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readscreamrepeat · 2 days ago

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Chapter I: En Avant

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: Fluff.

Word Count: 5.2k

Author's Note: The first chapter is finally here!! I'm very excited to bring this new series to you. It's what I've been thinking about for a few months now. It came to me while I was still working on A Languor Spell, and now I can give it my full attention. Thank you for your patience! I hope you will enjoy the first chapter!

P/S: This is my first time writing in present tense, so if there's any mistake please let me know so I can fix it!

Disclaimer: I'm not a professional ballet dancer. I'm an adult beginner, and I've been taking classes consistently for over a year now. I just want to say that the series isn't written with the experience of a professional ballerina, but with my love for the art and the extensive research that I've done and will continue to do. I don't choose to write the Reader as a ballerina because of the aesthetic, but because I think there are so many things to explore in the original story that I've come up with, with the Reader being in the industry.

GIF Source: @/petertingle-yipyip

There has always been an emptiness residing within the frame of your body. In the absence of your old life, it has grown expeditiously. It carves into your body and makes a home in the forefront of your mind. On worse days, you feel as if anyone can see at first glance, how incomplete of a person you are. On better days, like today, you can hide it well, even from your closest friend. But right now, sitting in a dimly lit bar across from the friend you have known since you moved to this city at 18, you feel the person you're supposed to be has taken your anatomy apart. You're disembodied, scattered, and fractional.

Jo notices your silence and reaches over the table, laying her hand atop yours.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

Jo’s proposal. How can you not think about it? It has never left your mind ever since she mentioned it. Her newly acquired gym could be a place for you to get back to dancing in complete privacy. And you won’t have to pay a dime.

“I spruced up the place a little bit and will be adding more equipment. I can get whatever you need so it can be a proper space for you to practice.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Jo casts a sympathetic look at you, her voice careful.

“How’s your foot?”

You flex and point the right foot under the table, recalling the phantom pain that was your consistent companion for the most part of last year.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Are you still seeing Amy?”

“Of course. She’d bite my head off if I missed our appointment.”

You share a knowing chuckle, knowing Amy's personality. You know her through Jo, and they dated briefly in college. The two stayed friends afterward. After leaving Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre, your physical health was left to your own management. Your gaps of knowledge were filled in by Amy, a physical therapist who stepped in and offered her help voluntarily when Jo mentioned your situation. You still meet biweekly at her practice in Harlem, and the three of you hang out from time to time.

“Come to my gym.”

She hastily continues once she sees the decline perches on your pressed lips.

“It’s free.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. You’ll have to get a barre, and the flooring might not be suitable–“

“I don’t care about the cost. I just want to do this for you. Let someone do a nice thing for you every once in a while.”

You meet her eyes, resisting her act of kindness with silence. You know how to pick your battles, and this is the one you have lost from the start, judging by Jo's stern gaze. You sigh.

“I’ll think about it.”

A victory smile graces her lips.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Jo leans into the table, her hand reaching for yours.

“I want to see you dance on the stage again. You’re a beautiful ballerina, and I know this is not the end for you.”

You know she means well, but her words feel like claws, sinking their sharp ends into your heart. You haven't danced since the injury, and a part of you knows that you might never dance as well as you once did. The best version of you had lived that life to its fullest potential, the life of endless classes and rehearsals, soldout shows, ending many nights and seasons to the deafening cheers from the audience. Your current self is only a shadow, living a partial existence and mourning the past as time passes and your grasp on it weakens.

You want the endless optimism Jo seems to possess. She’s always so assertive in everything she does. From her university days pursuing a bachelor's degree in sports science to her boxing competition days to buying a gym, she has a sense of self-assurance that carries her throughout the years you've known her ever since you became roommates when you first moved to New York. And you admire that about her endlessly. Her goals might vary, but her passion for them never wavers. Her faith in you seems to share the same sentiment.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, hoping your face doesn't betray your true thoughts. Jo squeezes your hand and lets go. She checks her wristwatch, and with a silent glance, you understand that she has to leave. Jo meets you as you stand up from your side of the booth, drawing you into a crushing hug.

“Will you be okay here?”

She pulls back. You smile and pat her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. Just want to finish my drink.”

She takes a step backward as she waves.

“Good luck tomorrow!”

You raise your hand in response and watch her tall and brawny frame vanish through the door. You drop your arm, but you don't sit down. Taking a discreet glance at the bar, your heart rate spikes ever so slightly at the sight of the stranger you noticed earlier when you bought the drinks.

As you waited for your drinks, he came in and settled for a spot at the bar. The lady whose name you learned earlier, Josie, greeted him, asking where his friends were, so you assumed he was a regular. He was good-looking, you admitted before finding yourself staring at him. You averted your gaze, but couldn't help taking in other details. The folded cane rested on the bar top as Josie slid a glass of amber liquid in front of him. The scarred knuckles as he brought it to his lush lips. The suit was pristine for the most part except for the minimal wrinkles from the day's wear and the loosened tie. The red-tinted glasses perched on his pronounced nose, under the tousled sweep of dark hair. The soft smile brightened his handsome face as the other bartender told him something, which you had to tear your eyes away from when Josie placed the drinks in front of you. You thanked her and headed back to your table, feeling a touch of disappointment in your throat.

There is no denying that you want to approach him. But your nerves intervene with all the questions. What if he rejected you? What if he thought you were a creep for approaching him? What if he just wanted to be left alone? He has been sitting by the bar by himself ever since he came in, you notice. You'd ask if you could join him, and possibly buy him a drink if he was up for it. If he said no, that'd be fine. You would respect his wish and leave him alone. You have a feeling you'd regret it if you didn't at least try.

You gulp down your drink for a little liquid courage and make your way over to the bar. Your heart rate accelerates the closer you get to him, but you are determined to get over the little hurdle. You stop within a conversational distance and use your best composed voice.

“Hi, may I join you?”

He turns in his seat and gives you a friendly smile.

“Of course not. Please do.”

The high chair is a comfortable and respectful distance away from his, but still close enough for a private conversation. The stranger has angled his body toward you, and his openness eases the knot in your stomach. At this distance, you can see that he is even more handsome up close. Heat seeps into your cheeks at the full comprehension of his handsomeness up close. The neon signs around help shape the shadows and highlights that are already there in his features. The strong jawline and defined nose blend in harmony with the soft hair and luscious lips. You find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from his moving lips, and only a brief moment later you realize he has asked for your name.

You tell him and laugh nervously, blaming the lively ambience around you. He humours you with a chuckle of his own and reciprocates.

"Matt. Nice to meet you."

“Nice to meet you.”

He reaches out with a hand, and you grab it. Your heart beats a little faster at the feel of his hand, warm and a little rough. You pull away first, conscious of the coldness of your hand. You eye his almost empty glass.

“Would you like another drink?”

“If that makes you stay with me for the rest of the evening, I’d love one.”

Charming. You allow an amused and breathy chuckle to escape, and order another fill of your drinks. When Josie turns away to make them, Matt asks.

“What are we celebrating tonight?”

You think about it for a moment.

“This is not really a celebration since I haven’t gotten the job yet.”

“When is the interview?”

“It's … tomorrow.”

His brows raise above the glasses.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little bit. It’s been a while since my last normal job.”

“What were you doing before?”

Josie puts down the drinks in front of you.

“I’m a– I was a ballerina.”

“Was?”

You run a finger over the cool and smooth edge of the glass, taking a moment to tell a stranger about one of your worst shame.

“I haven’t danced professionally in over a year."

“May I ask why?"

The edge of his lips settles into a neutral line. No pity, just a willingness to listen. It is exactly what you need.

“Yes, but it's just … complicated.”

“How so?”

The old life that you once lived feels so out of your grasp now. Besides the occasional flareups, most mornings, you get up with minimal or no degree of soreness or pain, and you fear that signals the end of your life as a ballerina.

Retirement in your late twenties wasn't something you thought of when you were 18, fresh out of high school with an offer letter from Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre. Moving from a small, sylvan town to a big, lively city like New York was a dream come true. You got to live out the life your younger self used to dream about. How wonderful it was. Dancing on the big stage before the bright stage lights in front of the audience. The early classes, late stage calls, costume fittings, and demanding rehearsals leading up to the shows were all worth it. Because when you got to dance, it was just you and the music. Your body knew the techniques, learned the steps and how to master them. You bent music with your carefully crafted movements and turned the piece into your own interpretation. You worked hard on your craft and artistic abilities, and you thought that it paid off with your promotion from corps de ballet to the first soloist assembly after six years.

But for Matt's sake, you don't go into any of that.

“Well … being a principal dancer in my old company is a great honour since we're– they're much smaller than the American Ballet Theatre, New York City Ballet, etc … There were, and still are, only two dancers in that role. They were Christine and Guilherme. Christine'd been with the company since the early days. Many people came to the shows to see her dance. She and Guilherme brought in so many loyal audiences and sponsors over the years. So you can imagine what a big deal it was when Christine decided to retire."

He nods, his understanding and inclination to follow the story are apparent.

"Roger, the artistic director, wanted to appoint a first soloist, which is just a step below principal, to take over in her place. I was a soloist, and I was Christine's understudy for a few years until her retirement. I performed when she couldn't, when she needed to reserve her strength for important shows, on top of the roles I had to prepare and perform in those productions. So I thought it was my opportunity to get that promotion, you know? I always brought my best to work, and I pushed myself even harder that season to prove that I have what it takes to be a principal dancer. I was in and out of classes, rehearsals, and performances every day for over three months. On the days we had two shows a day, oftentimes I'd have to perform in both so Christine could have a break."

Matt listens intently, following your words with an attentiveness that you find endearing.

“In the final week of Sleeping Beauty, I had this pain along my heel. But I ignored it and pushed through out of fear that they would dismiss me. At that point, they already had a favourite. One of the directors even told me that I should quit while I was ahead and that I should be happy staying as a soloist."

You swallow the lump in your throat and go on.

"I couldn't take my bow that night, because as soon as my part was done and I went behind the stage, I passed out. It turned out I got an Achilles rupture.

“I had the surgery and was in a boot for a while. I was so desperate to show them my dedication and how good I was by going back to the studio just the day after they allowed me to go without the boot. And I made the injury worse. I was admitted for a partial rupture a week later.”

You thought you could do it. Bearing and hiding the pain so you would stand out as the best selection for the new principal dancer. Yet, all of that hard work didn’t matter in the end. It never mattered the moment Claudia Mavis signed a contract with Lady Liberty.

“In the hospital, Roger told me that he decided to promote Claudia, even though by that point she had been with the company for only one season. Then, I found out that Claudia left her previous company because they wouldn’t promote her. But here's the funniest part. After class one day, Claudia told me that they offered her a new contract two weeks before my accident. So I never had the chance in the first place."

You chuckle bitterly, remembering the tightness of your chest when you found out.

"They announced Christine's replacement at the last show of the season. Roger expected me to continue my duties as a soloist and an understudy for Claudia. But I just … couldn't do it. So I quit.”

“I’m sure when you come back to it, you will still be amazing.”

You don't even try to hide the disbelieving and playful scoff that escapes.

“You're just flattering me.”

There's not a trace of that cocky confidence of a man who thinks he just scores big with a woman because of a throwaway, vague statement he thinks will please her.

“I mean it. I enjoy music and dance performances in a way most can’t. When I really pay attention, I can hear … movements. The rhythm of someone’s feet striking the ground in time with the music when done right is beautiful. The way you talk about ballet shows me how much you truly care for the art. Like you live and breathe it.”

You tug on your bottom lip with your teeth in quiet contemplation before answering him.

“I did. It was a big part of my life.”

“It still can be.”

You let out a noncommittal hum.

"We'll see."

You took sips of your respective drinks, allowing the moment to reset itself. But Matt isn't quite done with the questions. You give him the go-ahead.

"Why ballet?"

“I just love the duality of it. We're supposed to look graceful and effortless while our blisters have blisters, our toes are bleeding, our legs are cramping. We have to dance through all of that and much worse. I like the pain sometimes. It means that I’m doing it right.”

“I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”

The quip takes you by surprise, but you quickly recover.

"Huh. I usually don't reveal that information to anyone until I'm ready to sleep with them."

Matt's tongue licks at his bottom lip, amused by your response.

"Maybe we are just that compatible."

Maybe it is the alcohol that makes you a little lightheaded, but the conversation has taken on a flirty turn, and you lean into each other's space, sharing a bashful, quiet laugh.

The person who took the seat next to yours when you were in the middle of your story bumps into you from behind, pushing you further into Matt's space. They apologize, and you tell them it's fine. The bar top has grown a little more crowded with new visitors. You think about what you could do to make some space when Matt reaches out and pulls your chair closer, so close that your knees touch. The contact is minimal, yet insistent, and you can't help the heat that races to your skin and the wild rhythms of your heart. Even your internal self admits that was the hottest thing Matt has done so far.

You clear your thoughts, focusing on the man sitting so much closer to you now.

“I'm so sorry. I feel like I've been talking about myself for the past hour.”

“No, don't stop. I like it. You have a beautiful voice.”

If he kept this going, you would need to check yourself for a fever. You clear your throat.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer. My partners and I have our own practice here in Hell's Kitchen.”

“Wow, that's amazing. What do you specialize in?”

“A little bit of everything. We started out representing people who can’t afford the legal service. Pro bono work basically. We still do that, but we have been getting more clients who can pay for our services.”

“Hm. It makes perfect sense. I can see that about you. The good guy.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“You know the right questions to ask. You got me talking about myself for … way too long. And your face …”

You trail off. Almost two drinks have worked their magic on your unabashed honesty.

“My face?”

His plush lips lift in a curious smile.

“Yeah, your face. You made me feel … safe and welcome so I could tell my story. Your face stayed neutral when I went on and on about it. No pity or judgment. You looked like you really cared about me, or my case.”

“I do care about you. And for the record, I appreciate every detail you gave me.”

You know that he might say this just to please you, but his earnestness says otherwise.

“Thank you. I needed that. Not many people care about me, especially after my fallout with the company.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It never was.”

Matt puts a hand on yours on the bar top. You stared at his scarred knuckles, your heart beating along the seam of your body with a slight increase in rhythm. Your hand itched to weave itself into his, to lay flat against the warmth of his palm. As if your body has thrown caution to the wind and wants to do just exactly what it wants to, your pointer finger moves involuntarily. He pulls his hand back, an apology on his lips.

“I’m sorry–“

“No, don’t.”

You reach out with the other hand and keep Matt there. You run your thumb over his knuckles as if to soothe him, to tell him that this is okay. You want this. The additional contact exhilarates you, as you haven't felt another’s touch that isn't from Jo or Amy in a long time. Dating has always been the last thing on your mind, especially in the past year. But right here, right now, being with Matt is easy. There is no pressure. No hindrance. Even though you've met only for two hours, Matt has listened to you. He takes a soft and shaky breath, and your eyes follow the way his chest slightly expands.

Your pointer finger traces the raised edges of his scars, and he lets you. The air seems to thin as your pulse drums a frantic beat under your skin.

“Do you beat people up in your client’s honour?”

“Only those who deserve it.”

You chuckle, and you lean into him as if you can't help yourself. The world has gone quiet around you, and the only thing left on your mind is to have his lips on yours. Your voice is only a breath above a whisper, and you're afraid Matt might miss it entirely amongst the loud voices of others.

“Can I kiss you?’’

He releases a sharp exhale as if he has been waiting for you to utter those words all evening.

“Please.”

You lean in, carefully, slowly. His lips slightly part in an open invitation, and you meet in the middle. The touch is gentle, soft tissues overlap in slow, indulgent caresses. Simple, yet it invokes a craving in you. The need for him to be even closer, the yearning to find out the taste of him. Matt touches your jaw, and draws you in closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself go. Eager, perching on the territory of desperation as the pressure on your lips grows more insistently. You're entangled in an exhilarating chase, circling around each other like you simply can't resist the pull that's been there since the moment you sat down. Matt silently asks for entry at the seam of your lips, and you respond in kind. His tongue strokes yours and suddenly, there is a new kind of invisible vapour that you're breathing in. It's overwhelming, yet not enough at the same time. You can taste the bitterness of the whisky that makes you wince on normal occasions, but on Matt's tongue, it's addictive and inexplicably irresistible. His air runs wild in your lungs, warming your body from the inside, awakening your nerves.

You break away at the sound of a teasing whistle clearly directed at you, reminding you of where you are. Matt’s face is flushed red, and you want to see how far down the colour goes under the suit and tie he's wearing. His hand is still on your jaw, gently caressing the line like he doesn't want to let go. And you don't want to let him go either.

“Can we go back to your place?”

The question rolls off your tongue, and he nods immediately, a little breathlessly. You stand up from your chairs at the same time. Matt reaches for his coat that is on the back of the chair. You shrug your own on and avert your gaze when Matt subtly adjusts his slacks. You put the bills down for your drinks, shutting Matt down when he objects to the idea. His hand find yours when you offer it to him, and you walk into the brisk air together.

The walk back didn't take too long. Matt held your hand the whole time, and the small gesture made your insides flutter. He lets you go when you reach his apartment. The unit number 6A has almost faded into the dark door. He unlocks the door and tells you where the light switch is. You turn it on, and place your coat in his awaiting palm. You follow him further into the apartment and take in the space.

“Who did you kill to get this place?”

Matt chuckles, discarding his tie with one hand.

“No killing involved. The neon sign out there is enough to chase people away.”

Your gaze falls on the giant, blinking advertisement outside the window.

“Nothing a few blackout curtains won't fix.”

He drapes the black tie on the back of the couch as you turn to the other side of the apartment.

“Do those stairs lead to the rooftop?”

“Yes, they do.”

You keep your back to him.

"Do you go up there often?"

"From time to time."

"This is … wow."

You're not sure why you're stalling. You pretend to look around as you try to brush off a nagging feeling that has settled in the pit of your stomach. Just the nerves, you think. You're out of practice, that's all.

So you clear your throat and say.

“Is your bedroom behind that bigger sliding door?”

He nods. You feel a little out of place, so you gravitate towards him, a familiar presence in a strange space. Matt lets you come to him, giving you all the control. You lean in and attach your lips to his, allowing it to follow the natural progression as it did back at Josie's. Your legs tangle and stumble towards the bedroom, your lips never too far away from one another. You think you might hit the closed door, but before that can happen, Matt pulls you flush against his body with one hand and uses the other to slide the door open in one smooth, practiced move. You pull away when you need to catch your breath.

“May I …”

You touch the side of his glasses. After a quiet moment, he gives you permission to take them, and you do. Slowly, and with the utmost care you can manage, you set them on the bedside table. His eyes are closed when you straighten. You caress his cheek, feeling the way his features form together. Your touch is soothing, and you hope he can feel the patience you offer to him. There is no rush, no pressure. After a long moment, Matt opens his eyes, and you take them in. You can see how he tries to meet your eyes in his own way. The shade of hazel is shrouded by the low light and the occasional shutter of his eyelids.

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

You raise slightly on your tiptoes and kiss his eyelids, feeling his lashes fluttering softly. He waits for you to return to him, and seeks out your lips in a delicate manner.

You fall onto the bed together. Matt braces himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. You pull his head down to yours, kissing and nibbling on the stretch of stubble along his jaw. His soft groans of approval encourage the other hand to travel downward, pulling on the white dress shirt. Once it's free from the slacks, you weave your hand inside and run your palm along the expanse of his torso. The dips and raises of his well-defined abs are warm under your palm, and the sensation stokes the molten liquid that's nestling deep inside you. You feel the feverish need edging over that part of you that you want to ignore.

The gradual pullback doesn't feel like a rejection at first, but merely an invitation to follow. So you do, your hands work to unbutton his shirt. But Matt slows you down to a stop, holding your hands to his lips and placing kisses on your palms. You blink, still snarled in the haze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Confronted. The only word that can describe accurately how you're feeling.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your heart …”

His hand trails from your collarbone to your chest where your heart resides within in a way that feels strangely intimate and not at all invasive. You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was beating. It's pounding. You are more nervous about this than you thought.

“… is beating quite fast. Are you nervous?”

You're safe. It's an innate feeling, and while you can't explain it, you know lying to Matt serves no purpose here. He seems to have a way to read you without using his sight.

“Yes, a little bit. I haven’t done this before. Sleeping with a stranger, I mean.”

“I see. We don’t have to do this.”

You raise yourself on your elbows.

“No, I wanted to go back here, with you. I want this.”

“But it doesn’t mean you owe me anything. If you change your mind for whatever reason, I'm okay with that as well."

Matt presses a kiss to your forehead.

"We can always try this again at another time.”

Guilt claws at you, urging you to do anything to please him.

“I’m sorry. I gave you the wrong signal.”

“Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for.”

He tries to find your hand, and you offer it to him. He gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“I had a good time with a beautiful woman, then I got to kiss her, all in one night, and that's enough.”

You guffaw, throwing your head back at the blatant flirt.

“You don’t even know how I look like.”

“No, I don’t. But I have my own way to tell. You sound beautiful.”

An idea materializes in your mind, and you give in to it. You bring his hand to your face, trailing along the side of your face. He gets the hint and begins his own exploration of your features. The way he takes his time, following the slopes of your face, his touch gentle, ghosting over your skin. He stops at your lips and soothes his thumb over the kiss-swollen flesh. You sigh softly. He gives you one last kiss, his tenderness makes your heart soar.

“Would you like something comfortable to sleep in?”

“I'm fine with anything you have.”

Matt finds his closet and pulls out a grey sweatshirt. He tells you where the bathroom is, and you take the folded shirt with you. You clean yourself up with water before stripping down to your underwear. You put the soft material over your body. It smells like him, and soft, just like him. You come out of the washroom and see his bare back for a split second before he pulls the shirt down. He has changed into a pair of grey sweatpants and a black shirt that hugs his chest and biceps beautifully.

You stand by his bed, not sure where you can come in despite the two of you ruffling the sheets not even ten minutes ago. Matt chooses for you, settling on the space facing the window, leaving you the side which is closer to the sliding door. His sheets are silky soft, and you feel yourself sinking right into them. You turn to face Matt, touching his shoulder. He faces you fully, his eyes settling on a point on the lower part of your face.

“Thank you.”

You whisper.

“Thank me by staying for breakfast.”

“Why breakfast?”

“I can't send you off to your interview on an empty stomach, can I? It's the least I can do.”

A rueful smile graces your lips.

“I can’t wait.”

You fell asleep with ease. At one point during the night, you could feel Matt detach himself from you, and out of a vague desperation that you couldn't process, you held tighter onto him involuntarily. At that, he stopped moving, and you felt a soothing pattern trailing over your head, luring you back to sleep again. His warmth carried you through the few hours that you slept.

It's a little past 4 AM when you wake, and find Matt still sleeping peacefully. Torn, but you come to accept that leaving is for the best. You get out of bed gently, thankful that the wooden floor didn't make a noise. You take his sweatshirt off and fold it, putting it on top of the pillow that you slept on. After putting on the clothes from the night before, you leave with much regret in your heart.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

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readscreamrepeat · 5 days ago

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Knees, Now. ~Writing Prompt~

Warning/Tags: 18+ Only, Light Sexual Tension, Snarky Matt, A bit of a late-night scare.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem Reader.

Summary: When you’re caught, you’re caught.

Prompt: "Get on your knees. Now."

Also Posted on AO3: Knees, Now by AilaTheTiefling

Notes:

I asked to join @mattmurdocksscars 2.5k follower celebration, and chose to write on this prompt, this was absolutely not where I thought this was going to go…but here it is.

This is my first Reader POV story! Please let me know your thoughts. I ran it through edits, but I am sure it needs a second scan. :) Thanks for checking it out!

There were several things you were sure of at this moment.

One: it was too late to be heading home from the bookstore, but you couldn't help it! You had gotten sucked into that new fantasy book that was released, and the store was quiet, comfortable, and warm. Your apartment's heating had been on the fritz, and the landlord hadn't come by to take a look since you phoned about the issue. Besides, your apartment wasn't that far.

Two: Matt, would have a cow, once you spilled the beans that you walked home this late, he always was on some shit about it not being safe…granted his job as lawyer did leave him looking at the worst cases possible but…well, if something was going to happen, it was going to happen in daylight or nighttime.

Three: There was someone following you, you dared not turn around.

Boy, were you in for an earful from Matt.

Your hand clenching around the pocket knife in your coat pocket, flicking the safety off…

You didn't have a purse on you, just a small wallet tucked in your bra, with your ID, Subway Pass, and a few dollars. Your phone was also in your jacket pocket with the knife. Before you could pull the knife… You miscalculated the distance between you and the attacker, as a rough, gloved hand gripped your upper arm and swung you into the nearest alleyway.

You sucked in air as you felt your body swing towards the wall, but your head never hit the brick wall behind you, as a large hand cradled the back of your skull. Your grip faltered on your knife, your eyes clamped shut.

“Damn it”

That voice, you cracked one eye open, and were face to face with Matt. A bit shocked, you stared up at him as his eyes danced around your face, towards your chest. “What. Are. You. Doing?” It was a low growl that vibrated where your bodies touched, your heart pounding.

What were you doing? What was he doing? Your eyes dropped down, no red glasses, no cane, dressed all in black, as you trailed down, your eyes widened further, not gloved hands but wrapped.

“Matthew.” You hiss out at him…”You terrified me.” His lips tilted upwards into a small smirk, leaned closer to your ear.

“Sweetheart, be glad it was me.”

There was something dark in his gaze, something a bit off. You tried to reply, but you only opened and closed your mouth a few times. Your heart had started to calm, but Matt had not pulled his body from you. As you looked closer at his face in the dimly lit alley, you saw blood trickling down his hairline, over his eyebrow, and into his eye. He did his best to mimic locking eyes with you, his eyebrows drawn downward, a small sign of his anger.

“So, what are you doing out here?”

Finally, his question sparked a fuse inside of you.

“Me? What are you doing? For god's sake, you're bleeding, no glasses, no cane…and dressed all in bla…black in the middle of...”

You paused…and something clicked. His outfit was familiar, his demeanor, the blood…

“No…no fuckin’ way.” Matt didn't move, you were sure he wasn't breathing with how tightly you both were wound together.

Matt had taken a risk grabbing you; he knew he wouldn't be able to play off his current appearance…he was so close to telling you anyway, but when he saw you walking home, this late at night, smelling like espresso coffee and new books. He felt a bit of his control snap. He had lost his lead on the Russian mobster he was chasing due to him disappearing down a manhole. He was already feeling rather pissed and this was just the icing on the proverbially cake. AFTER he had told you to get home before it was too late at night.

“I'm doing what I should be.”

And as he said it, he grabbed you by the waist, pulled you up, and threw you over his shoulder as if it was nothing! You squeaked in response, as you felt him move quickly through back alleys, around corners, the small light that did filter in as he moved by…you saw a black mask hanging from his back pocket. The devil wears black in hell's kitchen.

You assumed from the direction you were headed that he was taking you back to his apartment. Matt didn't say anything, so during this time, you pondered. The scars, the strange bruises, the cuts, the blood, the first aid kit, just all of the damn things! All this time, from photos you had seen in papers, to whispers on the streets of hell's Kitchen, it never dawned on you that he kept his eyes covered. Holy shit! How did he do all that he did?

“Matt…?”

He made a shushing noise as he set you down. “Not now, climb.” He pointed up his apartment building's fire escape. “To the roof, we have to go through my door there.” You hesitantly looked up, it was quite a climb but well if anyone did make you feel safe it was Matt…and double so since Matt was Daredevil! “I won’t let anything happen to you.” As he nudged you to the ladder.

The climb was silent again, and as soon as you both made it to the roof, he grabbed your wrist, and spun you to him, the door knob so close to your fingers.

“Now, sweetie, you tell me why you were out so late, and I'll answer those questions burning on the tip of your tongue.”

His breath was warm against your parted lips, his forehead pressed into yours. “Do I need a good reason? Matt. What the hell?” Your free hand gripped at his black shit. “Matt?” You didn't even know how to ask, and as you said his name, you tugged his shirt back and forth.

He chuckled from his chest, it was deep, and you felt a warmth flutter in your stomach.

Thick biceps, strong legs, tight grip.

“Fine, it's exactly what you think…” Matt paused, tilted his head a bit to the side. “I was out for a nightly run.” no fucking way. Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head… “There's only one reason you should be doing that.” His lips were near your ear now, and goosebumps spread across your arms.

“Excuse me?” You said, turning, your mouth grazing his stubbled jaw. “Rolling your eyes like that.” There was no way.

“I wanted to tell you sooner, I almost did the other night…when you wanted me to stay in bed with you at your place.” Matt paused and buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath. Matt had not exposed this side of himself so willingly…but he felt like you would not judge, or run away from him. Matt had learned enough about you these past few months that this felt right.

“I'm the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, I guess now they are calling me Daredevil.” He nipped at your neck, with small fluttering bites, and your knees almost buckled. You wanted to say more, wanted to ask, but you felt like he would give you what you most wanted regardless.

“I can do these things because I can hear, smell, and touch things with my heightened senses. That accident I was in when I was young changed me."

Matt had been telling you some things in bits and pieces, and as he spoke, you realized that for months, he had been dropping hints about those heightened senses. The way he reacted to your scent when you had never even put anything on, to the noises you made while you were pushed deep into the mattress, holding back the sounds in your chest, the way he made comments on things you said well out of earshot.

The whole time he explained things to you about being Daredevil or his sense, he would nip or drag his tongue along your neck, and once he felt he had aired enough of his secrets, Matt pulled back, letting you go. You wobbled where you stood, a bit breathless, a bit stunned, very excited.

“I knew you were hiding something.” The words came out breathless, in a bit of a pant. “The ways you acted were a bit…strange.”

He raised his eyebrow at you, not taking the bait of your comment. “Hmm, now answer my question?”

No wonder he had not wanted you out at night! Damn it. You had zero defense! “I…umm…lost track of time.” He smiled, showing teeth, a bit of blood dribbled onto his lips, and your gaze followed as it dripped off his chin. “Reading…at the store.”

“Not good enough.” He said as he pushed your shoulder, to turn and go towards the door. “Downstairs.” His request sounded more like a command, so you obeyed. The whole time down the stairs, you spoke, nervous anticipation building in your chest.

“Look…if…I had known you were the devil…I would have, I don't know, believed you?”

Matt scoffed behind you, and you could hear the tear of velcro as he began to remove his boxing wraps.

“You'd believe the devil over Matt?”

You giggled a bit under your breath. “Well… I mean..it's you, both of you.”

Once you made it down the last few steps, Matt was on you, quick, his mouth pressed into yours, hard, teeth biting at your lips, tongue licking over the light indents he made. Matt's blood tasted so good on your tongue.

You responded in kind, trying to run your hands over his chest, but as you raised your arms, you felt his right hand clamp both of your wrists tightly, and suddenly, a cloth pressure began to wind itself around your wrist, over your knuckles. “Matt!” he was binding your hands with his boxing wraps!

“I”

Nip

“Told you”

Bite

“To be”

Kiss

“Safe.”

The Velcro was loud as it connected in your ears. Your hands bound in front of you, your fingers only slightly able to wiggle. You were hot, panting, swearing under your breath, as Matt stood in front of you, bathed in a dim light from the billboard outside, his lean frame clad in all black, and god, he was perfect, his mouth red, swollen, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. You'd do anything for this devilish man, as the most sinful thing you heard all night rumbled from his mouth.

“Get on your Knees, now.”

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