good.”

He purses his lips, but hums in understanding, and retreats into his kitchen. You can hear him moving stuff around in his kitchen, and what you think is the sound of metal pieces being poured out of a bowl.

He comes back, setting two glasses of water on the coffee table, sliding one so that it’s within your reach. He pulls you back up against him, and you nestle into his side while he goes about starting the movie. He doesn’t bring up his metallic snack, but the moment is sweet, and you’d rather not ruin it. You guess you can hold off on all the questions you have about the nuts and bolts he’d been eating.

━ ⎚-⎚ ━

The third time you observe Clark eating metal, he’s not even with you.

You’re at work, the television positioned in the corner turned towards the news, where Superman is dealing with a bank robbery. Most of your coworkers pay no mind; a bank robbery really isn’t big news in Metropolis, but you’re always glued to the screen whenever Superman is being broadcast.

The news station is showing an aerial view of the robbery, but you can make out him hovering in front of the bank and the four perpetrators standing on the steps, their guns pointed at him. He’s impervious to bullets, but they don’t seem to care, shooting at him even as the bullets bounce off. He flies towards them, plucking the guns from the two closest robbers. It looks like Superman has saved the day again.

Then, Clark, sweet, lovable Clark, does something so insane you almost fall out of your chair. He holds up one of the guns and takes a large bite out of the barrel, chewing it and swallowing it like it’s a cracker. The image is tiny, but you can see the confusion that overtakes the perp’s faces, their expressions mirroring your own. The two who still have their guns lower them, making eye contact with each other. It gives enough time for Superman to apprehend them.

That night, when you’re in bed, your head tucked under Clark’s chin, you bring it up, trying not to sound too judgmental..

“It’s a new de-escalation tactic that I’m trying out,” he says.

You nod, humming in acceptance, but you have a sneaking suspicion that he just wanted a midday snack.

━ ⎚-⎚ ━

One of the things you loved about loving Clark is dinner with his parents. Ma and Pa, they’d insisted you call them as such, were delightful.

Your favorite times with the Kents are when Pa gets sentimental and pulls out the photo albums to show you glimpses into Clark’s past. He was a cute kid. Big, round eyes and pinchable cheeks. He was always smiling and giggling, if the photos were anything to go by.

You’re sandwiched between Clark and Pa while Ma sits in the chair across from you three. The album that Pa is showing off to you now was from Clark’s early months.

“He went through every teething ring we got him,” Pa was reminiscing, “He was a little terror back then.”

You laugh, trying to imagine a time in Clark’s life when he wasn’t a little angel, “So what did you do, then?”

Ma and Pa laugh, and Clark blushes.

“It’s not very flattering,” Clark sighs.

Ma cut him off, “Oh, hush. It’s cute. Show her.”

Pa chuckles, flipping a few pages forward in the album before stopping. At a glance, the picture is just another of Clark as a baby, sitting on the ground in front of the kitchen table. He’s preserved mid-giggle, and he’s clutching a long toy in his hand.

But it’s not a toy. Instead, it’s a smooth metal rod with a chunk bitten out of it.

“Imagine my panic when I find him eating bits of the fence,” laughs Ma, “But it was the only way we could get him to stop crying.”

“After that, we couldn’t get him to stop gnawing on metal,” Pa flips to some other pages, “and when his teeth came in, whoo!”

Clark coughs, playfully side-eying Ma for airing out all of his business to you. You can’t help it, and you start laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” you pat Clark’s arm, “It’s weird, yes…”

Clark deflates, so you correct yourself, “But it’s really cute. Just one more thing to love about you.”

That makes him light up, and he kisses your temple, “You know, you have a way of making me feel really good about myself.”

That causes Ma and Pa to laugh, and you to smile sheepishly. You’d definitely tease him about it later, but for now, you just accepted it as a charming quirk of his.

━ ⎚-⎚ ━

#clark kent x reader #superman x reader #a-ha.writes #clark x reader #superman #superman 2025 #clark kent

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