steve-chandler

[steve-chandler]

Nothing Remains the Same

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader Word Count: 4.1k [Matt Murdock Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; DDBA SPOILERS, angst (not a happy ending), emotional hurt, pining, mentions of sexual content

Summary: In an attempt to bridge the distance between Karen and you, Matt invites you both to his apartment for dinner while the pair of you are visiting New York for work. But after that night at Josie's over a year ago and your almost-relationship with Matt had long since ended, clearly nothing is the same anymore–especially Matt.

a/n: I've had this idea stuck in my head for over a week now because I've been craving angst so...here you go. This contains DDBA spoilers and has no happy ending (unless I make a second part at some point). Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

tag list: @captainorbust-blog @hollandorks @lights-on-the-ridge @spider-jedi17 @raindropsandteaandtears @thekidsare-kinda-alright

Leaning against the counter beside Karen, a glass of wine in your hands, you watched Matt and Heather as they continued talking on the other side of the island in Matt’s kitchen. Karen stood beside you with her arms crossed over her chest, absently swirling the red wine in her glass. The smile on her face was polite but strained as she listened to the story the couple was currently regaling you both with–how Matt had asked Heather to move in. But even you could see that Karen was thinking the exact same thing you’d been from the moment you both stepped into this apartment.

Nothing felt right here. 

Your eyes lingered on the way Matt stirred the sauce in the pan on the island stovetop, his red glasses perched on his nose and still obscuring his full expression from view. You hadn’t seen his eyes even once since Karen and you had arrived almost an hour ago, which only made the distance between you three feel like a gaping hole only growing more impossible to cross. Jaw twitching as you tapped a finger against the glass in your hands, you barely registered the conversation occurring around you. 

You were not remotely interested in hearing about Matt and the girlfriend he’d surprised you and Karen with the moment you’d stepped through the threshold into his apartment for dinner tonight–not when you had once been the woman in his life telling stories like this. It used to be you and Matt telling Karen and Foggy about the date you'd gone on, or how Matt had slipped through your window late as Daredevil and crashed at your place as you both explained why you had showed up late to the office together that morning. And then Foggy would always tease you both about your flirting in the workplace and–

No. Now wasn't the time for that.

But it was impossible to focus on what Heather was saying as your own memories kept flashing through your mind. Memories of drunkenly making your way into Matt’s previous apartment, clutching a bag of Thai food in your hand from the restaurant around the corner you both loved. Or the nights he'd asked you to stay over because he liked having you in his apartment when he made his way through the roof access door, exhausted and maybe a little banged up in his suit. All those times you’d both been over-eager on his couch, too in the moment to make it to his bedroom before undressing each other. Those times when you’d both been washed in the deep hues of different colors from the billboard across the street, bathing your bodies in various shades as you made love on his couch.

Glancing through the kitchen towards his living room on the left, you noticed his couch was different. Not the same one you remembered. It wasn't the leather couch you both had cuddled on countless nights before, or the one you'd cleaned his blood from off the cushions on multiple different occasions. Your hand tightened around the wine glass as you stared past Karen into his living room, blankly taking in his new apartment.

It felt cold here. Fake. Like a prop and not some place where Matt actually lived–where he came home after a day of work to unwind and where he laid down to sleep at night. This wasn’t Hell’s Kitchen. His fridge was fully stocked with food instead of just beer, half a bottle of orange juice, and the rare carton of eggs. There was no obscene billboard across the street, and those stairs leading from the roof that you’d seen him stumble down too many times to count in his red suit were missing. The furniture here was different–nicer. Everything from his kitchenware to the sweater he had on looked expensive. And where had that red plaid blanket gone that you’d both wrapped yourselves in all those times you’d drank cheap beer on his roof?

But as your eyes returned to Matt, Heather now having switched topics to some upcoming book about vigilantes that she was working on–which made it apparent that she had no clue she was living with one–you noticed the worst part about all of this. Matt felt different. That smile on his face seemed strained, and you had a feeling if he removed those glasses, you'd easily see it didn't quite reach his eyes. His laugh sounded off whenever Heather told a joke. The way he moved around the kitchen cooking dinner with that slightly diluted charming smile on his lips just felt wrong. 

This didn’t feel like Matt. You didn’t know who the hell was standing on the opposite side of the island counter from you with some other woman’s hand lingering on his shoulder, but he wasn’t your Matthew. It felt like you were somehow standing in the middle of a nightmare that you couldn’t wake up from. Because this couldn’t possibly be where things had gone now between all of you.

As your pulse quickened, that heartache you thought you’d buried for the past year–the one you thought you’d come to terms with while you’d been gone from New York–suddenly felt as if it had torn your chest wide open again. Almost instantaneously, Matt’s head shifted towards you from across the island counter. Raising the red wine towards your mouth, you swallowed the bitter alcohol down as his covered gaze landed on you. 

You knew he’d caught that. 

Pressing your lips together and forcing a smile onto your face, you turned your attention away from Matt and back to Heather. She smiled at you as she came to a natural break in her explanation of what she was working on and you nodded your head, trying to take an interest in what she was discussing. You knew you’d been far too quiet since having arrived here and it was probably bordering on rude, but your mouth felt so damn dry.

“That–that sounds like an interesting premise,” you forced out. 

Heather smiled before she draped herself around Matt as he continued cooking, your stomach twisting at the sight. How had Matt thought that this would be a good idea? A good way to catch up and try to mend things between Karen and you? How had he not realized how much this would hurt you? Even if you hadn’t gotten Matt to the point of officially labeling you as his girlfriend back then, that’s what you’d been. And now you were watching him live that out with someone else right in front of you. It made you want to be sick.

“I told Matt here that he should get me an interview with one of his vigilante acquaintances,” Heather continued, affectionately patting his shoulder as she looked up at him. “Frank Castle or Daredevil. Maybe both.”

Beside you, Karen nearly choked on the wine she’d been drinking. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you refrained from blurting any of the comments that were sitting on the tip of your tongue as Matt chuckled good-naturedly. That feeling of everything being off only intensified.

“Yeah, I’m sure he could absolutely manage that,” Karen said, her blue eyes piercing into Matt while she spoke. “I could only imagine those two sitting down with a therapist. Bet that’d be interesting, wouldn’t it, Matt?”

Matt glanced up from his cooking, a tight smile on his face. “Yeah, I’m sure it would be.” A muscle jumped in his cheek before he focused on Heather beside him, that slightly off smile on his face again. “But I already told you that I’m not so sure if that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”

The moment the simple term of endearment was out of his mouth, you froze in place as if the air had just been sucked straight from your lungs. Sweetheart. He was calling her sweetheart. After all of those times he’d called you that–over the phone when he was making plans with you, in his deep sultry tone when he’d flirt with you in the office, panted into your ear when he was buried inside of you–now he was calling someone else that?

You felt lightheaded, your heart beating unsteadily in your chest. Reaching a hand out behind yourself, your fingers gripped onto the cold stone of Matt’s kitchen counter behind you as your knees felt like they were beginning to buckle. Beside you, Karen turned her head at the movement, catching the look on your face. Her blonde brows drew together in worry, a silent question forming on her features clearly asking if you were alright. But it was one that you weren’t sure how to answer. Because no, you weren’t alright. Nothing felt right anymore.

Across the kitchen, you heard Heather call out your name as you set your wine glass down on the counter beside you. One hand reaching up, you grabbed the collar of your blouse, trying to pull it away from your neck. It felt stifling in here all of the sudden.

“Are you alright?” Heather asked, her eyes scanning you closely. 

“Is something wrong?” Matt asked. 

He stopped stirring the sauce in the pan in front of him as he’d spoken with genuine concern in his tone. His attention fixed on you instead of the dinner he’d been preparing, no doubt reading your body closely and listening to all of the things even you couldn’t catch. You wondered what it told him. Wondered if he knew how much he was tormenting you right now or if he even cared because he just wanted you and Karen back in his life, as if things could somehow snap back to how they were between the three of you while one part of the group was glaringly and permanently missing. 

“I uh,” you began, trying to find the words as all three sets of eyes landed on you. “I just–just need some air. The uh–” you broke off, feeling your body growing hotter as Karen gave you a knowing look. “I just think that flight in from California took it out of me.”

A nervous laugh slipped out of you, the urge to bolt from this apartment–from this whole damn city–slamming right into you. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stand here and smile and pretend like you were fine with everything. Because you weren’t. And you weren’t even sure if Heather knew that you were basically Matt’s ex and not just one of his ex-associates from Nelson, Murdock, and Page. 

“I’m just going to step out,” you said, pushing off of the kitchen counter.

Not even caring about how rude you might’ve appeared, you slipped past Karen and the knowing look on her face before making your way through the kitchen and towards Matt’s front door. Without a backwards glance or another word, you pulled the door to his apartment open and darted outside of it, hurrying straight for the elevator at the end of the hallway. 

As you jammed your finger into the elevator call button, waiting for the doors to open, you hated knowing that he was aware of your entire exit from his place. You couldn’t just cry in peace in the elevator as you made your escape, because if Matt was still Matt, you knew his senses were focused on you as you stepped into the elevator. Knew that he could hear you trying to fight back the quiet sobs threatening to overtake you and the erratic beating of your heart in your chest.

But none of that stopped you from letting the tears spill down your face the second the elevator doors shut in front of you. Slumping against the wall of the elevator as it began to descend towards the lobby, you wiped away the tears with the back of your hand as they began to fall. It had been a horrible idea to accept Matt’s offer for dinner at his place tonight with Karen while the pair of you were briefly back in New York. You had hoped that this weird, painful divide between the three of you could gradually be mended after the loss of Foggy, but now you weren’t sure how possible that could ever be. 

You couldn’t see him with another woman. It didn’t matter how smart, successful, beautiful, and kind she seemed. It didn’t feel right seeing her wrapping her arms around his waist or rubbing his shoulder affectionately. Kissing his cheek and sharing little jokes. Hearing him call her sweetheart. Knowing they were living together.

That was supposed to have been you. It had been you.

Until that night at Josie’s a little over a year ago now. The night that had changed everything. The night where your’s, and Matt’s, and Karen’s worlds had fallen completely apart. The night you three lost Foggy. When he’d taken that last gasping breath in front of you and Karen right outside of the bar the four of you had frequented almost weekly. That night when a part of Matt had died with him. But while you and Karen had tried struggling together to move on and deal with your grief over the tragic loss of one of your best friends, Matt had only shut you and her out completely.

But you were still in love with Matt. That much was painfully obvious after tonight. He might have walked away and moved on from you, even if it all seemed so damn fake and forced, but you’d apparently been holding onto something that wasn’t ever going to happen again and you were just now realizing it.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, the noise cutting through your thoughts. Sniffling softly, you pushed yourself off of the wall and stepped out of it, heading into the well lit and extravagantly decorated lobby which was a vast difference from Matt’s previous apartment building. Thankfully, it wasn’t too crowded with people coming and going, meaning no one really spared you a passing glance as you wiped at your tear-stained cheeks. 

You had no intention of going back up to Matt’s apartment. You would just come up with some lie for Karen to tell them about you not feeling well and instead spend the rest of your evening crying alone in your hotel room until Karen came back. But just as you’d felt for your phone in your pocket so you could send her a text, you heard your name being called across the lobby. Brows furrowing together in confusion, you paused and turned your head towards where the voice had come from.

Matt was making his way out of the stairwell, his cane sweeping across the floor as he hurried towards you. You were vaguely aware of how little he was hiding the fact that he knew exactly where you were standing despite that he was in public, his feet leading him straight towards you. His dark brows were pinched together, furrowing deeply beneath his glasses as he approached.

“Matt, you don’t–”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, stopping just in front of you. “Why’re you leaving? You’ve only been here for an hour. And don’t tell me you just needed air or that you’re not feeling well because we both know that’s not true.”

Unable to stop the humorless laugh that bubbled up out of you, a look of disbelief crossed your face at the question. Even with the glasses covering his eyes, his face noticeably twisted up as if the sound had somehow physically hurt him. 

“Why didn’t you tell us your girlfriend would be joining us for dinner when you invited us?” you questioned back. “That she was living with you? Or that you even had a girlfriend, for that matter.”

“I–I wasn’t…” he trailed off, at least having the sense to sound guilty. He paused, gripping his cane tight between his hands as he pursed his lips in frustration. “Look, I wasn’t sure I’d ever have the opportunity to try to fix things with Karen and you, so when I found out you both were coming out here for work, I took my chance to invite you both for dinner. I didn’t think it would be a problem that I was seeing someone, but initially Heather had an appointment scheduled for the evening which had been canceled last minute.”

Pulling a face, you shook your head back at Matt. “So you were going to what? Pretend there was no live-in girlfriend when we came over?” 

“No,” he answered firmly. “No, I wouldn’t have kept her a secret. That’s not what I meant, I just meant that I had been intending for tonight to just be the three of us, alright? Sweetheart, I didn’t–”

“Don’t.”

The word came out both sharp and pained as it passed your lips. You could feel something squeezing your heart in your chest as you remembered how he’d just called someone else that right in front of you without a second thought. The tears were burning in your eyes again as you held the gaze of those red lenses which he still hadn’t removed. His lips twitched at the corners in something like a wince at the sound of your voice, his throat visibly bobbing above the neckline of his sweater as he swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Eyes snapping shut, you couldn’t even look at him. A few more tears slipped out, sliding their way gently down your cheeks as you stood there. What the hell were you supposed to say to that? It’s not like it changed anything.

“You left,” he continued quietly. “You left New York.”

Eyes slowly opening, you looked back at Matt through the tears blurring your vision. “You left first,” you breathed out. “That night. After that night. You shut me out, you shut Karen out. You locked yourself away in your apartment. Didn’t answer our calls or our texts. Never opened your door to us. You came to work at the office barely there after you told us you wanted to close the firm.”

Pausing to try to swallow down the lump forming in the back of your throat, one of your hands reached up and wiped at the tears still steadily falling. Matt stood there in front of you with trembling lips, making you wonder if he was tearing up behind those red lenses himself.

“You left first, Matt,” you repeated. “I tried to get through to you for months, but you wouldn’t let me in. And then the firm closed and Karen was leaving to California. I needed a job and I needed the only friend I felt I had left, so I followed her.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. Just–just stay for dinner. Please.”

“Matt, you know I can’t do that,” you told him, voice pained. “I can’t go back up there and watch you two together. It hurts. Not just to see you with someone else, but seeing you acting like someone else.”

Matt went tense at the accusation, shaking his head once more at you as his jaw clenched tight. You knew he was in denial about what he was doing, how he was handling Foggy’s passing. You knew him far too well to let him lie to you.

“I’m not acting like someone else,” he disagreed. “I’m trying to live my life as Matt Murdock.”

Gesturing a hand sharply at Matt in front of you, you couldn’t fight back the truth as it fell past your lips. “This isn’t you, Matthew. This is you hiding away from your grief instead of facing it. You're burying it deep down and pretending it's not there but it is.”

A bitter scoff left Matt as he readjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, those red lenses of his flashing beneath the lights of the lobby. You could see his tongue running over his teeth in frustration behind his closed lips before he continued.

“I’ve been dealing with it,” he countered. “Every damn day.”

“You left Hell’s Kitchen, Matt,” you pointed out. “You’re partnered at some fancy law firm that doesn’t feel like you. Living in a fancy apartment that doesn’t feel like you with a girlfriend who clearly doesn’t really know you. And–” you continued, the words just spilling out of you like the tears still running down your cheeks, “–I’m guessing you still haven’t put the suit back on since that night.”

“You know I can't.”

His words came out dark and quiet, his lips thinning into a straight line. You could see the muscle working in his cheek as he stood there, clearly trying to fight down his own emotions like he'd been doing for more than a year. Part of you felt bad for pushing the subject, but you knew what was going to happen if Matt kept lying to himself. 

“You didn't kill either of them,” you whispered, lowering your voice so your conversation couldn't be overheard. “I know you don't believe me, but you didn't, Matt. What happened that night–”

“Can't happen again,” he stated firmly. 

Biting your lip, your hands curled into fists at your sides. It was almost impossible to get through to Matt when he'd made up his mind. But you'd seen the news reports since you'd been back in the city. You'd heard about the uptick in crime. About Fisk becoming mayor and wanting to come down hard on vigilantes. You'd heard people wondering about what happened to the Devil. But what hurt was knowing that even if Matt refused to put on his suit and help, he was still hearing the pain and suffering of everyone around him. He couldn't just ignore his senses, and you knew that had to be slowly killing him inside.

“You can't fight that side of yourself forever, Matt,” you told him softly. “You can't run from who you are.”

“That's not who I am,” he snapped, shaking his head. “It's not. Not anymore.”

A small, sad smile tugged at your lips at the blatant lie. You didn't need his heightened hearing to know that it was. Your hand reached out in the space between you both, your fingertips lightly brushing over his soft sweater, just above his heart. You saw him stiffen under your touch.

“The Devil is as a part of you as Matt Murdock is,” you murmured. “And he's a hero to more people than you realize. You can't keep him locked away, and you can't keep lying to yourself. It's only hurting you more.”

Your eyes dropped down to where you were touching him, a tense silence following your words. Slowly, your hand fell away from his chest and back to your side, but you noticed the tension and fight had eased out of him almost immediately, as if your touch had briefly soothed something inside of him.

“Please just come back up for dinner,” he begged again, emotion thick in his words. “Please don't go.”

His words were like a knife to the heart, the pleading note of them only adding to the pain. But you knew you couldn't follow him back up there. You couldn't put a smile on your face and pretend like your heart wasn't breaking all over again at the sight of him with another woman. A woman who didn't truly know him yet had someone gotten close enough to move in. 

“I can't, Matty,” you said, noticing how he flinched at the name. Taking a step back, you fought to keep yourself together, not wanting to break down here in the lobby of his apartment building. “I can't do that.”

“Please,” he begged.

A single tear slipped out from beneath his glasses, the sight of it causing you to take another abrupt step back. This hurt so damn much, but you knew going back up with him would only hurt even more.

“Take care of yourself, Matthew,” you said softly. 

Biting down on your cheek, you turned and forced yourself to walk away from him. Throwing a hand over your mouth to muffle your sobs, you headed towards the building's exit and attempted to keep your composure. Just until you could get back to the privacy of your hotel room. But it was so hard to hold yourself together when that same painful thought kept repeating in your mind with every step that continued to grow the distance between the two of you.

He wasn't your Matty anymore.

[steve-chandler]

Fictober Day 27: Slow Dancing

Fictober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Prompt: Slow Dancing (🌼)

Summary: You and Matt finally manage to be home at the same time, ready to have a romantic dinner when he suddenly puts on one of his jazz vinyls and pulls you in for a dance...

Warnings: Fluff. That’s it.

Word Count: 577

A/n: Posting the last remaining Fictober prompts I didn't get around to posting in October (2024), one by one. I don't like leaving things unfinished, and I promised I'd post them, so... stay tuned!

Read Me On AO3! (coming soon, once all prompts are posted)

The candles on the dining table cast a comfortable glow over the living room. 

For the first time in weeks, Matt has come home from work at a reasonable hour. No, ‘I’ll be home late, don’t wait up for me’ text. No apologetic phone call while he’s eating takeout with Foggy in the office. He came home, and he came home to you. Not the city but you. 

“I’m not going out tonight,” he told you as he kissed you hello, and you never thought a simple statement could sound so sexy. 

The table is adorned with homemade spaghetti and salad. You even brought out the wine one of Matt’s clients gifted him for Christmas last year—the good kind. Just as you’re pouring the first sip of burgundy liquor, the soft tune of a jazz vinyl breaks the comfortable silence. You look up to find your boyfriend standing by his record player, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone. He looks at ease, almost as if he has finally come home. You want nothing more than to wrap him in your arms and never let go. With his cheeks flushed and brown eyes so full of light he reminds you of an angel; an angel who more often than not believes himself to be the devil, but you know him better than anyone on this godforsaken planet, and you know the truth. One look, one touch, is enough for you to know the Matt Murdock you know and love is anything but evil.

Matt smiles at you, a little giddy. “C’mon, dance with me,” he says. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Dance?”

“Yeah.” He reaches out from across the room to take your hand. “Just for a minute. I want to hold you…”

You bridge the gap between you, your fingers gently brushing against his as you take hold of his hand. 

“Feel your skin,” Matt murmurs, “Your heartbeat…”

“Haven’t done that in a while,” you say.

He pulls you in. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“I know.” 

One arm slides around your waist while the other remains tightly in your grasp. You look up at him, this beautiful specimen of a man, watching as his eyelids flutter and he leans his head against yours. Slowly. Reverently. Your pulse jumps under his touch and your heartbeats align. 

He begins to sway you to the gentle rhythm of his favorite jazz tune. It’s just him, you, the music, and the steady beating of his heart against your ear. Thud, thud, thud. He’s so calm, so content. When you’re in his arms, all the wars he’s had to fight on the streets and in his mind are suddenly forgotten. At the end of the day, he will always crawl home to what’s most important to him—you. Even if it’s bloody and bruised and on the brink of death, he will crawl home to you. Because he promised. He swore he would always come home, no matter what and no matter how. You’re the reason he survives. 

“I love you,” he whispers. 

You don’t hesitate whispering back, “I love you,” your voice muffled against his chest. Matt’s hold only seems to tighten around your frame. His voice, only a mere hum in your ear, sings a distant melody. 

You let the music carry you away, the dinner you made long forgotten as you melt like a beeswax candle in his embrace. 

@ebathory997 @the-b33skn33s @scoliobean @drmeghanjones @lanae111 @gpenguin666 @linamarr @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @littleagxs @ravenclaw617 @lucienofthelakes @steve-chandler

[steve-chandler]

One Soul | Matt Murdock x Reader

Matt Murdock Masterlist

Summary: Matt gets hurt, badly, so you have to do the one thing you promised him you wouldn't: take him to a hospital.

Warnings: Angst, life-threatening injury, blood, temporary Major Character Death (he comes back, don't worry), mentions of CPR, religious imagery, conflicted relationship with religion, Reader is described as an atheist but Mad At God, prayer, hurt/comfort

A/n: This is a little angst piece I came up with yesterday. For me, personally, my atheism isn't always black and white. I know I don't believe in God, but I have found myself cursing him in the past because it was easier than cursing something I did not understand (like the death of a loved one). And I just know that being with Matt, chances are he will get himself hurt badly enough one day to the point he has to be brought to the hospital.

Read Me On AO3!

The heart monitor beside the bed signals at a steady eighty beats per minute. You follow the many lines of tubing from the machines to his frail body, your eyes lingering on the purple bruises adorning his pale skin—deadly pale, it is. 

His cheeks, once so full of life, are hollow now. His eyes are swollen, his pretty lips cut, and there is blood stuck to his hair, still, soaking through the bandage they applied. You’ve never seen him so broken, so utterly weak and fragile that you wouldn’t dare touch him. The tears refuse to stop falling. 

Years ago, you made a promise. You promised never to take him to a hospital, to protect his identity and him. Hell, he survived the collapse of Midland Circle, albeit with a scattered mind. He had broken bones and a broken spirit, locked away at Clinton Church for weeks, and still, he survived.

Tonight though, for the first time, you felt his heart stop. It wasn’t one of those ghastly nightmares that have been plaguing you ever since you locked Fisk away and he finally came back to you. It wasn’t a product of your imagination; you felt his heart stop. Hands covered in blood, you watched as the life drained from his eyes and he breathed out without breathing in again. 

You swear you can still feel his ribs breaking underneath your fingertips. “Don’t do this to me,” you cried. “Don’t you dare do this to me, Matthew! I can’t lose you. Please, come back. Come back!”

And you prayed to a God you don’t believe in not to take him from you. You begged for a chance to hear his heartbeat again, just one last time even if it kills you. 

You looked to the sky and swore you’d make a deal with the devil if you had to. You’d do anything for this man; this reckless, stupid force of a man you are so in love with that it hurts sometimes. You would’ve let God crucify you for the whole world to see just to get a chance to look at your beloved Matthew one last time, to know he’s alive. And perhaps God did answer your prayers, or maybe the CPR you’d never done before did its trick for he suddenly took a breath, and his heart started beating again.

You cried over his body like Mary over Jesus. You shielded him as if that would heal him, and he clung to you when he realized what had happened. He coughed, and he was bleeding, and you were paralyzed with the fear of losing him again.

What else were you to do but take him to a place where he could be fixed? If you hadn’t brought him here, he would have died. You shouldn’t feel guilty. It wasn't selfish. Yet, the fire within you keeps burning, and your soul keeps hurting as you watch him like a hawk, wondering what he’ll think of you once he wakes up—if he wakes up. 

“I know I’m not… religious,” you murmur, eyes directed at the ceiling now. “I’m not a good Catholic, far from it. I’ve done things… well, you know. And I don’t pray. Matt prays. I don’t,” you say. “I just wanna understand why.”

Another tear rolls down your cheek. The coil in your throat is tight enough to strangle the air from your lungs. One of the shards of your broken heart is stuck, and now you’re bleeding. Your soul is laid bare for everyone to see. 

It’s pathetic, you think, for an atheist to pray. Because you don’t believe, you never have. Matt believes. He has faith. You’re just… angry? Yes, you are furious, and even more now than ever you feel like it’s all a lie. Where’s the hope? Where’s the faith now?

“Why do you keep letting bad things happen to him?” you ask, your voice breaking. “All he’s ever done is try to please you because he thinks you gave him some kind of purpose. That accident… he thinks it happened for a reason. Going blind, losing every one. After all the hardships and the trouble he got himself into, he thinks he’s some kind of soldier. Even when he was at his lowest and stopped believing, he eventually came back to you. Like a dog on a leash.” 

If Matt heard you, he’d be deeply offended. Religion is so important to him, but tonight, he almost died. He almost died before, but it never felt as real as it did tonight, and the thought haunts you like a restless ghost. 

“I want to be supportive, I do. I mean, everyone’s beliefs are valid, in a way, but it almost killed him tonight. If you’re up there—if you’re truly listening—how can you just let that happen to someone you claim to love, God? I don’t–” You shake your head. “I just don’t understand.”

The heart monitor keeps beeping. The lights keep flickering. His chest keeps rising. No answer. The disappointment cuts you deep. Is there perhaps a part of you that does want to believe? Or are you just looking for someone, something, to blame? Instead of the men who did this to him, instead of the men who quite literally took him apart, you’re turning to the one thing you can’t touch. But you know it’s not what Matt would want. He’d want you to have hope.

How does one go about that when everything seems to be going wrong? When your very heart is lying in a hospital bed? How does even an atheist not curse God out of pure and utter desperation? 

Matt lets out a soft groan, and your eyes flick to him. Your heartbeat accelerates at the same time as his. 

“Matt?” you ask, inching closer to the edge of the bed.

He stirs. Every muscle and bone in his body is filled with a dull ache. First dull, then sharp. The stitches in his abdomen pull at the tender flesh with every breath that fills his lungs, the oxygen so rich and concentrated it almost sets him alight. The plastic tubes weigh heavy on his nostrils. 

His eyes pulsate, and there is this obnoxiously loud beeping in his ear. It’s screaming, almost. Beep, beep, beep. Faster and faster, and faster. But his eyelids are so heavy he can’t open them. There’s nothing but fire, and for a moment he forgets that he hasn’t been able to see for decades. 

In his head, he’s eight years old again, his head wrapped with a bandage that itches his skin so terribly, and the world around him screaming. It’s the same room, it seems, cold and dark and terrifying. 

Matt reaches for his eyes, fingers brushing against the bruises that resemble the shape of a fist—no light. He can taste copper on his tongue. The beeping gets louder and his ears are ringing, and why is the blanket made of sandpaper? He wants to tear the skin off his weary bones.

“I can’t–” he breaks off at the foreign sound of his voice. Another trace of his fingertips against the bruised skin. “I can’t see,” he chokes out.

“Matt!” you say a little louder, your hand finally touching his, and it’s as if the bubble he’s in bursts. 

He recognizes your voice. He remembers he’s blind. He remembers going out last night and kissing you goodbye. He was in good spirits then. But something went wrong. Somehow, his opponent had weaponry that could easily break through the protective material of his suit. He stood no chance against the number of men coming at him. They sliced and they hit, and he thought he saw God, but it was just the swinging ceiling light inside the abandoned factory building. It smelled of mold and water. 

He fought until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Until the opportunity to flee presented itself, and so Matt crawled home to you. With every last ounce of strength, he honored his promise to always come back home to you. 

He doesn’t remember much more, only falling down the stairs to the rooftop access to the living room. The crash. Your gasp. Your heartbeat. And then, nothing. Nothing but the comfort of darkness. 

“Hey,” you smile through your tears, “It’s me. You’re okay.”

He whispers your name, and you squeeze his hand.

“I’m here. Try not to move,” you tell him. “You’re at Metro General.”

The word makes his breath stutter. “The hospital?” he inquires.

“Yes. You were hurt… badly. They had to take out your spleen. Fifty-something stitches. Some brain swelling. I don’t know, it’s a lot.” 

“I told you,” he grunts, “no hospitals.”

Matt Murdock is not an ungrateful man. However, his words cut deep. You can’t take much more.

“You promised, no–”

“You died!” you cry out. The echo bounces off the walls and resonates in his ears like the sound of a bomb going off. 

“You died in my arms and I had to–” You look at your hands, stained with blood, “I had to break your ribs to bring you back. Your bones… breaking,” you cry. “You died and I thought I was gonna lose you, for good. You can blame me for breaking a stupid promise, but if I hadn’t, I’d be preparing a funeral now!” 

His head tilts in his direction—you’re serious—and his defenses fall like an iron curtain, shattering like glass. The sound of your voice in such a state of disarray, death by a thousand cuts. 

He almost died. Or, he did die, and you brought him back, but the things you had to do for that… you brought him back, but it hurt you. He hurt you. He swore he would never do so again, only over his dead body, yet it was his dead body that almost broke you. 

Matt never wanted any of this to happen. The love of his life, traumatized. What kind of man does that? Surely the kind of man that no one but the one person he never deserved mourns when he’s gone. 

The silence drags on, suffocating you. “Do you get that?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Do you get that I’d die without you?”

“I’m so sorry,” Matt whispers. “I don’t remember…”

“Of course, you don’t. You’ve never been this hurt.”

“Sweetheart.”

“I would’ve traded your life for mine if I could’ve. I tried, Matt, I did. I prayed to God and told him to take me instead while I was trying to get your heart beating again. And I blamed Him for doing this to you ‘cause I didn’t know who else to blame.” 

His fingers brush against the back of your hand. A nurse kindly lent you clothes from the lost-and-found, but you can still feel the sticky substance on your skin, crawling like a parasite.

You shudder. “If you hadn’t woken up, I–“ 

“C’mere,” he says. 

Beep, beep, beep, goes the heart monitor, and sirens wail outside his window. 

“I can’t,” you whisper back.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Sweetheart, you could cut out my heart and I’d still want you.”

A shiver runs down your spine, settling in the pit of your stomach. You feel so sick, so detached from everything and everyone, but the piece of you that you almost lost is right there, and he’s alive.

He’s alive. 

You have to keep reminding yourself of the fact. His heart is beating. His lungs are filled with air. Those last few hours might have felt like a proper nightmare, but you made it through. He made it through. 

“Please,” he pleads. “I… I need you.”

It’s different now. He’s not asking to hold you for your comfort but his own, and without another second thought, you climb into the tiny hospital bed with him. 

Matt seeks out the comfort of your chest, but he’s aimless in his agony. You gently guide his head to your heart. Touching him, feeling him so close to you, melts away the last of your fears.

“You scared me,” you confess.

He exhales. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just… promise you’ll live for me.”

The silence wraps a noose around your neck. But then, “You own my heart,” he says. 

“So?”

“Yeah, I’ll live for you.”

Those four words mean more to you than a promise to die for you if push comes to shove. Because what are you supposed to do without him? You’d rather he try everything in his power to live for you than leave you. 

“If you live for me, too,” he whispers then, and a tear runs from his cheek down your chest. You can’t survive without him, that much is certain. That may sound like a state of unhealthy codependency, but when two people share the same soul, every breath one breathes sustains the other. There’s nothing you can do about that, nor would you ever want to.

“Without you, I’d–” he cuts himself off. 

Without you, he’d be lost. Without you, even in death, he would not be able to find peace. 

“I promise,” you manage to say, although the words come with a fresh flood of salty tears that mix with the ocean of his. 

He relaxes into you. “Thank you.”

As he falls asleep in your arms that night, you find yourself staring up at the ceiling again.

“Don’t fail him,” you whisper. To God, to the universe, to the moon and Saturn, and to yourself. 

matt murdock angst tag list: @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @thychuvaluswife @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @steve-chandler @lucienofthelakes @mochie-is-a-librarian @buckyssugarchick

[steve-chandler]

Under the Influence

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader Word Count: 2.8k [Tuna-Tober Masterlist]

Tuna-Tober Prompt: Drunken Confession

Warnings/tags: 18+; Fluff, light humor, drunk Reader, pining

Summary: Drunk after a girl's night out, you accidentally slip up about your feelings for Matt.

a/n: This fic is literally months overdue, but it was written and I finally was able to edit it and share. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Stumbling into your apartment, you felt far less capable of walking in the heels you’d put on earlier than when you'd first slipped them on and left to grab drinks with your friends. But tonight's girl's night out with everyone had been long overdue with how constantly busy everyone had been, which meant you'd accidentally gone a little overboard with the drinks. In all honesty, you’d drank a bit more than you usually did whenever you went out with Foggy, Marci, Karen, and Matt to Josie’s on your usual Thursday night outs. So now, admittedly, you were a bit drunk.

Slipping out of your heels after you shut your apartment door, you balanced yourself with a hand against the wall. The room around you spun ever so slightly and you tried to blink away the sensation, focusing on removing the uncomfortable shoes from your aching feet one at a time. It had been so long that you’d forgotten just how painful it was to go out drinking and dancing in heels. Shoving your shoes to the side with a foot once they were off, you pushed yourself off of the wall and nearly tripped over your own feet in the process of turning around.

“Far, far too much alcohol,” you mumbled to yourself. 

Barefoot, you sluggishly padded your way over to the kitchen and stopped in front of your fridge, pulling the door open to retrieve a bottle of water from the side door. You twisted off the cap, letting the fridge door fall softly shut as you drew the bottle up to your lips. Beginning to chug the cold liquid down in the hopes that it would help to ease your growing headache, you closed your eyes and internally begged the room to spin less–or at least slower. 

Lowering the bottle from your lips, you wiped the back of your other hand across your damp mouth, feeling your exhaustion from the evening beginning to finally settle into you. But just as your body had begun to relax, a sound from outside your living room window quickly caught your attention and caused your eyes to snap back open. Growing alert, your head darted over your shoulder in a delayed response, the room once more spinning in your vision as you squinted at where you thought you’d heard the noise. Another metal groan from your fire escape met your ears and a brief surge of fear rushed through you. 

“No need to panic,” Matt's familiar and somewhat muffled voice called out from behind the glass. “It’s just me.”

You almost immediately relaxed at the sight of him rising to his full height on the dark fire escape. Expelling a soft sigh of relief, a little smile slipped its way onto your lips next, thrilled that he was here even if you hadn’t been expecting a visit from your masked best friend this evening. 

“Why’re you out there?” you called back. 

“Because I'm…on patrol?” he answered through the glass. 

Your grin grew wider as you turned more fully towards the window in your living room, the red form of him more noticeable with how he was standing on your fire escape just beside your window, the faint light from inside your apartment washing over him. Or rather washing over the two red forms of him, but you assumed the second was due to the alcohol in your system and not the sudden existence of a second Daredevil. 

“You can come in,” you called out again, taking a few unsteady steps towards the window before immediately halting and grabbing onto your kitchen counter to steady yourself. “‘S’always unlocked for you,” you slurred out. “Unless you're–you're waiting for me to play you a theme song to enter to.”

“Theme song?” Matt’s confused voice called back.

“Y’know,” you continued, an amused grin pulling at your lips, “like if–if superheroes had a theme song or…something.”

You caught the sound of his laughter from out on your fire escape, the noise drawing forth a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest. You loved making him laugh. 

“I’m not even going to ask what you’d suggest that would be right now,” he called back.

Teetering unsteadily on your feet, one hand still clutching the kitchen counter to keep yourself upright as your other hand still held onto the cold bottle of water, you giggled at the idea as he raised your window wide enough to climb through. The first song that came to mind was “Birthday Cake” by Rihanna, most likely due to it having been one of the last songs playing before you left the bar tonight, but also because you’d noticed how nice of an ass Matt had from the moment you met him–even if that was not what the song was about. Though the idea of him easily slipping through your window right now as that song played had you biting your bottom lip and fighting down a laugh. But of course Matt's sensitive ears still caught the sound, his head darting up before he smiled in your direction. A pang of sadness punched you in the gut at the sight of his charming smile beneath his cowl.

Why was he only your friend?

“Keeping this unlocked just for me?” he asked, righting himself in your living room before turning and closing the window after himself, shutting the sounds of the city back out of your apartment. “I'm touched but also now greatly concerned about your safety,” he teased as he focused back on you. “You're just on the third floor, don't assume I'm the only one willing to risk climbing up that.”

Your eyes followed the movement of his gloved hand, watching as he gestured at the fire escape behind himself. Before you had a chance to respond, the sound of his voice drew your vision back to the red lenses of his cowl, your hand gripping the counter even tighter in your grasp.

“But a theme song?” he asked in amusement. “Really? How much have you had to drink tonight?”

You laughed lightly, the thought of that particular song being the theme song for Matt's alter ego becoming more entertaining by the second. 

“You're so dramatic,” you teased back, your words slurring together a bit as you ignored that little ache in your chest at the continued sight of his handsome smile. “You'd definitely have a theme song playing as you enter places.”

His head cocked curiously to the side at your comment and you couldn’t resist the grin at the sight. You always thought his head tilts were adorable; the way he listened closer to what you were saying often reminded you of a dog. The image of him on all fours hovering over you in bed briefly surfaced in your mind at the thought and you felt your pulse accelerate. Faintly through the haze of alcohol you caught the briefest twitch of his lips before he was speaking again.

“Excuse me, but, dramatic?” he shot back.

His voice quickly pulled you back from the mental image in your mind and you felt your face growing flushed. You hoped he’d blame the alcohol for the shift in your body as you nodded, the movement causing Matt to once more double in your vision. 

“Yeah, I mean you–you're wearing a costume, Matt,” you said as you gestured at him. “That's pretty dramatic.” 

He placed a hand against his chest, your eyes following the movement. You knew how strong and solid that chest was from the few times you'd had an excuse to hug him, but now you were itching to place your hand against it, too. Or to run your hand along the mysterious material of his tight-fitting suit in general.

“This is armor,” he pointed out simply. “It's not a costume.”

His voice once more drew you out of your thoughts, your attention returning to his mouth. The earnestness in his words had you biting your lip and fighting back another giggle. You noticed his smile had grown at the sound, his ears having still caught the noise.

“Matt, it–it has horns,” you countered, biting back a smile.

The corner of his lip twitched at your comment. “Fair point,” he agreed. “But you are drunk.”

“And that–” you said, swinging a finger towards his chest, “–is a poor change of topic.”

His head further canted to the side, his lips straightening along his face. “From the ever so important costume discussion?” he asked.

“No,” you said, setting your half-empty water bottle down and taking a step towards him. You stumbled and threw a hand out, catching yourself on the counter beside yourself with it again. “From why you're here.”

An amused chuckle rumbled out of him and you swore the sound itself vibrated through your entire body. Dammit, you would never cease loving being the cause of his laughter, even if somewhere in your mind you were aware he was laughing at you a little right now.

“Sweetheart,” he began, “we weren't discussing that even remotely. I can’t change the subject from a subject we weren't even on in the first place. I mean I know I smelt the alcohol on you from the sidewalk but…you’re far drunker than I anticipated.”

A heat ignited in your stomach at the term of endearment Matt occasionally threw out at you, your ears hardly hearing much else he’d said. Matt and you had only ever been friends, and in the years you'd known him he'd never called anyone else ‘sweetheart’ before–at least, not from what you'd ever heard. It both confused and excited you every time he called you that, the term slipping out of his mouth almost as if by accident each time.

“I uhm,” you began, pausing as your inebriated brain tried to catch up. “I may have…drank quite a bit tonight.”

Matt expelled a breathy laugh, one hand finally reaching up to remove the cowl from his head. You watched with bated breath as his handsome face revealed itself to you in the dim light of your living room. His other gloved hand reached up, combing through his dark strands of hair. Your heart clenched at the sight of how beautiful he was–as if you needed the reminder right now when you were about to go to sleep alone and drunk.

“I know,” Matt told you.

He took a step towards your coffee table and placed the cowl down on it, the gesture so casual that you wished it happened more often. Licking your lips nervously, you forced your gaze to return to Matt’s face once he began speaking again.

“You mentioned going out tonight, so I figured I’d make sure you got home safe,” he told you. “It wasn’t a busy night so I came up to check on you once I noticed just how much you smelled like alcohol. Wanted to make sure you were doing alright.”

“Oh,” you breathed out, surprised at his concern. “You–you didn’t have to…”

He grinned back, shrugging a shoulder. “I know,” he agreed. “I wanted to.” His expression shifted to something softer, his eyes focusing down on your body. “You sound very tired though. Maybe you should get to bed?”

Nodding your head, the room once more spun around you as you tried to push away that part of your brain which was still stuck on the way he’d called you ‘sweetheart.’ There was a nagging thought somewhere in your brain telling you that him showing up like this was something he never did for your other friends. Instead of focusing on that, you took a few steps towards your living room in an attempt to make it to your bedroom, but you swayed so much that your foot caught along a floorboard and began your inevitable drunk descent to the floor. 

Matt immediately darted forward as you'd begun to fall, his gloved hands catching you by the shoulders in a tight grip before you'd gotten too far. Your hands instinctively flew up in response, grabbing onto Matt’s biceps to further steady yourself as your eyes snapped shut, a wave of dizziness rolling through you. Somewhere in your mind, though, you still noted how firm his muscles were beneath your death grip.

“Okay, you’re incredibly drunk, sweetheart,” Matt teased, your ears catching the affection in his voice and the term of endearment again. “Maybe I should help you.”

Swallowing hard, you slowly opened your eyes. His face was right before yours, the concern written on his expression was plain as day even with the hint of amusement. For a moment you lost yourself staring at him though, almost as if you were in a trance examining the laugh lines beside his eyes and the flecks of color inside of them as they focused on your chin. He had the prettiest eyes.

“You alright?” he asked.

Blinking rapidly, you realize you’d just been openly gawking at him. Flushing, you nodded and tried to right yourself, your hands releasing his biceps. “Yeah, sorry,” you muttered.

Matt didn’t completely release his hold on you, though he did instead wrap one of his arms around your shoulders as he began to help guide you through your living room and over towards your bedroom. The walk felt like it was longer than it really was with your mind hyper-focused on the weight of his arm around you, gently leading you across your apartment and into your bedroom. 

When you reached your bed, Matt’s gloved hand darted out and pulled back the bed sheets before you had a chance. Not feeling as if you could easily slip out of the dress you’d worn tonight, and far too shy to ask Matt for help with something like that, you carefully climbed up into your bed still dressed in it. Sliding your legs beneath the sheets, your earlier exhaustion once more washed over you, your eyelids growing heavy as you began to lower your head down to the pillow. Beside the bed, Matt gently tugged the blankets up and over you, a hard to read expression on his face that was a vast difference to the amused one he’d had when he first showed up. Briefly you wondered what was on his mind before the thought vanished.

“You should get some rest,” Matt said softly, tucking you in. “You’re going to be feeling that in the morning, I can promise you that.”

Groaning at the truth in his statement, you rolled onto your side towards him. “I hate that you’re right,” you grumbled.

He chuckled lightly, the sound drawing a faint smile to your lips as you continued to stare up at him. The urge to reach out and touch him grew so strong that you had to force your hand to hold onto the sheets of your bed, fisting the material in your fingers. What you wouldn't give to trace the line of that jaw, to feel the scratch of his stubble along your fingertips.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Get some sleep.”

Eyes growing half-lidded, you emitted a discontented groan at his words. You much preferred the idea of staring at his handsome face with that confusing expression on it instead. Matt’s amused chuckle met your ears in response.

“You’re clearly exhausted, are you really going to fight me on going to sleep?” he asked.

The words tumbled out of your mouth in a tired jumble, your brain too exhausted and inebriated to know what you’d even said even after you’d said it.

“I’d rather look at you.”

Somewhere in your mind, you registered that Matt had stiffened beside your bed. A soft, warm look grew in his eyes as he gazed down at you lying there, but you weren’t fully aware of everything coming out of your mouth at this point, so the words only continued to spill out.

“‘Cause you’re so beautiful,” you continued. “And I like looking at you. I could stare at you all night, really.”

Matt paused for a moment, a crease forming between his brows. Silence momentarily fell over the bedroom as the exhaustion continued to drag you under.

“You…like looking at me?” he hesitantly asked.

Eyelids lowering against your will, you faintly nodded against the pillow. “Mhmm,” you hummed out, sleep gradually beginning to take you. “Always…liked you.”

“You–you have?” Matt questioned in surprise.

Barely awake, you hummed out an affirmative. “Shame we’re just…friends,” you murmured.

You swore you felt something rough brush gently along the side of your cheek, but with your eyes closed you couldn’t tell if you’d imagined it or not. And then just as quickly afterwards, you’d fallen asleep.

Matt Murdock One Shot Tag List: @pazii @shouldbestudying41 @kmc1989 @ebathory997 @yeonalie @shiorimakibawrites @xxdrixx @wkndwlff @leikelle @pinkratts @lazyxsquirrel @1988-fiend @marvelcinematiquniverse @carstairswife @stilldreaming666 @kiwwia-wiwwia @willwork4dilfs @will-delete-this-later-probably @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @theetherealbloom @yarrystyleeza @dramaholic18 @ladywholikesreading @millennial-birkin @tartbeanpuzzles @harleycao @sunflower-tia @gamingfeline @juskonutoh @kezibear @ninacotte @withyoutilltheendoftheline @justanerd1 @scriptedmoon @lucienofthelakes @sarahskywalker-amidala @flowher @loves0phelia @a-half-empty-g1rl @zomtart @justvalkyrie @steve-chandler

[steve-chandler]

After All

Matthew Murdock x Reader

Summary: One night stands were not her forte or common practice, but there was something thrilling about trying something new with him. The morning after the fact, however, was more daunting than she anticipated. 

Word Count: 4k

Prompt:  74.“It’s nice that your voice was the first thing I heard today.”

79.“No, like…. It’s just, I can’t believe you’re actually wearing my clothes.”

Warnings: slight NSFW (nothing hardcore my dudes, just steamy), mentions of slight injury, fluffy domestic fluff

A/N: this totally hasn’t been sitting in my drafts for two months now, no way. that’s crazy of you to guess and assume… but anyway, take it and run ig. 

__

Sunlight. 

It was the first thing she had felt upon her skin in the not-so-early hours of the morning, having been woken by the sudden warmth. She usually slept with her blinds drawn, taking absolutely no chances that the light could ever disrupt her so well deserved rest, so how could she possibly have forgotten? With bleary eyes, she scanned her surroundings hesitantly. It wasn’t until her fingers danced across the silk sheets atop of her body that she realized where she was. She had spent the night at Matt Murdock’s apartment. 

The Matt Murdock. The one she had sworn up and down that she wouldn’t get involved with. The man she had imagined there couldn’t possibly be anything more to their friendly banter—he was just a friendly person, right? The dull ache in her core led her to believe otherwise.

Maybe she didn’t want friendly. 

더 보기

[steve-chandler]

Oh my god… it’s so good i have no words.. i literally cried.. all the feelings that the reader has (that you described so well) are just like what i would feel if i were in the same situation. Especially these lines:

That trying to mend what’s been broken would only restrain him from his freedom, from loving the one person he might actually meant to be with. She loves him, too much for words to ever truly express it, but if being with another woman brings him better happiness, then she would sacrifice herself and blow the candle out. She would let him go.

Wow.. this angst+fluff is masterpiece. Honestly i reread your Waste My Time whenever I feel like i need to read a good fic before going to sleep or i feel so down and now i have one more piece on my list. I’m so happy 🥹 Thank you for this wonderful writing!!!

Matt Murdock — Without Me

Pairing : Matt Murdock x (she/her) Reader Word Count : 3.9k Warning : Angst as requested but with fluff ending. Insecurity. Miscommunication/Misunderstanding. Synopsis : She knew, even without bringing the topic to light, that marriage was never an option with him. Notes : this fic was a request. If you like this story and would like to support me, please visit my kofi page and perhaps get me a coffee?☕

It was never easy.

No matter how many years they've spent together, the countless dates they went to, and the umpteen charming moments they've shared, dating Matt Murdock was never easy still.

Lord knows just how hard she tries to turn it off. To stop her mind from wandering to the dark places and to not think of the worst possible scenarios whenever the slightest inconvenience happens. She's tried her best, truly she has, to be a little more nonchalant whenever it comes to him, but it proved to be an impossible task to do. Perhaps when you care about someone a little too much than needed, the chance of keeping one's self collected inevitably becomes impossible.

Foggy and Marci’s wedding invitation laid proud on the coffee table, silently mocking her name whenever she was the only one left in the apartment. She knew, even without bringing the topic to light, that marriage was never an option with him. There’s just too many things in his hands, too many problems laid on his shoulders for him to ever weigh the possibility of matrimony.

She understood, a little too well, the reason for his silence. And though she once dreamed of having a family of her own, having mini versions of her and him running around the apartment and knocking over the cup of tea that would stain their rugged carpet, she’s learned to bury such thoughts in the deepest pit of her heart. She reckons, sacrificing something that she’s never had before would be less painful than losing the one she already has.

Five years of being loved by Matt Murdock would certainly make you a little too attached to the man.

But even with his gentle touch, the sweet nothings he whispered in her ears and the embrace he would always blanket her nights with, fear was never kept too far away. As much as she loves and understands him, as much as he worships and adores her, Matt was never an easy riddle to solve. His mind works with such complexity she’d never truly decipher. Oftentimes his actions speak much louder than his words and the past few days have only served as the new demons she has to battle with at night.

There’s always been more paperwork, more cases that needed his urgent attention before he could excuse himself out of the office, and even when his job was done, his other calls would already become too urgent for him to ignore. One too many rain checks done for their dates, that she couldn’t even bother asking if they could find a replacement date. Matt’s a busy man, his growing reputation and the demand Daredevil would have to serve at night were something she’s accepted, what she’s yet to understand, however, is his lack of communication. There were less words, less explanations and reassurance for her to hold on to. The blackhole that she’s currently drowning in was quiet and deadly. Something that he would not notice with the lack of presence.

Now she sits alone in their apartment, eyes vacant and barely blinking while her brain haywired. Perhaps this sudden change of action was caused by her wrongdoings. She tries to trace down every possible mistake she might have made, every misspoken word and unintentional actions, in an attempt to find a way to fix it. To apologise for whatever fault she’s committed before the sin stained a little too deep to ever be fixed.

If this was anyone else, she would’ve been upfront and ask if there’s anything wrong, confront the issue head-on without a care in the world, but this is Matt. He pushes people as easily as he draws them. One wrong movement and she fears all hell would break loose for them.

“Baby?” she heard Matt call, turning her head to see him entering from the staircase “What are you still doing up? It’s late.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she answers, walking to him and taking his helmet away “Was it an easy patrol?”

“Quite, yeah. Not too bad but not too boring either,” he says with a grin “I’ve missed you.”

She sighs, letting his hands rest on her waist while hers encircle his neck, “Yeah, well, you’ve been busy.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says regretfully “Say, why don’t we go to that restaurant you’ve been wanting to try? The Italian one? How about this Friday, will you be free then?”

“I don’t know, will you? You’re the one who’s been so occupied lately.”

“I’ll be free on Friday, I promise,” he says excitedly, stealing a peck on her lips “So what do you say? Friday after work?”

Another tired sigh escapes her. Moments like this melts her worry away. Staring into his beautiful face, seeing that charming smile tugged on the corner of his lips, while his body was pressed against her. But as much as she treasures this, as much as she appreciates the comfort he could always bring her, she knew that the dark cloud would return the moment he’s out of her sight.

Gently, she leans in and kisses him. Matt’s grip on her shirt tightens, smiling between the kiss in satisfaction. Perhaps he misses her just as much as she missed him.

“Friday, it is.”

—-

She peeled herself off of the blanket with a huge sigh. The other side of the bed was cold, signifying that he’s been out for quite some time but she couldn’t find it in herself to frown. They do have a date afterwards. Perhaps Matt just wanted to make sure that he’s done all his work on time before they could escape their hectic lives for an hour or two.

It was still early for her to get ready for work, but coming early and finishing her tasks as soon as possible so she could have more time to doll herself up before the date sounds like a better plan to do. She sits up from the bed, hand carelessly reaching for the hair tie on the bedside table before knocking Matt’s phone in the process.

She picks up the item, thinking that it was one of the rare occurrences for him to forget his belongings. Reckon she really needs to get ready now so she could drop by his office and give him his phone, but her frown grows when someone calls.

“Hello?” she says as she picks it up.

“Oh, shit,” the other end of the line says before hanging up.

It was a woman. A voice that she was unfamiliar with. The twist in her gut grew, spreading through her veins like venom. She’s never one to pry on Matt’s phone, always confident in his loyalty, but given his absence and the strange call, her fingers couldn’t stop themselves from punching the passcode.

There was no text history with the caller, but there were several call logs, dating far into the past few weeks when he started to be ‘busy’. She wanted to call back the woman, ask her who she is and why she has been on frequent calls with her boyfriend, but she was too scared to face the possible truth. Too afraid to welcome the pour of the icy reality— that he’s found someone else.

“Oh, you’re up!” Matt says, cheeks flushed with slight panting “I forgot my phone.”

“Yeah, I know,” she answers, her voice caught in her throat. Still trying to process the event that’s just happened and how to act in front of him “I— Someone— Gwyneth called.”

“Oh,” his tongue darts to lick his lips, visibly looking nervous now “What did she say?”

“Nothing, she— She hung up.”

“Your heart is beating fast,” Matt notes “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just— Did you run back here?”

“I did, yeah. I was already at the office when I realised I'd forgotten my phone. I need it for the case I’m currently working on,” he answers, walking to her with careful steps “Can I have it, please?”

She swallows the lump in her throat, handing him the item in silence.

“Thank you,” Matt says, placing a kiss on the crown of her head “Listen, I have to run back, I’m having a meeting with a client in five minutes. I’ll see you later for our date, okay?”

She was still silent, breath hitched and sweats forming in the back of her neck.

“Baby?”

“Yeah, okay,” she finally answers, looking up to meet his eyes “I’ll see you later.”

Matt hesitated. He looks as if he was debating to ask something, looking conflicted over whatever it is that might be troubling his mind but the words died in his tongue. Perhaps unsure if he would want to pour petrol over the turmoil that’s evidently building between them. His finger taps on the phone in his palm as he says instead, “I love you.”

She forces a smile, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to see it but it was the only attempt she could pull to suppress the tears that were slowly watering her eyes, “I know.”

“You’re not gonna say it back?”

“You know I love you,” She says, kissing the back of his hand that was holding the phone “Go, you’re going to be late for the meeting.”

Matt smiles, stealing a kiss from her lips before heading back out.

—-

Her breathing was rigid. The movement of her chest forced as if trying her best to compose herself. Her lips were pressed in a tight smile, chewing her meal silently as she tried to focus on the words Matt was saying.

She tries, God knows she tries, to forget about this morning’s incident. Perhaps Gwyneth was the client he was supposed to meet. It surely isn't strange for him to have frequent calls with her if that was the case, but why does it feel wrong? Why does it feel like there’s something bigger that she wasn’t aware of? Why does it feel as if there was something Matt wasn’t telling?

“Love,” Matt calls, taking her hand slowly in his “Are you alright? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she lies through her teeth.

“Are you sure? Your heart has been beating like crazy all night.”

“Yeah, well, maybe stop listening to my heartbeat for once, Matt.”

The smile on his face waters, surprised to hear her bitter spat.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound as cruel,” she sighs, taking her hand away from him to rub her temples “I just have a lot of things in mind.”

Matt sighs, nodding in understanding, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Yes, she wanted to say, let’s talk about the affair you’re having behind me.

But is she ready? Is she ready to be stripped off of the fantasy that she’s tried so hard to build with him? Is she ready to bid goodbye to all the dreams and hopes she’s made with him? Is she ready to accept the fact that there would be no Matt in her future?

It was pathetic, sure, to hold on to the last strings of hope when the most possible outcome is laid bare in front of her. To be stubborn for once against the demons that are torturing her mind. But Matt is the only good thing in her life she’d never be ready to lose. He is the one thing she would rather risk her life for than to ever be separated from. Even if she has to turn a blind eye and pretend as if the romance they’re living in was pure and innocent.

“No, it’s fine,” she says, letting out a sigh to collect her composure “How’s your meeting? Did it go well?”

“Splendid. Listen, I have something to talk to you about,” he says, deflecting the topic. Matt takes a nervous gulp. His hands are now under the table, invisible to her eyes “I– Uh, I don’t know where to start.”

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as the tears threatened to form on her eyes. This must be it. The nervousness that has been bleeding out of him, the continuous rambling he does the whole night to mask his uneasiness, the way he keeps on rubbing his palm on his trousers. This must be it. This must be their end.

“You know how we’ve been together for quite some time now,” Matt starts, his hands still hidden under the table “I know five years with me must not have been the easiest for you. I know just how difficult it could be, living with me and accepting the life that I’m living in. I know that we didn’t always have sunshine and rainbows. Most of the time we have storms and thunders, really, yet we’re still here. You’re still here,” He says gently, his left hand reaching for hers “I know that you deserve better, that you can find someone better—”

She abruptly stood on her feet, letting his hand go in the process that he retreats it fast and hides it under the table once again. Her breathing was heavy, tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Matt asks with a worried tone, still sitting on his seat.

“I have to get out of here.”

“W-What?”

She spared him no other word, grabbing her purse and bolting herself out of the restaurant.

Her heart was hammering inside her chest. By the time she hailed for a taxi, her cheeks were already wet with tears. The night she’s been looking forward to, the one date she hoped would flush all of her worries down the drain, turns out to be her worst nightmare. Never would she ever expect Matt to be this cruel. To lead her on, promising a lovely date when they haven’t seen each other for so long, only to break up with her before the clock strikes at nine. With an illicit affair she wasn’t aware of until the very morning, should one add.

“Wait, wait,” Matt says, stopping the taxi door before it closes “Where are you going? What happened?”

“Just leave me alone, Matt, please,” she begs through her tears.

“Baby, why are you crying?”

“Leave me alone, Matt. I don’t want to see you tonight.”

“I— What did I do?”

“Just— Please, don’t make it any harder than it already is.”

Matt was appalled, confused as to what might trigger this response, but he could feel just how upset she was. Her body was shaking, fingers trembling as they frantically wiped the tears that kept on flowing. Never had he ever seen her this distraught and Matt was scared that he would do more harm than good to try and talk with her about it, so he surrenders, “Okay, we’ll go home, okay? Let me just pay for dinner first.”

“No, I’m not going home. I told you, I don’t want to see you, okay!” She says, this time with a raise of voice as her anger slowly seeps in “I just want you to leave me alone, is that really too much to ask for?”

Hurt was evident on his face now, but she was too caught up with her own emotions to notice it.

“Please, Matt,” She begs, her voice hoarse in plea “Please let me go.”

Matt nods, ceasing his last attempt to hold her as he closes the taxi door. He listens as the driver steps on the gas, driving her away to wherever it is she might go. Though the car drives further from him, the sound of her sobs only grows louder in his ear. He wasn’t sure what he did, what he said that might have prompted this response, but whatever it is, he knew that he’s royally ruined what could’ve been the best night of their lives.

—-

It has been a week since she fled Hell’s Kitchen. She knew that there’s no corner in the city that he wouldn’t scour to find her, so she had to go a little farther to find shelter. She needed time and space to think, to take in the cruel reality that has finally caught up with her, before she could take baby steps towards acceptance. 

On the second day, she no longer breaks in tears whenever she looks into her phone and see the many messages Matt has left. By the fourth day, she could partly accept the fact that their ship had sunk. That trying to mend what’s been broken would only restrain him from his freedom, from loving the one person he might actually meant to be with. She loves him, too much for words to ever truly express it, but if being with another woman brings him better happiness, then she would sacrifice herself and blow the candle out. She would let him go.

The suffocation she feels in her lungs the moment she steps in the apartment was unbearable but she dragged her feet still. She whispers her silent goodbye, fingers tracing the walls of the apartment that she would soon leave. Her eyes study the surroundings, memorising each detail of Matt’s loft that she loved so much before she’s no longer welcomed.

She wonders if whoever would live with him next would keep the flower vase by the window. She wonders if they would change the lights in the living room. She wonders if they would paint the walls and fix the squeaky bathroom door. She wonders just how much of her remnants would be left untouched.

“You’re home,” Matt greets, breathless as if he just jolted out of bed.

It’s clear to see that he was in a wreck. The stubbles on his face were unkempt, new bruises littering his body. Matt looks defeated. Like he’s been dragged through a losing war and shattered beyond saving.

“I’m just here to take my things,” she says with a shaky voice, trying her best to keep herself calm and collected “I won’t take long. I’ll take whatever I couldn’t pack today on the weekends.”

“Where are you going?” He frowns, tilting his head a little in confusion “Why are you leaving?”

“Well, I’ve held you back long enough, haven’t I? It’s about time I let you go,” she says with a heartbroken sniffle, forcing a self-pitying smile “I won’t keep you from anyone, anymore. You’re free.”

Matt takes a few steps closer, his brows knitted as he finds himself further lost in the conversation, “Hold me back— Free— What are you talking about?”

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? The other night? You wanted to break up with me,” she explains, swallowing the hard pill “I understand. I’ve accepted it, too. We don’t have to go through that conversation again.”

“Break up— What?”

“Matt, don’t play dumb with me,” she says with her patience wearing thin “I know everything. I know why you’ve been so busy lately. I know about your affair with Gwyneth, I know it all.”

“Affair? Gwyneth?” Matt questions, running a hand through his hair as he tries to place the puzzle pieces together “What are you talking about?”

“Look, you can really stop being a douche and just get off with it, alright? Do you really expect me to spell it to you? You cheated on me with Gwyneth. There, I said it.”

“I— What makes you think that I cheated on you with her?”

“Well, you’ve been gone. You have lots of call logs with her and they all aligned to the days when you started being distant. And that day when she called, she hung up because she heard my voice, didn’t she? She was scared that I’d find out about you two, well, guess what, I did.”

Matt’s lips were parted. The crease on his forehead was still deep as he tried to let her words sink in. He visibly looks baffled to the point that she starts to wonder if she’s making the right sense, but she wouldn’t let that puppy eye and innocent look on his face water her walls down. She’s given more than enough understanding for him to ever play her this way.

“Well? What do you have to say about yourself?” she asks, folding her hands in front of her chest “No arguments to defend yourself, Mr. Attorney?”

The corners of his lips tugged upward as he let out a satisfied sigh. Colours returned to his face the moment his brain caught up with her words. Like a lightning bulb glowing after it's been switched on. Without a word, Matt walks back to the bedroom. He returned not even a minute later with a small box in his hand.

“I have not been cheating on you,” he begins, taking one of her hands gently “I would never, ever, betray us like that. I love you too much to ever think about anyone else.”

“But Gwyneth—,”

“Gwyneth is a jeweller that has been helping me find the right ring for someone,” Matt cuts in, opening the box for her to see “I didn’t know what kind of ring you’d like, what design or what gem you’d like on it, so I looked for some personal jeweller to help me out.”

She was left speechless, looking down to the ring with utter embarrassment.

“When you picked up her call, she was trying to tell me that the ring was ready, but she didn’t expect you to answer. She was caught off guard, scared that she might spoil your surprise.”

Her head hangs low. Just how ridiculously stupid could she be. She was ashamed of thinking the worst, labelling names on Matt that should never have even crossed her mind. How is she supposed to apologise now after ruining their moment? After tainting their relationship red? Would she even have the chance to mend what she’s broken when she’s betrayed the trust between them?

“Hey,” Matt calls, holding her chin up gently “I've never cheated on you. There was never anyone else and there will never be. There’s only you, just you, and no one else.”

“I’m sorry,” she cries “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s just a misunderstanding,” he says with a chuckle, pulling her for a hug and rubbing her back “It’s okay, Baby. It’s my fault for being too occupied too, I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t get to apologise, okay? It’s only going to make me feel worse,” she sobs in his embrace “I should’ve known better. I should’ve trusted you or at the very least asked about Gwyneth, before jumping into conclusions.”

“Well, honestly, if you asked me about her, I wouldn’t have known what to say either. I’m not the best of a liar in front of you,” he answers, letting out a sigh “That morning I knew your heart was beating erratically but I was too scared to ask because I didn’t want you to ask about her. I didn’t have the answers to give without spoiling the surprise.”

She let go of the hug, wiping her tears while his hands still rested on her waist, “I’m sorry I ruined the surprise.”

“It doesn’t really matter. What matters is your answer,” Matt says with a nervous smile, letting go of his hold and kneeling in front of her now “I’m just gonna keep it short before either of us falls into another misunderstanding,” he says before the two of them break into a short laughter “Will you marry me?”

Her grin spreads, nodding as she kneels to his level, “Yes, yes, of course.”

Matt beams as he slips the ring on her finger. A satisfied exhale came out of him. Like he's just successfully removed mountains from his own shoulders. He pulls her for a kiss, hands cupping on cheeks gently, “I love you.”

“I love you, Matt Murdock,” she answers, her hand combing the strands of his hair with her fingers “You’re really a wreck without me, huh?”

He lets out a sigh, stealing another kiss through their laughter, “You have no idea.”

[steve-chandler]

Hi! I hope you are doing well. First of all, I wanted to tell you I love your writing! Since you are looking for some requests, I wanted to drop one. Feel free to change or you can ignore if you don't feel like writing. I just wanted to give you the idea I had in my mind. So, Matt and the reader are in relationship for so long like 5 years or more but they never talked about getting married. Reader kinds of understands why Matt never mentions marriage bc you know how his life goes crazy and all. So Reader's never expected getting proposed but prepared for a break up that maybe happen one day bc you know how Matt push people away and end relationships with people... One day they are at their favorite place like cafe or wherever. Matt starts talking like he has something to tell her (he was going to propose) and she freaks out (she thinks he's breaking up). She thought she was ready for a breakup but she wasn't. So she kinds of runs away and stays somewhere Matt doesn't know. Few days later she comes back to their apartment and tells him that she's ready to break up and Matt is like what? and fluff happy ending. I thought you are really good at writing angst so I wanted to ask you for writing this idea! Sorry if it's too specific. Thank you for reading this. I hope you have a great day!

Hello, love!

I've posted Matt Murdock — Without Me for your request. I hope you don't mind me tweaking a little bit of the details to better fit the flow of the plot. Let me know what you think about it, okay?

And thank you for requesting this gem. I had so much fun writing it. Looking forward to work with your future requests! ♡

[steve-chandler]

It’s such a simple act, lending a jacket but i’m smiling and my heart is melting. Thank you very much for this beautiful writing. I really liked how you described Michael’s smile in the beginning bc i always thought the same thing…!

You Can Keep It (M.K)

Michael Kinsella x female!reader

Mentions of the Kinsellas' dirty business, mentions of Michael's wife death, but it's all fluff.

Summary: you've had an involuntarily hard limerence on your new coworker, Michael, for a while now. After an office party at the car dealership on a cold night, Michael lends you his jacket.

Word count: 2.11k!

Writer's note: I literally had this idea sparked in my head when I was chatting with the girls on discord the other day—and I really had to write it down! It's short, it's quick, but it's fluff and pining, it's what we live for! <3

You had a bottle of beer between your knees as you sat on the white office sofa, chatting with one of your coworkers about your plans for the weekend.

Amanda had decided to throw a party at the car dealership for whatever reason and you didn't really question it. You needed a break from working and some food because today was exhausting, and this party offered you all.

"I'll be out of town fer the weekend," your coworker said before taking a sip of her drink, "goin' ta see me boyfriend's family fer the first time," you smiled. You know she was looking forward for that day for a really long time, she and her boyfriend were planning an engagement soon and you couldn't be happier for her.

But as she spoke, your eyes strayed away to the farthest corner in the room and you spot him. The gloomy dark-haired man, standing alone, the way he always did. Michael.

Your eyes meet for a second and your face blazing red. Your interactions were less than few, but you couldn't help but smile and feel your stomach churn whenever you spot him anywhere in the crowd, or keep staring at him as he talks, or when he smiles—Oh God, when he smiles. This man was the perfect form of himself when he smiles.

He's Amanda's brother-in-law, and you learned that he was freshly released from prison for the murder of his wife. You didn't know of him before that and you'd be a liar if you say it didn't scare you off the first time you heard of him.

You expected a very frightening looking man but, he was totally the opposite.

Apparently, and presumably, he wasn't the one who did it. Judging from the way he looks whenever someone mentions her—he loved his deceased wife. But only him and God know what happened that night.

You know about the Kinsellas' real business, everyone knows about it, they aren't hiding or keeping it under the wraps anyway—but you often thought of that dirty business' involvement in that poor woman's demise. But ever since he was released, Michael was working his best to stay off the business—for his teen daughter, Anna.

You know, you just know.

Maybe you overheard couple things and maybe you investigated couple others but you're not very proud to say that you know things about this man and his family more than anyone else in the room. You know... Too much. You're Amanda's assistant—you got to be involved in so much shit work, and you knew so much that either could make you feared and powerful or put your head in a guillotine basket.

"Go talk ta him," your coworker nudged your knee with hers. You turned your head back to her, realizing that you were staring at Michael for too long. She smiled. You were a deer caught in headlights.

"What are ya talkin' about?" you were garbled, mind scattered all over the place. But a part of your brain is still there, with the man in the corner—and your eyes fight to look back at him.

"Ya know who I'm talkin' about. Go." she chin-jutted in his general direction. Your eyes follow back to him and his gentle gaze was on you. Once your eyes met again, a smile was slowly drawn on his face and you could see his cheeks prickling from this very far spot you're at. He looks down at his feet then back at you and you slip out of time and space, the air is stuck in your throat and your brain tunes out everything but him.

He's under the spotlight, and the rest is pitch darkness.

You rise from your seat to cross the distance between the two of you. Your heart pounds loud in your ears, your breath feels hot and wet against your face as you march towards him with his focus poured onto you.

His smile deepens the closer you get, until you could see the crow feet on each side of his eyes. You loved his hazel eyes, and you couldn't help but stare into their brown vastness and innocence, getting lost in the drugging color of caffeine.

"Hey," he speaks with a smile and says your name. He knows who you are, the same way as you do. And in fact, the feeling is mutual.

For a moment, you forget how to breathe. "Hey, Michael," you smile and your face is red. You've never said his name out loud before and it sounds way better than the voices in your head.

"How's the party goin fer ya?" you ask, taking a sip of your drink, trying to sound chill and casual and nonchalant—but in reality you were melting into a puddle with his gaze softly casted upon you.

He smiles and you could see the ghost of a dimple under his thick beard. "Grand. Ya?" he simply answered, or that's what he succeeded to delude you with.

You were the first one Michael ever laid his eyes upon since he got released weeks ago. You made his heart tick in a way he couldn't explain. He watched you talk and smile and laugh with your coworkers and he wished he was this close to you.

At one of the few times you got a chance to talk—he was a breath away from asking you out, but he thought it would be awkward and a bit creepy. This broke him into pieces, watching you acting professionally around him while he was almost a pile of sweat and tears in front of you.

Tonight, when he looked at you and you looked up at him, his heart faltered in his chest, each beat is tripping over the other. He tried to appear more staid and calm but he sighs so desperately when you ripped your eyes quickly away from his.

He thought about walking over to you and striking up a conversation and maybe ask you out afterwards—but he felt it was too awkward to do that; he never started the talk—not with someone close. But he wants to be close. He wants to be something more to you. His insalubrious crush on you keeps him up at night and daydreaming in the morning.

"Grand, I guess," you pull him back into reality. You're standing in front of him, here and now, and he wasn't imagining things.

"Glad ye are, pet," your breath hitched in your throat at the casual petname he threw at you. You blink into the distance twice and look back at him. He just called you 'pet'.

You couldn't help but daydream about how other flirty words would sound with his pleasantly gravelly voice. 'Mine', 'baby', 'love', 'sweetheart', 'bug', you wanted to hear it all now. You wanted to hear your name in all of his tones.

"So am I," you had to talk back, you already looked awkward enough with your mind straying every few seconds.

"Wait a second," he gently says before passing you and heading towards the buffet table. You watch him plate two slices of pizza and some other bits and bites before heading back in your direction.

"Here," he offers you the plate. You take a slice and he takes the other, placing the plate on the desk next to him. "Ye've been working all day today, pet, ye must be starving," he calls you with that name again and you turn as red as your blouse.

You nodded with a 'thank you' before taking a bite of your slice. "Ye noticed," it was higher than a whisper, maybe it was a loud thought that slipped out of your mouth, but he caught it, and his face blushes and burns.

He blinks a couple of times, trying to find a way to avoid your eyes because you were staring at him with those pretty orbs of yours and he already started melting under your beautiful gaze.

"Yeah, can't lie," he lets his guards down with a sigh and a smile, "ye were working so hard on yer desk this mornin' and I wanted ta get ye coffee and something ta eat, but felt it was awkward ta do tha'."

There you go. If this wasn't a hint, you don't know what else is. Your grin widened as your heart raced faster. He was so considerate of you, it made your heart sweetly swell and you fought the urge to kiss him—not minding the setting or the fact that none of you have made anything clear yet.

You shook your head. "Not at all, Michael, that would've been a nice thing," you had to encourage him, you wanted things to go farther, to go deeper, and to grow stronger.

"In tha' case, I'll pick up some brunch fer us on me way tomorrow mornin'. Say Reuben sandwiches, black coffee and Baileys Truffles? Is tha' grand fer ya, pet?" you were in awe of him. Was he thinking about this for so long?

You nodded. "But I'd prefer if we had it outside," you didn't know what you said before it left your mouth. You mentally placed your hands over your mouth.

"Ye're askin' me out, pet, is that what ye're doin'?" he smirked and you found yourself blurting incoherent words. You sigh with a smile and look back at him.

"Can't let ya ask me out before I do it first, pet. Understand?" he inches a little closer, but not too close, just the amount enough to let you know that he's so interested in you.

You blush at his demands and you nod with a grin. He chuckled, for the first time tonight, and it was the most pleasant voice you've ever heard.

"I want ye ta go out with me fer brunch tomorrow, pet," Michael was now filled with confidence and pride, "and I want ta pick up lunch fer ya too."

That was too much for you to bare. He asked you out, offered you two meals, and you had no idea what comes next.

"And if ya let me, I will take ya fer a drink tomorrow night."

That was official. He is way more than just interested in you, he was head over heels for you.

"I'd love ta," you coquetted, unintentionally, but to him it was sweet and spontaneous—and that made him fall harder.

Time slipped away with your endless chats and the night began to die out.

"It's getting late fer ya, pet," Michael breaks the silence after pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket. It was then when you found yourself alone with him —beside a couple other coworkers.

"Alright, um... Goodnight Michael." you say, almost turning in your heels.

"Mikey." he corrects you, "it's Mikey. Goodnight, pet." both of you smile and he lets you walk back to your office.

You pick up your purse and keys and walk out of the glass building, after exchanging waves and glances and maybe mental kisses and hugs.

In contrast to the warmth of the place inside, you were hit with a freezing howl of wind and it nailed you in place, hugging yourself while shaking out of shock and cold.

You walk for a couple feet before you heard your name called from behind you. You turn around. It was Michael—Mikey, taking off his black jacket as he approached you.

"There," he surprised you, placing his jacket on your shoulders and you were hit with the beautiful woodsy scent of his. He smelled of cinnamon and dark coffee and mint gum, you swear you could sleep in this forever.

His hands linger on your shoulders for a moment before he backs away an inch. "Tha' was stupid of me ta say back in there, ya shouldn't walk home alone at tha' time."

You tried to protest, but he shook his head, saying your name as soft as a swan feather on your skin. "Let me walk ya home, please." he said, his eyes sparkled in the dim lights.

You walk silently next to him, despite the butterflies loudly churning in your stomach, flying and meddling around in your chest, playing with the strings of your heart and messing with the chemistry of your brain.

You were completely besotted by this gentleman.

You make it to your doorstep and you're about to slip out of his jacket and hand it back to Michael when he stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"No. Keep it." he says with a smile, inching closer to you, placing a chaste and soft peck on your temple, "goodnight, pet. See ya tomorrow."

Taglist: @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @bellaxgiornata @loveroftoomanyfandoms @galaxies-and-moons-and-cox @1988-fiend @floral-charlie-cat @munsonownsmyass @lazyxsquirrel @mindidjarin (feel free to ask for addition or removal 🤍)

Likes and reblogs are appreciated, thank you for reading! 💞💞💞

[steve-chandler]

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Pairing - Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader

Summary:

When Michael Kinsella visits the gift shop where you work, hoping to find the perfect Christmas present for his daughter, you instantly click. Unfortunately, you are planning on leaving Ireland for good on January 5th, returning home after your heart was broken. But it’s hard to ignore the sparks that ignite between you and Michael as Christmas draws closer.

Author's Notes -

This is my first Michael Kinsella fanfic so apologies if it's a bit naff! I'm struggling a bit with Mikey's Irish delivery, so hope it sounds ok.

Reader is from England because I'm English and it's just easier for me, sorry! But the references are few. Hope it won't spoil the story for you too much. And you could always tweak the refs in your mind to suit you, if that makes sense. :P

Warnings - major spoiler for Kin season 2!!

Tumblr Chapter List Link

Chapter 3 - Wednesday 6th December

“So, how do I look?”

You shook your head, covering your mouth with your hand, trying not to burst out laughing.

“Won’t need so much padding this year,” Flynn added, patting his portly stomach with part mirth, part consternation. 

“I really thought you were joking when you said that you dressed up as Santa!”

“Nah. Been doin’ it every year since we first opened. We’ll be turning that corner over there…beside the tree…” he gestured to an area nearer the back of the shop. “Into Santa’s grotto.”

Mcnally’s Gifts had two massive Christmas trees. One at the front, partly set in the window display, and one at the back, where Flynn was apparently now going to be ho ho ho'ing as Santa Claus. Neither of the trees were for sale, you had been told that they were almost as old as the shop, but all of the baubles and decorations on them were. 

“An’ I’ll be expecting you to dress up as my helper elf, y’know.”

You looked back at him in shock. “Please tell me you are joking this time.”

His poker face finally broke as he tugged off his Santa beard. “Aye,” he chuckled. “But your expression was bloody priceless.”

He returned out back to remove the suit, but a few minutes later he reappeared, struggling with a rather impressive, if a little gaudy, gold coloured chair, with red velvet padding and a high, decorative back. 

“What d’ya think of m’throne?”

“I’ve never seen that in the stock room,” you frowned, as you rushed across to help him.

“I keep it covered,” he panted, as you carried it between you, over to the corner. 

“Get’s heavier every year,” he huffed, rather red in the face by now, as you shuffled it into position.

“Will you need any help setting it all up?”

“Nah, you just concentrate on the shop. M’brother and I do it. Mary always left it to us.”

“So how does it work? Do the kids and their parents just turn up?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. There’s a bookin’ system on the shop’s website with allocated time slots. It was m’brother’s idea but it does make it a lot easier.” He dragged a hand through his thinning hair. “Sadly, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

You regarded him affectionately. “But very young at heart.”

“Aye. Though I’d rather be young in body!”

Laughing, he returned out back, but not before insisting you give him a call if the shop became too busy. The part time assistant, a sweet lady called Bridget, who covered yours and Flynn’s day off, would thankfully be helping out a lot more over December, and all three of you would be battling the stampede of shoppers on Christmas Eve.

But it was a surprisingly quiet morning. Now that all of the new stock was finally put away you stood idly, looking out of one of the shop’s large bay windows.

It had stopped snowing an hour ago and the weather had brightened considerably, the sun sneaking back to make everywhere sparkle enchantingly. Snow always looked so beautiful against a crisp blue sky, you decided with a smile, and if it stayed this nice you were definitely going to drive out into the local countryside on your day off tomorrow, and take some photos of the snowy landscape. It might be your last chance before going home.

As your gaze swept the street, at The Clover Leaf opposite, and the other shops and businesses stretching off either side, you sighed beneath your breath, wondering whether you’d ever see Hallmark man again. You kept hoping he might return, needing help with a present for someone else. You were still convinced there had been a connection between you, a spark of something special, but maybe you were just imagining it.

It was probably for the best, you tried to convince yourself. Given how wary you were of charming Irish men now, you were surprised you had allowed yourself to crush on Hallmark man so quickly. You didn’t think you could handle another broken heart so soon.

You were so lost in your thoughts, regarding the view and yet not really seeing it, that you didn’t really register the woman walking along the path until the momentum of her sudden fall wrenched you from your thoughts. You gasped as she slammed to the path in a little explosion of snow. 

When she remained on the ground, you frowned your concern, worried she might have really hurt herself. Relieved that you were wearing a cardigan today, you pulled it tighter around you and hurried out of the shop to see if she was alright. 

“God, are you ok?” you asked, crouching down beside her. “I saw you fall. Here, let me help you.”

She seemed dazed but complied when you reached out, allowing you to help her to her feet. But when she tried to straighten up, she cursed in pain and clutched her hip through her coat.

“I really think you should come sit down for a moment.”

“Oh, I’ll be alright, love,” she quickly dismissed, but you could see from the look on her face that the fall had shaken her up more than she was letting on.

“It’s only in here…” you gestured to the shop. “Just sit for a few minutes. Then see how you feel.”

When she glanced up at the shop, an odd expression flitted across her face and she let out a little sigh, but she finally nodded. “Thanks, pet. That’s kind of ya.”

Hooking her bag back over her shoulder and brushing the snow from her coat, she limped alongside you through the sun kissed snow. Once inside the shop you guided her across to the closest chair, which happened to be Santa’s throne. She shook her head in amusement but still sank grateful down into the plump cushions.

At the same time, Flynn appeared from out back. His eyes widened in surprise.

“What the hell? Birdy? Are you alright?”

She glanced towards him sheepishly. “Fell on my arse, I did. But this kind lass helped me out. Still feel a bit winded, mind.”

Flynn immediately reached into his jacket and pulled out the hip flask he occasionally liked to sip when he thought no one was looking.

“‘ere. Get some of that down ya.”

She laughed. “You still carry this ole thing?” But she accepted it regardless and took a hearty swig.

“Nah, this is an upgrade.”

She closed her eyes and sighed appreciatively. “An' thankfully, so’s the whisky.”

You watched their exchange with a smile. “I’m guessing you two know each other.”

The woman - Birdy - grinned. “Aye. We go way back, don’t we Flynny boy. Though it’s been a while.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “I was so sorry to hear ‘bout Mary.”

Flynn was equally sober. “An’ I was sorry to hear ‘bout Frank.”

“I saw ya at the service,” Birdy said softly. “Thanks for comin’. Frank would’a liked that.” Her eyes glazed as she gave him back the flask. “Just can’t believe he’s gone, Flynn.” 

Flynn took a deep breath. “I hadn't seen him in a long time, not properly, not like we used to be, but I’ve never forgotten our friendship.”

Birdy smiled, blinking away her tears. “Aye. We got up to some shenanigans, didn’t we.”

She looked up at you, eyes glinting with mischief. “I used to call them The Two F’s.”

“For Frank and Flynn?” you asked innocently. 

Your naivety amused her. “Can I tell her, Flynn?”

“Aye. She’s no prude.”

“The Two Fuckers,” she grinned. “Because they used to wind me up so. They were such annoying beggars.”

You laughed. “So you all used to hang out?”

“Aye, pet. When we were kids.”

Flynn shook his head. “Seems like a million years ago! Where the hell has the time gone?”

But Birdy suddenly gasped. “Oh shit, I’m supposed to be meetin’ Mikey. He’ll wonder where I’m at.”

She pulled out a rather swish phone and quickly dialled.

“Hey, pet,” she started apologetically, and quickly explained the situation to whoever Mikey was. Husband, you wondered, or son? She ended by mentioning Mcnally’s Gifts.

She slipped the phone back into her bag. “He’ll be here in a few minute. I left him at the Chemists, see.”

You pottered around the shop while Flynn and Birdy chatted, trying not to eavesdrop. Finally, the shop door opened. 

To your shock (and delight!) Hallmark man came rushing in. 

He gave you a fleeting smile but his concern for Birdy was predominant as he hurried over to her. You mentally shook your head. Talk about coincidences! 

“You ok, Birdy? You hurt?”

“Only my pride!” she joked. “But I’m feelin’ better now, thanks to this kind lass.”

She had referred to him as Mikey earlier. Was that short for Michael? If it was, you liked it. It suited him.

You watched a smirk sneak onto his face as he folded his arms and regarded Birdy like an exhibit in a museum or something. 

Birdy blinked at him indignantly. “What’s so damn amusing?”

“Always thought you’d suit a throne,” he chuckled.

“Less of your cheek, Mikey.” She stood up with a groan. “C’mon, let’s be making a move.” After a couple of steps she hesitated to take a steeling breath. “Think I’m gonna have a few bruises in the mornin’ though.”

She turned to Flynn, gently resting a hand on his arm. “Thanks for the whisky. Good to see y’again. Been too long.”

“Aye,” Flynn agreed and there was an affection between them that made you curious about their history. Had they just been friends, you wondered, or had there been something more?

Birdy turned to you. “An’ thanks again, pet. Most people would have left me sitting there.”

You flushed. “No worries.”

As she limped to the door, Mikey followed after her, but as they began to exit he turned to meet your gaze, smiling his own thank you.

You returned the smile, happy to have seen him once more, but just as disappointed to see him leave yet again.

When they had gone you turned to Flynn with a grin. “The Two F’s?”  

He laughed. “Birdy was quite the firecracker back then. Still is. We were good friends though, me, Frank and Birdy.” But his face suddenly darkened and a dangerous glint ignited in his eyes, betraying a glimpse of a Flynn you had never seen before. “Until Bren.” The name rolled off his tongue venomously. 

“Bren?”

“Birdy’s brother.”

But he didn’t seem to want to elaborate further, whipping through the strip curtain to return out back again, leaving you alone in the shop to mull over why he hated Birdy’s brother so much,  and whether Hallmark man really was called Michael.

***

You had just finished for the day and were heading back to your car when you heard a voice that made your heart perform a little backflip. “Hey, wait up, pet.”

You turned with a start as Mikey stepped out from the shadows and you guessed he had been leaning against the shop wall.

He smiled gently, handing you a small bunch of flowers. “Birdy wanted me to pass these on t’ya. She was grateful for y’help today.”

A little disheartened that they weren’t from him, you returned the smile. “Oh, she shouldn’t have done that. I really didn’t do much.”

“She appreciated the thought. She likes kindness in people. Says it’s a rare thing these days.”

You bit your lip as you admired the flowers, not quite sure how to respond to that.

“I did pick em’ out though,” he hastened to add, as if he had caught the edge of your disappointment. 

“They’re lovely.” You met his gaze again. “You should’ve come into the shop. It would have been warmer.”

“‘Saw that you were busy with a customer. Thought it easier to just wait out here.”

“Yes. Lately I’ve been getting a lot of customers right on top of closing time,” you teased.

He laughed.

“Thank Birdy for me. It was very sweet of her. How is she?”

“Hobblin’ around, cursin’ the snow to anyone who’ll listen’. But no damage done c’ept a bit of bruisin’.”

“Well tell her I wish her a speedy recovery.”

“Aye, I’ll do that.”

You stood, facing each other in the afternoon's semi-darkness, the nights pulled in tightly now that the shortest day was looming. But the colourful Christmas lights festooned back and forth across the street erased some of the winter bleakness, lighting everywhere up festively.

You rummaged in your bag for your car keys.

“Can I walk ya to y’car?”

You bit back a knowing smile. “Sure.”

He started walking alongside you but after only a few steps you stopped with a grin. “We’re here.”

He frowned light-heartedly. “Y’enjoyed that.”

“I did,” you confessed.

As you unlocked your car he moved in a little closer and your heart started racing. “I er…wanted to thank y’properly for all y’help with Anna’s present, and now, with y’helpin’ Birdy.”

You swallowed thickly, as you looked back at him.

“An’ I was wonderin’…if you’d like to come out for a drink with me.” His small smile was endearingly reticent. “Tonight maybe?”

You shook your head in frustration. “I can’t tonight. I’m babysitting.”

He flinched back in surprise, though amusement flared in his eyes. “Haven’t heard that excuse before.”

“It’s true, I swear,” you rushed, with a sheepish smile. “It’s for my neighbour. Last minute thing. If it wasn’t my day off tomorrow I would probably have made my own excuses. She tends to return very late.”

“Oh.” He peered down at the ground, a little caught off guard, but quickly looked back up again with renewed determination. “So what are y’up to on y’day off?”

“Well…” you started hesitantly, his persistence triggering happy little fireworks inside your chest. “If the weather is as nice as it was today I thought I’d drive out into the countryside. Take some photos of the snow before it all melts.”

“On y’own?”

You frowned. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

“Y’never know who’s lurkin’ about.”

“In the middle of the countryside? On a cold winter’s day?” You shook your head dismissively. “I think I’d have a lot more chance of something bad happening to me in the city.”

He seemed a little uncomfortable as he scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, but a smile eventually tugged at his lips. “Y’like photography?”

“Yeah,” you gushed. “Love it. It’s my happy place. My little escape.”

“What sort?”

You shrugged. “Landscapes mostly. And urbex.”

“Urbex?”

“Also called urban exploration. You know - ruins, abandoned places.”

“Oh right.”

“I used to do a lot of it back home.”

“England, I’m guessin’?”

“Yeah.”

He looked thoughtful all of a sudden, and then somehow hopeful. “If y’don’t mind me taggin’ along I can show you somewhere. The urbex thing y' like. Me and m’brother Jimmy used to bike out there all the time when we were kids.”

“What is it exactly?”

“Now that would ruin the surprise,” he returned mysteriously.

You grinned. “Pun intended?” 

When he regarded you blankly you felt a bit of an idiot. “Ruin the surprise,” you clarified weakly, emphasising the word ruin.

He rolled his eyes, though you sensed it was less aimed at you and more from feeling a bit slow witted himself. 

But you still shook your head self-consciously. “Sorry. Bad play on words.”

His gaze softened, sending a rush of warmth through you. “So how’s about it?”

You blinked at him in surprise. “You really want to come with me?”

“Aye. Haven’t been back to that place in a long time. It’ll be good to see it again.”

“You could go back anytime,” you pointed out gently.

His gaze intensified. “Aye, but I’d prefer the company of a lovely English lass.”

You were relieved it was so dark. Despite the cold, your face was on fire.

“You like the accent?” you dared.

“Aye. I do.”

You bit your lip coyly. “And I rather like your Irish accent.”

“So it’s a win, win,” he returned gently, pleased with your boldness as he leaned in slightly closer. “Don’t y’think?”

You took a deep breath. “Aye,” you tried to joke, but your voice came out embarrassingly squeaky.

As he chuckled, you quickly pulled back your shoulders, gathering your senses. “Ok then. I…er…probably won’t set off too early. Not when I could be babysitting until quite late. Around ten alright with you?”

He nodded, continuing to smile warmly.

“Where do you want me to pick you up?”

After a moment’s deliberation he gestured to the street. “Just here would be grand.”

He hadn’t given you his home address, you noticed, wondering whether you should be concerned. But then, you had also decided not to give him yours. Perhaps he was as wary as you were, carrying a similar kind of bitterness because of whatever had happened with his daughter and his ex. 

“Could I have y’number?” he did ask though, and trying to suppress your giddiness, you quickly gave it to him.

When he reciprocated, you smiled. “So it is Michael. I thought it might be.”

He watched you with a twinkle in his eyes. “You been wonderin’?” 

You flushed again. “I might have.”

There was another silence between you. It wasn’t as awkward this time, but it was rather overwhelming, heady with anticipation.

“Until tomorrow then,” you finally shrugged, mimicking his own words from that first meeting.

“Aye,” he grinned, obviously remembering.

“Don’t forget to dress up warm,” you blurted.

You didn't give him the chance to answer. Hurrying into your car before you could say anything else stupid or embarrassing. As you pulled away from the kerb though, he was still watching, hands pressed deep in his pockets, smiling gently after you. 

***

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it! Comments are always appreciated!

AO3 link -

[steve-chandler]

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Pairing - Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader

Summary:

When Michael Kinsella visits the gift shop where you work, hoping to find the perfect Christmas present for his daughter, you instantly click. Unfortunately, you are planning on leaving Ireland for good on January 5th, returning home after your heart was broken. But it’s hard to ignore the sparks that ignite between you and Michael as Christmas draws closer.

Author's Notes - There are no major Kin spoilers in the first two chapters, but it is set after the events of season 2 so there eventually will be.

Tumblr Chapter List Link

Chapter Two - Monday 4th December

You couldn’t get Hallmark man out of your head on Sunday. As you recovered from Saturday's shopping frenzy, enjoying a blissfully long lay in for most of the morning, a Netflix movie in the afternoon, and a luxurious soak in a candlelit bath in the evening, your interactions with him kept replaying over and over in your mind, along with memories of that beautiful smile and those gorgeous hazel eyes.

And now it was Monday and you were back in the shop on tenterhooks, your heart skipping a beat every time the damn door opened.

On top of that, there had been a huge stock delivery half an hour ago, and everywhere was in complete chaos, boxes piled up waiting to be opened. You had sought out the necklaces first though, and put aside one of the silver Born to Dance, under the counter. 

When Flynn returned from the bank, he stared around the shop in shock. “Christ, did I really order that much?”

You grinned. “Evidently so.”

He shook his head sheepishly. “I always get carried away at this time of year.” His face clouded over with sadness. “But Mary loved Christmas, she did.”

Your smile wavered. Flynn had lost his wife two years ago. You had never known her, she had died long before you had even thought of running away to Ireland, but she had sounded a warm gregarious woman. And dear Flynn was naturally still grieving her loss. They had been together over thirty years, after all. 

“She’s looking down on you and the shop,” you said gently. “Loving it all.”

He met your gaze, his eyes glassy. “Aye, I expect so, love." He smiled poignantly. “Probably doesn’t think I’ve ordered enough.”

Composing himself, he reached into the familiar paper bag of The Clover Leaf coffee shop opposite and drew out a takeaway cup. “Ere ya go. Something to keep ya toasty.”

“Aww. Thanks, Flynn," you smiled, as he handed it to you. "One of these days you’re going to have to let me return the favour.”

“And…” he continued, somewhat dramatically, as he drew out a smaller paper bag. 

“Oh Flynn, you shouldn’t have.”

You knew exactly what it was. A sugary doughnut. You had been comfort eating far too many of them since having your heart stomped all over. But The Clover Leaf made the best doughnuts you had ever tasted. You would miss them almost as much as you would Flynn.

As you slipped the bag under the counter to enjoy after lunch, you shook your head despairingly. “Good job I burn plenty of calories in the shop.” 

By 4pm, Hallmark man still hadn’t shown up, but you had made excellent progress putting the new stock away, making good use of all the nervous energy your anticipation was generating. As well as being usefully distracting, unboxing was always rather exciting, because you had no idea what Flynn had ordered. Lots of oohing and aahing ensued as you saw all the latest seasonal gifts and decorations for the very first time. 

You became so preoccupied that you forgot all about the doughnut Flynn had bought you. Deciding you deserved a short break, you sat on one of the stools behind the counter and drew out the bag. Opening it, the smell alone made you close your eyes and sigh appreciatively. Dipping your hand inside you broke off a piece and popped it into your mouth, groaning your pleasure. You idly wondered whether The Clover Leaf would consider mailing them to the UK when you returned home. 

The door suddenly opened just as you were savouring the last, rather generous, mouthful. When Hallmark man stepped into the shop you mentally cursed every god in existence for such nefarious timing. Holding your hand in front of your mouth in a panic, you tried to chew as quickly as you could.

He had obviously cottoned on to what was happening. You could see that he was struggling to hold back a smirk as he sauntered over to your counter.

You swallowed uncomfortably, trying not to show your discomfort while your face burnt with embarrassment.

“Take your time, pet,” he grinned. “I’m in no hurry.”

You finally lowered your hand. “Sorry.”

He was still watching you in amusement but there was a warmth in his eyes that stirred the butterflies again. He looked even better looking than you remembered. But his brow suddenly twitched as he gestured to your face. “You’ve got…”

You looked up at him in dismay. “What?”

“Just a little bit of…”

He suddenly reached across, instantly kickstarting your heart, and was about to touch your face, just to one side of your mouth, when he promptly withdrew his hand again, probably fearing he might be overstepping the mark. He pointed to the corner of his own mouth instead, tapping it lightly. “You’ve got a bit of sugar…”

“Oh hell,” you flustered, reaching down for a tissue. You quickly wiped it away.

You lifted up your head self-consciously. “Gone?” At the same time, feeling mortified that you even had to ask.

He nodded. “Something nice?” he teased. 

“Doughnut,” you threw back with a cringe. “But let’s swiftly move on, shall we?”

He chuckled as you hopped off the stool and reached under the counter for his necklace. You opened its little gift box and handed it to him. “Born to Dance, in silver.”

He held it up. “Definitely better in silver.”

“I can gift wrap it if you like, at no extra charge.”

He looked back up at you in surprise. “You’d do that for me?”

You gestured to a laminated sign on the wall - we gift wrap at no extra cost.

You thought you detected a hint of colour creep up beneath his beard. “And ‘ere I was, thinkin’ I was special.”

You grinned, not feeling quite so bad about having sugar on your face now. It evened the score a little.

He handed you back the necklace and you returned it to its box.

He hesitated though, sweeping his gaze around the shop. “I wanted to buy Anna a jewellery box as well. Somethin’ classy. And have the necklace inside.”

“A gift within a gift?”

“Aye.”

“It’s a lovely idea.”

You led him across to the selection of jewellery boxes. Several customers had since entered so you left him to browse. While you dealt with them in turn, you occasionally glanced his way. At one stage he was actually scratching his head in deliberation, his other hand on his hip, and you had to bite back a smile. 

When the pair of you were alone in the shop again he glanced in your direction a little desperately. You walked back over to him. “Everything ok?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to two, but wouldn’t mind your opinion.”

When he picked the two out there was no contest. 

“The mirrored one,” you said confidently. “Mirrored anything is very popular right now, especially with teenagers.”

“Then that’s the one I’ll take.”

You brought it to the counter, along with its box.

“Can y’gift wrap ‘em both? But still put the necklace in the jewellery box?”

“I think I can manage that,” you smiled. You gestured to a display of wrapping paper on the wall behind the counter. “Take your pick.”

He frowned as he ran his gaze up and down the options. “The chubby robins,” he finally decided, but there was an endearing sense of weariness about him now, as if he was finding all these choices and decisions exhausting.

You were conscious of his stare as you deftly wrapped, so used to doing it for customers now, you could probably manage it blindfolded. 

“You’re quick.”

“I’ve had plenty of practise.”

“I’m all fingers and thumbs,” he admitted with a grin. “I’d ‘ave tape in m’beard by now.”

The imagery made you burst out laughing, prompting him to do the same. Again, there was that fleeting eye contact, that gave you a nervous little flutter inside. His smile. His laugh. For some strange reason, you sensed he didn’t laugh a lot. You weren't quite sure why. There just seemed to be an underlying sadness about him.

You had just popped the wrapped up necklace in the jewellery box, and were about to close it, when he halted you with his hand.

“Just a minute, pet.”

He rooted around in his pocket and drew out a folded envelope, slipping it inside as well.

You were curious, but knew it wasn’t your place to pry. You guessed it was money. Teenagers were always desperate for cash. But as you resumed your wrapping, you couldn’t resist saying: “I bet your daughter will be full of smiles on Christmas morning.”

But when you met his gaze, the bitterness in his eyes took you aback, instantly gutting your own smile. It was like a dark shadow had passed across his face.

He shrugged. “I won’t know. She lives with her gran.”

“Oh,” you returned awkwardly. “And you won’t be -?” You stopped short, reminding yourself it was none of your business. 

He forced a smile. “It’s complicated.”

You glanced uncomfortably down at the present, before meeting his brooding eyes again. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

He returned his hands to his jacket pockets and his shoulders heaved. “You and me both, pet.”

There was a strained silence while you finished wrapping. You wondered what had happened. Messy divorce, perhaps? But then, why was his daughter with her gran and not her mother?

When it was done and he nodded approvingly, albeit a little soberly now, you found yourself impulsively reaching across for a shiny red bow. You quickly peeled off the adhesive backing and stuck it on the present.

He cocked his head, amused, and you were relieved that it had chased some of those shadows away. “Is that part of the service too?”

“This is just between us,” you returned quietly, though you knew Flynn wouldn't mind. He did the same thing himself occasionally, if the customer was pleasant enough.

He leaned in, smiling conspiratorially. “M’lips are sealed.”

And what gorgeous lips they were, you thought with a sigh, as you fleetingly focused on their shape. They were unusually full for a man. But looked very…kissable. 

All too soon the transaction was complete and you were handing him his purchases in a festive Mcnally’s carrier bag.

He hesitated after he had taken it, and you exchanged small smiles again. You suddenly felt a little panicky, not wanting him to go, or your interaction to end. You liked it when he teased you; when you made him laugh. And there was something about his body language that hinted he felt the same.

But just at that moment a middle aged couple barged into the shop, mid-argument it seemed. The woman immediately looked your way and came thundering towards the counter.

Hallmark man gave you a regretful smile that only served to provoke a sinking feeling inside. As the woman came up beside him with a frown, he started to turn, lifting the bag gratefully. “Thanks again, pet.”

The woman started rattling on about something she wasn’t happy about, but you barely registered her. All you could do was watch, gutted, as Hallmark man walked out of your life as quickly as he had entered it.  

***

Don't worry! Mikey and Reader will be reunited again very soon. :D

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it! Comments are always appreciated!

AO3 link -

[steve-chandler]

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Pairing - Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader

Summary - When Michael Kinsella visits the gift shop where you work, hoping to find the perfect Christmas present for his daughter, you instantly click. Unfortunately, you are planning on leaving Ireland for good on January 5th, returning home after your heart was broken. But it’s hard to ignore the sparks that ignite between you and Michael as Christmas draws closer. 

Tumblr Chapter List Link

Author's Notes - There are no Kin spoilers at all in this first chapter, but it is set after the events of season 2 so there eventually will be.

Chapter One - Saturday December 2nd

You swept a duster across the counter top, stifling a yawn. It had been an extremely busy day at Mcnally’s Gifts and your feet were killing you. Your boss, Flynn, had warned you that Saturdays in December were hectic but it was only the 2nd. If it was this crazy at the beginning of December you hated to think what it was going to be like during the run up to the 25th.

But that wasn’t to say that you didn’t love working at the shop. You adored its Olde Worlde charm, that suddenly seemed all the more magical now that its shelves were heaving (and sparkling!) with all things Christmassy.

And Flynn was such a character. As stereotypically Irish as an Irish man could get. At least in your very un-Irish opinion. You were going to miss him terribly when you returned to England in the new year.

When the shop door was suddenly wrenched open, you sighed and rolled your eyes, hating it when you had customers just on top of closing time. You desperately wanted to get home, put your feet up, and just veg out in front of the TV.

Your gaze flicked up as a man hurried in from the blizzard-like conditions outside, bringing a flurry of snow swirling into the shop with him. Handsome, disheveled, hair and beard glistening with snowflakes, he looked like he had just stepped out of some Christmas themed Hallmark movie. 

Your mood perked up a bit. If you were going to end up working late, at least you would be compensated with a little eye candy. 

You checked though the shop’s large bay windows. There were still people bustling by, braving the bleak wintry weather. Deciding that you would turn the door sign to closed, to make sure you didn’t get any more customers trailing in after Hallmark man, you slipped out from behind the counter.

He glanced around the shop, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, even seeming a little overwhelmed. It was pretty obvious that he had no idea what he wanted to buy.

“Can I help you with anything?” you asked politely as you passed him. “Because I’m afraid we’re closing in about five minutes.”

He looked across at you in surprise and you suspected that your accent might have caught him off guard. It wouldn’t be the first time. No, you weren’t Irish. You had only lived in Ireland a little over a year, after being swept off your feet (and then across the Irish Sea) by a charming Irish man. Only the charm had quickly evaporated and the bastard had ended up breaking your heart.

Still devastated, you turned the sign around with more venom than you intended, and had to stand a moment to blink back your tears. Taking a deep breath you finally turned, passing Hallmark man again.

“Sorry, pet. I’ll try not to keep ya too long.” He scrubbed a hand across his beard and back through his hair, obliterating all those endearing snowflakes in one foul swoop. “I’m…er…lookin’ for somethin’ for m’daughter.”

“For Christmas?” you asked, as you took your position back behind the counter again.

His mouth twitched. “It’s that time of year.”

“Could be a birthday,” you protested with a smile. “I mustn’t presume.”

“Aye, Christmas,” he clarified, amused. 

He leaned his hands on the counter top, one of his fingers tapping restlessly as his gaze swept the gift displays. “Thing is,” he added, a little sheepishly. “I don’t really know what.” 

“We can work on that,” you reassured him. “What does she like?”

“Like?”

You shrugged. “You know. Hobbies. Interests.”

“Oh right.” 

He frowned thoughtfully. 

“She loves dancin’,” he finally returned, watching you so hopefully that you had to bite back a smile. Men always amused you when it came to gift shopping. They would probably rather walk, bare foot, across broken glass.

“Dancing. Hmmm. OK.” After a moment’s thought you made a beeline for one of the shelves.

“These are very pretty,” you suggested, lifting down a resin figurine of a ballerina, with a glittery feather skirt, designed to appeal to children.

He drew up beside you. “Oh, no, not that sorta dancin’.”

You quickly met his gaze.

“More modern." A smile tugged back at his mouth. “Y’know. Hip hop.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Colouring a little, you returned the ballerina to the shelf. 

“No worries,” he insisted, though he was clearly amused again. “I shoulda explained.”

It was your turn to look a little sheepish. “I’m guessing your daughter is older.”

“Teenager,” he nodded.

“Not that older girls won’t like ballet, or younger girls hip hop,” you hastened to add. “Got to be so careful what you say these days!”

He grinned. “Aye. Tell me about it.”

You hesitated, sweeping your gaze around the shop, trying not to dwell on the fact that he had a really gorgeous smile as well as being Hallmark handsome.

“Oh, I know!” you suddenly exclaimed, snapping out of your daze.

You hurried across to the jewellery counter and reached inside one of the glass display cases.

“Now we have two designs. This is the first one.” You handed him the necklace as he approached the counter.

At the end of the delicate chain were two icons. A circle of gold inscribed with the words Born to Dance, and a tiny leaping dancer that certainly looked more contemporary than classical. 

As he held it up in his hands, his hazel eyes seemed to light up, drawing out tiny flecks of sea green. “I like this,” he smiled, pleased. “Aye, this is grand.”

You smiled your own pleasure. While you were exhausted, and it was now already passed closing time, it was still gratifying when you helped a customer find that perfect gift. And because dancing was so specific, it hadn’t taken that long either.

“The other design says Dancing is in my soul.”

“Nah. Think I prefer this one.”

“Yes, I do too,” you returned honestly. "It's simple but powerful.” You watched as he isolated and lifted the dancer for a closer look. “They come in gold or silver.”

“I think she’d prefer silver,” he returned distractedly.

You glanced back down into the display case. “Oh,” you frowned. “The silver is missing. Hang on a minute.”

You left him admiring the necklace while you hurried over to the strip-curtained doorway that led out back to the stock rooms and Flynn’s office. 

“Flynn!” you called down the narrow corridor. “The necklaces, Born to Dance. Have we sold out of silver?”

“Aye,” he hollered back with his usual gusto. “But we’ve got new stock comin’ in on Monday.”

You returned to Hallmark Man who had been watching with a smirk. “I’m guessing you heard that.”

“Got some lungs on ‘im,” he joked in a lowered voice.

You grinned as you returned behind the counter. “I think Flynn’s are twice the size of your average human.”

He chuckled as he handed you back the necklace but his smile wavered when, just for a split second, your fingers touched.

A little flustered by the contact, you quickly returned the necklace to the display case, at the same time taking a discreet breath to compose yourself. As you met his gaze again he was watching you rather intently. 

“I can put one aside for you if you like,” you blurted self-consciously. “When they come in on Monday.”

He nodded. “Aye. That would be grand.” He reached down to his jeans and started to pull out his wallet. “Want me to pay y’now?”

“Oh no, that’s ok.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll trust you to come back,” you couldn’t resist teasing.

He pushed his wallet back down and pressed his hands deep into his pockets instead. Leaning forward slightly he gave you a gentle smile. “Until Monday then.”

His choice of words, moreover the way he said them, gave you a little rush of butterflies. You nodded, returning the smile. “Until Monday.”

You watched him walk back to the door. “Oh wait! I locked it!”

He turned with raised eyebrows. “Y’locked me in?”

You hurried across to the door, your poor feet protesting with every step now. “I didn’t want any more customers,” you confessed guiltily.

His face turned sympathetic. “Long day?”

“Very long,” you despaired, shoulders heaving. 

“Well y’ can kick me out now. An' get home in the warm.”

“I honestly can’t wait,” you sighed wistfully.

“To kick me out?” His eyes sparked mischievously. “Have a heart, pet. It’s baltic out there.” 

You flushed again. “You know what I meant.”

He laughed quietly. “Aye. Just messin’ with ya.”

You turned the key in the lock and opened the door for him, hugging yourself with your arms as freezing air came rushing into the shop.

“Thanks for all y’help,” he added appreciatively as he stepped out onto the street, and as the snow swirled violently around him again he glanced back at you. "Anna’s gonna love that necklace.”

“My…pleasure,” you stumbled, your heart suddenly racing. As your eyes locked, you swallowed nervously.

With a parting smile, he finally turned and disappeared into a world of white.

***

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it! Comments are always appreciated!

AO3 link -

[steve-chandler]

Hey have a Matt X wife request.

Matt and his wife are newlyweds, after the honeymoon Matt notices a second heartbeat

I love this idea, enjoy!

—————

Matt crept through the window, trying to remain as silent as possible in hopes of not waking you, who was sleeping in your shared bed in the other room, steadily breathing.

He cringed a bit when a floorboard underneath his foot creaked, and held his breath as he strained his ears to see if it had awoken you from your slumber.

Just as he was about to let out a breath of relief that your breathing pattern hadn’t changed, his heightened senses picked up on something that made his heart all but stop.

A second heartbeat.

As panic began to flood his system, he lost the ability to even try and pinpoint where the extra being was in his apartment. All he was focused on was getting you out safely.

Someone had broken into your apartment when he hadn’t been home and that realization alone was enough to send him into a frenzy.

You two had gotten back from the honeymoon not even a week ago, and your life was already at risk. In your own home nonetheless, a place you were supposed to feel safe. Secure.

“Honey,” He whispered quickly, creeping into your room and shaking you gently, but firmly , “Honey, come on, you have to get up.”

You slowly peeled your eyes open, blinking up at him in confusion, “Matt?” Your voice was groggy, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“We have to go,” He hurriedly informed you, finally coming to his senses and doing his best to slow his own heart rate down so that he can figure out where the intruder was.

“Why?” You asked, but swung your feet over the edge of the bed nonetheless, trusting your husband wholeheartedly.

“Someone is in here,” He hissed, quickly wrapping his arm around you protectively as he guided you towards the window.

Your eyes widened in fear at his words, “Someone’s in-“

All of a sudden, your husband froze, finally having picked up on where the extra heartbeat was and he sucked in a breath as he slowly turned on his heel to face you.

“What is it?” Your anxiety filled eyes frantically searching his face for any sign of what was going on.

Carefully, Matt dropped into a crouch in front of you, hesitantly reaching up a slightly shaking hand and put it lightly on your stomach, “It’s- the heartbeat…” He stuttered out.

“Oh, baby,” You cooed, dropping down to a crouch so that you were face to face, “I was trying to find the right time to tell you- I never wanted you to find out like this-“

“I’m going to be a father,” Matt choked out, muscles relaxing when he figured out that you were not in fact in danger, that the second heartbeat was from your unborn child.

“You’re going to be a father,” You repeated with a light laugh, hands coming up to cup the sides of his face as tears of joy filled your eyes.

“I’m going to be a father,” He whispered to himself, tears of joy filling his own eyes.

[steve-chandler]

long day || matt murdock x reader

summary: your husband is home from a long day in court. he’s tired, but nothing revitalizes him quite like the feeling of your skin under delicate lace.

word count: 452 (issa baby)

warnings: its kinda spicy (no smut but it’s suggestive), lowercase intended, mentions babydoll lingerie but there’s no direct gender mentioned for reader, not even kind of edited i cannot lie

a/n: dedicated to horny jail bc we r swearing off c.ai! woohoo this is a celebration

this is an 18+ blog. minors dni. || masterlist

he could hear his own disgruntled breath bouncing off the corridor walls, each exhale driving the metaphorical stake at his nape deeper. he’d won his case, but it hadn’t come easy- weeks of research, days of court appearances, hours of waiting for the jury. now that it was done, the weight was lifted, and he now felt the impact deep in his bones. 

he opened the door with a sigh, locking the front door of your apartment and hanging up his coat. he was so tired, so out of it, that he didn’t even register it until the slight shift in your possession made that familiar, obscene noise, the one only he could truly hear- the drag of lace on skin, of hundreds of tiny knots brushing where his fingers should be. 

his wedding band suddenly seemed to burn in the best way, a searing reminder that your tantalizing and teasing him wasn’t for naught. as he shifted over to you, his sightless eyes tracking you just by the sound of your breath, he grinned. 

“counselor,” you purred, your voice sultry as you stood from the sofa. you approached him, picking up the glass of malt whiskey you had prepared for him- win or loss, you’d known he would need it. you handed the class off to him, fingers lightly brushing his. 

“sweetheart,” he answered. his voice was deep and gravelly, tired from his weeks-long foray into rhetorician, but still commanding, still dominant, wordlessly asking for you to let him take the lead and have his way for you. your eyes marveled over his features- how one man could be so indescribably handsome, even his exhausted state, was beyond you. how could you ever deny him? 

you let him take a drink of his whiskey, eyeing his lips as he did. when he withdrew the glass, you gently took it from him and set it on the nearby counter. with a near purr, you took him by the forearm- his favorite way to walk with you, because of the way it made him feel so big in comparison to you, so strong- and started walking towards your shared bedroom, the lace on your slip rubbing gently against your skin, another temptation for your allegedly-pious husband. 

the sound of your lace and the scent of your perfume and the cold touch of your fingerprints, just under his rolled-up shirt cuff, sent him off the edge. with an arrogant grin, he raised his free hand to the slipknot of his tie and loosened it just enough to fit around his head. he tossed it to the side, completely careless, leaving it lonely on the living room floor as he shut the door behind you.

[steve-chandler]

Cute adorable lovely and so domestic I LOVE IT SO MUCH THANKYOU i needed some peace like this one thanks for writing 🥹

Let There Be Love (Matt Murdock x fem!Reader)

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! I didn't fall off the face of the earth! I've been writing, but, I've really just have had a lack of motivation to post. Enjoy! :)

Summary: When Matt asks you to find your cassette player, you humor him. As he pops in the tape and you begin to dance with one another, you recall the first time that you met your fiancé.

Warnings: Sweet fluff, established couple, flirty banter, kisses talk about marriage/wedding

Other Characters: None

Word Count: 1,252

“It’s evidence,” you say with a little shrug. “You’re an attorney. You can appreciate that, right?”

“It’s hoarding,” Matt chuckles as he walks over to you with a full glass of wine. 

He clinks his own glass to yours. “I keep what’s important,” you explain before you take a sip. 

He kisses your temple as his hand slides down the curve of your body. “Hoarder,” he murmurs.

“This hoarder will take her cassette tape player back into evidence lock up if she needs to—.” He gives you a little puppy dog pout, his eyes sparkling in the neon coming in through the frosted windows. You run your fingers through his hair as you lean forward with a kiss. “You know you love me.”

“Of course I do,” he says with another little kiss to your lips. “Thank you for your expansive evidence lock up, angel.”

“So,” you start, taking a sip of your wine and sitting on the sofa, tucking your feet underneath you. “Why did you need my cassette player?”

“Because we’ve been trying to figure out our first dance song,” he explains as he fiddles with the machine. “I was looking around in my bedside drawer for my backup glasses until I could get my regular ones fixed, and I found this tape. Do you have any idea what it is?”

“Foggy’s Intro to Punjabi tape?”

Matt tosses his head back in laughter. “C’mon, seriously.”

“I can’t say that I do! I mean, in all honesty, too, I think the last time I used a cassette was 2004. 2007, maybe.”

“This tape belonged to my dad. He made it. It had some of his favorites, some songs that he dedicated to my mom. One he thought they’d play at their wedding. I was listening to it one day—I was missing my dad, and I popped it on. Then, a girl with the prettiest voice I’d ever heard came knocking at my door with a bushel of carrots in her hand, asking if I’d seen a rabbit hopping about the residence hall . . .” You watch Matt smile as he gets the tape to play in the spot that he wants. “This was the song that was playing when we first met. This is the song that I’d like to play when I dance with you for the first time as my wife.”

“Now I feel bad about my joke.”

“C’mere.”

“Matt,” you hum sweetly, setting your wine glass down on the coffee table, moving to wrap your arms around his waist. 

“I can never remember the name of the song, I just know the sound. That’s why I needed the cassette player.”

He leans in, giving you a long kiss as you both slowly start to sway in a little circle. “You know where we found that rabbit?” I grin. 

Confusion briefly furrows his brows. “Where?”

“Our study spot. Well, it wasn’t our study spot at the time, but, that’s where Tony Hawk was. Like a sign. Premonition?”

“Wait, wait. The rabbit’s name was Tony Hawk?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “I never told you that?”

“No!” he laughs, holding you closer. “I think I’d remember that detail.”

“Well, that’s what happens when a veterinarian student from Carlsbad, California is in charge of naming animals.”

“Well, then, thank God for Tony Hawk.” Matt leans in for a kiss as one of your most cherished memory to mind. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” you sigh as you look around desperately. How you're the one that got wrangled into finding a rabbit, you don’t know. It belongs to your roommates best friend’s boyfriend’s roommate, and yet you're the one carrying the bushel of carrots around your dorm trying to find the quickest bunny around. “Tony! C’mon Tony Hawk, I’ve got all these tasty carrots for you, pal!” Your eyes light up when you notice a door on the left of the hall is open. With any luck, he’s either snuck in there, or they at least noticed a rabbit bounce down the hall. Picking up your pace, you make your way down to the door. 

Gently knocking on the wooden frame, you poke your head in. 

“Hi,” you start, finding just one guy—one gorgeous guy—sitting on his bed with an open book and music gently playing in the background, something smooth and jazzy. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, but have you seen a rabbit around?”

He lifts his head up, his beautiful hazel eyes sparkling in the late afternoon light. The kind of bright light that happens just before dusk. His smile is warm and inviting, and your heart races. You feel your cheeks grow hot as you try to keep your cool. Based on his face, this is that hot blind law student you’ve heard all the girls talk about. Unfortunately, you're so focused on keeping your cool, you miss his response.

“Um,” he responds. Oh, hell, his voice is as warm as honey in tea. “Are you alright?”

“S-Sorry,” you stutter. “I’m okay. The bunny is just small, y’know? I’d really just like to get him back to his owner.”

He flashes you a little smirk, his brows bunching together in amusement. “The rabbit isn’t yours?”

“No,” you sigh, letting him in on your annoyance. “Long story. Don’t ask.”

“Okay, I won’t. For now, at least.” You chuckle softly as you dip your head. “I’m Matt, by the way.”

“(Y/N),” you respond. “It was nice to meet you, Matt. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No, not a bother at all.” The smile pulls back on his face as he pulls his fingers off of the open book in front of him. “I’d offer to help look, but, I have to go to class in a bit.”

“No, you’re totally okay. I appreciate it.”

“Maybe if you’re not still hunting for a rabbit later, we could grab some coffee.”

“I’d like that.”

“Okay,” he says softly.

You smile at one another like idiots for a good few beats before you start to slowly back out of his room. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

You sway with Matt in the living room, looking up at him, your entire world. Your sun, your moon, and your stars. And in a few months, he’ll officially be your husband.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers.

“Just how that damn rabbit led me to the love of my life,” you say softly. “Do you think we would’ve found one another later in life had it not been for Tony Hawk?”

He just smiles as he leans his face toward yours. “You’re my destiny, angel. One way or another, I was always going to find you. I was always going to fall madly in love with you. I was always going to marry you.”

You feel how tears sting at your lash line. “You’re gonna make me bawl like a baby when we do our vows, huh?” you sniffle.

“Oh,” he says with a sweet pout. “I’m not that cruel. I’m going to write them out for you to read before the ceremony. If you’re gonna cry, what makes you think I’ll be able to get through saying them without crying?” Matt just leans in for a soft kiss, his lips lingering on yours for a long time before he’s satisfied. “I love you so incredibly much,” he whispers. “Thank you for loving me in return.”

You snuggle in on him, resting your ear right over his heart. “Forever and always, Matty.”

Permanent Taglist: @majesticavenger @steampowerednightvaler @themusingsofmany @just-the-hiddles @toozmanykids @dangertoozmanykids101 @clints-worldavengers @theburningbookshop @itwasthereaminuteago @peter1ismybrother @hellskitchens-whore​​ @dpaccione @catnip987​ @blackhawkfanatic

Matt Murdock Taglist: @two-unbeatable-beaters  @loves0phelia

[steve-chandler]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER FOUR: Overthinking

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt reminisces, and all of his thoughts revolve around you. When he accompanies Foggy to the hospital for a second time, he's nervous. Will he see you again? And how is he supposed to act around you?

Warnings for this chapter: slight angst, Matt's POV, attempt at humor, hint at gun violence

Word Count: 3.5k

A/n: I'm back!! You guys are getting a double update today because this chapter is short af and I was on a roll.

Read Chapter 4: Overthinking here on AO3

The Braille underneath Matt’s fingertips feels unworn, freshly printed. His nostrils pick up on the heavy scent of coffee mixed with creamer from his mug. Foggy just had a sandwich from the deli around the corner; he asked for extra onions. There is a can of coke and a half-empty bottle of water next to his keyboard, muffling the sound of his fingers brushing along the keys but causing the liquid to vibrate ever so slightly in a way that Matt knows will soon cause him a headache. 

He forces himself to re-read the same passage of the case file before him for the third time. 

The Hudson moves with the wind, its waves crashing into the shore, and the air is starting to smell like the salt of oncoming rain. Those who aren’t busy with work or other responsibilities soak up the last few hours of sunshine of the day. 

Matt tilts his head toward the door. Karen shifts in her seat. Foggy lets out a soft groan of pain. He is paying attention to every minuscule detail around him without actively trying to. He wants to focus back on his work and not the myriad of sounds that are crashing into him like the waves of the Hudson are crushing into the docks, but he can’t. His mind is elsewhere. 

His knuckles are still bruised from the night before. Just thinking about it spikes his heart rate. Olivia. Or, as he learned at the hospital the other night, Olivia Clarke. That’s what you call yourself, at least. The name doesn’t do you justice. Matt wants to like it because it is your name, but something feels off whenever he thinks about it. Either he is overthinking or his gut feeling is right and you are hiding something else entirely, and it all starts with that name—Olivia Clarke. 

Matt can be too curious for his own good. For your sake, he should just leave it be, but he made a decision last night. He made a decision he shouldn’t have made, but he could hear your heartbeat across Hell’s Kitchen. He could smell the fear seeping out of your pores mixed with the purest essence of adrenaline. You got yourself into trouble and you wouldn’t have made it out if it hadn’t been for him. 

Perhaps he should have stayed away though. His actions have now complicated his already complex feelings, and you are present in every last thought that crosses his mind. And he can’t focus. He hates it when he can’t focus. He’s not just thinking about you; the curiosity is killing him, and he feels a pang of worry whenever he smells something that reminds him of you, or whenever your voice scratches the inside of his ear when he spreads his hearing out just a little too far. 

He doesn’t even have to actively search for you in the city to be reminded of you because you are already all over him. That is the only reason he came to save your life; you were already all over him when he picked the sound of your heartbeat out of a million others.

He is still so painfully unaware of most of your facets. You’re feisty, you’re sassy, you would rather fight your own battles than ask for help—but you’re everything but selfish. 

The way you carried yourself last night, the way your heart was beating, the way you were talking to that disgusting excuse of a human being after you saved a young woman from suffering a horrible fate, he knew that there has to be more to you than you let on.

He heard what you said to her before she ran away. The way you talked sounded so sincere—as if you were talking from experience, he believes—and that still makes his blood run cold now whenever he thinks about it. 

His not-so-accidental encounter with you has made him wonder what else you’re hiding from the world to protect yourself. And he can’t stop thinking about whether or not you are okay because under all of that curiosity is a big ball of concern and an odd kind of protectiveness that is just waiting to start rolling. 

You’re kind, you’re genuine and you’re warm. That perception of you hasn’t changed for him. If anything, his belief that you are a good person only manifested. You’re the kind of person other people can easily feel comfortable around. Your selflessness is what truly struck him. 

You didn’t ask where he got his injuries, you simply patched him up and that was it. And you saved a woman you didn’t even know from getting raped, and you faced the man who did it with nothing but a bottle of mace on your keychain. As much as he doesn’t want to understand why you wouldn’t leave him to die, he does get it better than anyone. You have morals. You took an oath. 

Matt has sworn to protect Hell’s Kitchen because the system is failing, and he is sure that if he told you that, you would understand. You didn’t even tell on him when you probably should have. You don’t see him as a threat. You weren’t scared of him last night. You weren’t even scared of death. 

You have dealt with men worse than him, you told him. He still wonders what you meant by that, but it can’t be anything good. Just like that, the spiral his mind has fallen into starts all over again. 

He left his number with the nurses at the hospital without even thinking that he would have to jump in and save your life a day later. Did you get his card? He followed his instincts, but now that it is nearing noon on the second day after first meeting you, he wonders if he made the right choice. 

You haven’t called him back yet, so maybe you didn’t get the card. Or maybe you did recognize him the other night and he is completely and utterly fucked. Or maybe, just maybe, you’re not interested in Matt Murdock. You’re not interested in the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. You may not even be interested in any man and maybe he made a huge fool out of himself. There is an infinite number of possibilities.

Matt stops moving his fingers over the Braille when the door to his office opens. It interrupts his thoughts, dispersing the picture of you in his mind. 

Your gentle voice, the way you laugh, the way you smile, and how your fingers felt on his bruised skin when you took care of him—It’s not a face, per se, but he sees you in a way beyond functioning eyes. He uses the faint memory of your scent and the melody of your heartbeat to paint a silhouette of golden flames, and you are strikingly beautiful to him. 

Maybe Foggy was onto something when he said that Matt has a knack for finding beautiful women with questionable morals. 

“Hey buddy,” Foggy says. 

Matt tilts his head upward, seemingly startled by his friend’s sudden appearance in his doorway. “Hey,” he replies.

“Sorry. Did I startle you?”

“Oh, no.” He adjusts his glasses. “I just… didn’t see you there.”

In the other room, Karen almost spits out her herbal tea before she starts laughing. Foggy, on the other hand, stammers for a moment. 

“I—You’re awful, you know that?” 

Smirking, Matt closes the case file. “It was a bad joke, sorry,” he says. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to ask if you’re still up for taking me to the hospital after work,” says Foggy. “You know, the check-up?”

Matt frowns. “The–” He cuts himself off. “Oh, right. The check-up for your, uh, your shoulder.”

“Yeah. You said you’d come with me. You know, ‘cause,” Foggy leans a bit further into the office, lowering his voice, “you’re much better at this stuff than I am.”

“Are you dying?”

“No. What? Why would I—” He realizes quickly that Matt is just making fun of him, so he rolls his eyes. “No, Matt, I’m not dying,” Foggy answers. “I just… I don’t like doctors. I don’t know shit about my own body. But you do. You always know how to talk to ‘em. It’s like a very creepy superpower for a guy who hates doctors, to be honest. But anyway, they could tell me to amputate my arm and I would say yes. You know that. So, I need you to come with me.”

Matt sighs. “Why don’t you ask Karen? She has a car.”

From the entrance hall, Karen’s voice rings out. “That’s true,” she says. “And I wouldn’t mind–”

“No,” Foggy cuts her off. “No offense, Karen, and I appreciate the offer, but this is a thing between Matt and me.” He lowers his voice again, and Matt can only imagine how hard he is glaring at him right now. “You owe me, Matt. Remember that time in college?”

“Okay,” Matt leans forward, “That’s blackmail.”

“Is it working?” Foggy retorts. 

“Yeah.”

“Awesome! Two hours, buddy. I’m counting on you.”

Matt forces an exasperated smile. Foggy pats the doorframe with his functioning hand, and he turns around as if he just won the lottery. Walking past Karen’s desk, he even lifts his fist, which, as always, carries a baseball. Matt can hear the fabric brushing against his fingers. 

His thoughts drift again. Instead of focusing on the case file like he should, he thinks about the hospital. He thinks about how in two hours, he will be at Metro General again, and there is a chance that you’re working. Or maybe you’re not. He knows what the hours of hospital staff are—he knows the legal limits, and he becomes acutely aware of the shift changes because he hears them loud and clear, even across the city. 

What will he do if you happen to be there? Should he talk to you? Should he ask if you got his number or would that be taking a step too far? He doesn’t want to force you into a corner. If you aren’t interested, he has to respect that. And maybe, after all, that happened the night before, it is for the better that you haven’t called him yet. He shouldn’t seek you out. 

He wants to. God knows that Matt wants to find you at the hospital. Deep down, he wants nothing more than for you to call him. He knows it’s probably a bad idea, but he can’t stop his heart from wanting what it wants. Cutting it out would kill him, but sometimes he wishes he could. He wishes he could just turn it off and focus on what his common sense is telling him. But he can’t. You intrigue him too much. 

Two hours later, Matt and Foggy arrive at Metro General. Even with an appointment, the waiting room is packed. 

The noise hits Matt like a freight train. Beeping, clattering, groaning, screaming… It’s a sensory nightmare.

He’s sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, surrounded by noise and people and overwhelming smells, and he feels as if he’s being burned alive—as if someone is scorching his skin from the inside out. He wants to scrub himself from head to toe with antibacterial soap and burn the hairs in his nose that will carry the scent of antiseptic, blood, and other bodily fluids for weeks to come.

He wants to lock himself in an empty, soundproof room until his ears have stopped ringing, and he wants to meditate. Just for a little while, Matt wants to be someone else and exist somewhere life could be just a little easier. But he knows that the jumble of thoughts that is burning through his brain at high speed will get him nowhere. That’s not how real life works.

Matt is standing in front of the vending machine that is placed neatly against the wall in the middle of the hallway. He pressed the button for his favorite chocolate bar an eternity ago, and the machine still hasn’t spit it out. His luck must have run out. The buttons have Braille indents, but the machine isn’t working. He should have expected this to happen. 

His knuckles have gone white from the grip on his cane. He opens the first button on the collar of his dress shirt to breathe a little easier, but the oxygen he’s breathing still feels tainted when he inhales. He’s sweating. There are a million things he would rather do right now, including walking over hot coal barefoot, than be in this hospital right now. Too many thoughts, and too many feelings—he’s close to collapsing under the invisible weight he is putting on his own shoulders, and the vending machine still won’t give him his chocolate. 

Matt is starting to consider that God finally doomed him for all his failings. 

He put Claire at risk. His actions forced an innocent woman out of her home because she was kind enough not to let him die. Now, she’s in danger. She should stay far away from him, but he’s the one who keeps coming back for free medical attention. It isn’t fair. He knows that. 

Matt managed to save the little boy from the Russians, but he still hasn’t figured out what is happening in Hell’s Kitchen. He still hasn’t touched the bottom of a very big problem, and until then, Claire will be in danger, and he will keep failing. One victory doesn’t make it right. 

After all of that, he wouldn’t put it past God to forever doom him.

He tilts his head. He can’t make out your heartbeat in the chaos. Chances are that you’re not even there. Your voice is nowhere to be found and neither is that unique scent that sticks to your clothes like glue. 

The universe made the decision for him. He won’t search for you in this labyrinth. He won’t chase you down. You haven’t called him, and he doubts that you ever will. He left you his number in a moment of weakness. He was selfish when he did. He doesn’t want to be selfish anymore because his life puts those around him in danger. Your soul seems troubled enough; he doesn’t want to drag you into this the same way he dragged Claire into this. Matt can’t drag you into a war not even he knows how to fight. 

“There you are,” Foggy calls from the other end of the hallway. 

Tilting his head in his direction, Matt stops pressing the buttons on the vending machine. “Hey,” he says. “You’re back.” He can’t hide the surprise in his voice. He lost all track of time. 

Foggy stops beside him. His movements sound freer—probably because the sling that held his arm in place is now gone. 

“What did the doctor say?” Matt asks him.

“All good,” says Foggy. “Yeah, I have my full range of motion back.” 

In an attempt to demonstrate, he rolls his once-injured shoulder, and his fist accidentally brushes against the vending machine. The chocolate that got stuck when Matt ordered it finally loosens, and it thuds against the metal bottom. 

The gears in Foggy’s head start turning. “Oh, a chocolate bar!” he sounds so happy that Matt’s first thought to grab it for himself dissipates into thin air. He closes his fist around his cane again, putting on a smile instead. 

“Did you want that?” Foggy asks.

Matt shakes his head and says, “Nah, you can have it.”

“Nice!” His smile is audible when he reaches into the bottom of the machine to take out the candy.

On their way out, Matt’s stomach drops. He isn’t sure why. His senses are on high alert, but there seems to be no obvious explanation as to why. He just feels this impending sense of doom, and it makes him even more acutely aware of his surroundings. He can hear every heartbeat, every breath, and every uttered word in the halls of Metro General. He hears things he never even wanted to hear. He smells things that he only picks up on when he focuses. He doesn’t want to focus, but the dark cloud that is starting to form over his head makes it impossible not to. 

Just as he and Foggy are about to pass the emergency room on their way to the exit, the cloud ruptures. Loud yelling can be heard even through the thin wall and the door that is separating it from the foyer. It’s so loud that even Foggy hears it. They both stop at the same time, Matt’s fingers tangled in his friend’s coat for some added support. He pulls him back, and they both turn toward the source of the noise. 

“Holy shit,” Foggy mutters. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Matt answers. 

In the distance, he can hear the clanking of keys and the echo of steel boots bouncing off the walls. There is a total of two security guards in the emergency room, but they called for reinforcements. And then, Matt’s blood runs cold. 

The sound of your heartbeat has become oddly familiar to him over such a short time. It’s beating faster than usual, but it is still uniquely yours. The sound doesn’t come from far away, either. It’s right on the other side of the wall among the obnoxious yelling that has already sent goosebumps down Foggy’s spine. Instantly, Matt classifies the change in rhythm as either a release of adrenaline or fear, maybe even both. It reminds him of the night before, but there is something different about it, still. The hairs on his arms rise toward the ceiling. His own heart starts hammering in his chest. 

He believed your shift to be over. What are you still doing here? And why does it sound like you’re in danger all over again, still trying to handle it on your own? Metro General is known for treating all patients, including those who are violent. The question Matt is asking him is whether or not you jumped in on purpose again or if your job simply put you in the line of fire this time. It sounds like a riot is happening, and the yelling only gets louder. 

Before he can open his mouth to say something, the security guards he heard getting ready storm past them. The gush of wind slaps him across the face. He didn’t expect Foggy to see that as an invitation to follow them. He’s always been a curious man, but he isn’t usually one to run toward danger. 

“I’m gonna check what’s going on,” he says as he brushes past Matt. “Stay here.”

Matt tightens his grip on his coat. “No! Foggy—” he can’t finish his sentence; his friend is already on his way. 

He groans, and he decides, against his better judgment, to follow him. 

The emergency room has fallen into chaos. Not the usual chaos of blood, disease, and gore, but a chaos that is charged with a dangerous tension that could snap and kill someone any second now. Matt doesn’t have to see to know what is going on. Foggy stops mid-way, and he almost bumps into him from behind. 

“Gun,” Foggy breathes. 

And you are standing right in front of it. 

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41

[steve-chandler]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER THREE: Broken Glass

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You have a really shitty night, and it only gets worse until a man in a black mask saves your life.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, graphic description of domestic violence (flashback), panic attack, mention of blood & injury, alcohol abuse, sexual assault, Reader tries to play the hero and it backfires (might piss you off)

Word Count: 7.6k

A/n: I worked very long and hard on this one, that's why I didn't post it last week. This is very heavy, so heed the warnings. I hope you all had a lovely Christmas! I’m spending New Year’s in London, and I won’t have my Laptop, so I’m already wishing you guys a happy new year! Spend the day with people you love. Do something that you love. Just enjoy yourselves and we’ll see each other again in 2024!

Read Chapter 3: Broken Glass here on AO3

The loneliness eats you alive like a parasite. As soon as the door of your apartment shuts behind you, the noise coming from the city disappears into the distance, and you are faced with the silent reality of being utterly alone. 

It feels like you are living in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere, not a small apartment in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.

There are no picture frames on the dresser in the hallway. The two plants you bought for yourself are slowly dying of thirst. The fridge is empty. You don’t own any decorations—you don’t even have a shelf for all of your books, and more than half of them are medical research material, anyway. 

You may be living in this place, but it isn’t yours. After two years, you are no closer to settling down than you were when you first came to New York.

Every day, you ask yourself how long this peace is going to last, and every day ends the same—you’re still safe, but you are deeply unsettled. Your thoughts keep turning against you like demons that you can’t exorcize. Every day, you wonder when you will have to run away again because your past has a way of catching up to you when you least expect it, so you remain on edge. That’s how you live your life. 

If you knew how to accept peace, maybe you would have settled down and personalized your apartment by now, but then again, do you even know who you are? Do you remember the girl you once were? Your memories of the past are scrambled.

You can only remember what it was like to live in a bubble, to be forced into a cage like a bird and turned into someone you never thought you would become. You remember running. You haven’t been yourself in years. Even if you wanted to, there is nothing left for you to put up that would feel like it belongs to you without feeling like pretentious bullshit at the same time. So, you don’t even bother. 

It’s lonely though, having nothing and no one. Claire is your friend, sure, but you had nothing and no one back then, and you still barely have anyone now. She’s your friend, but that’s all she is.

You can’t admit it out loud, of course. You can’t admit that you feel lonely, and you can’t pick up your phone and call the one friend you do have to take up on her offer because of reasons not even the rational part of your brain wants to understand. 

The lamp in the living room casts a dim light over the main area of the apartment and the open kitchen. You place Matt’s business card on the kitchen counter.

Should you call him? A million questions go through your mind, firing rapidly like bullets from an automatic gun. You’re not even sure if you want to call him. You felt comfortable around him, but enough to abandon all your principles? If you call him, he might ask you out, and what do you do then? You don’t date, not anymore, and you definitely won’t let a stranger into the mess that is your life. You can’t do that to a kind soul like him. Matthew is special in a way that you can’t put into words, and that makes the decision so much harder. 

You know exactly what’s holding you back. It’s the same invisible string of feelings that is keeping you from personalizing your living space. You don’t know when you might need to run, and then what? 

Your lungs contract. Air is a lot harder to come by when you’re all wound up. You hope that a nice glass of white wine will help put some things into perspective. Fooling around with someone can’t hurt, but anything more than that could lead to a catastrophe. You have had enough of those for a lifetime. 

You like keeping to yourself. It keeps your heart safe. What happened today, meeting Matthew after you so miserably sought a place to be alone, it was a coincidence—a welcome distraction. And you seemed so like-minded at first glance. He was intriguing and you’re still wondering about his injuries and how he got them, but that’s not the point. None of this is. 

The point is that you are not the kind of person he thinks you are. That’s why you can’t call him. And strangely, that hurts a lot more than simple heartbreak, knowing that you have been ruined for all relationships to come because you made one wrong choice and fell down the rabbit hole—unfortunately not into Wonderland. 

“Shit!” you curse when a drop of wine lands beside the glass.

You lick your finger, trying to wipe the liquid on the counter with a paper towel. In the process, your hand accidentally brushes against the glass, and the sole touch sends it hurdling to the floor. You try to catch it, but the fragile glass has already hit the tiles of your kitchen floor. It shatters into a million pieces. 

The sound reverberates in your ears. Like a shot in the dark, your body is jolted awake into a state of panic. The crash reminds you of hell, and the all-too-familiar flames start touching your skin again, set out to burn you alive. It’s a feeling you know by heart—a feeling you wish you weren’t so painfully aware of. 

Glass breaks before your inner eye. 

You were trying to make him a drink, you remember. He wanted Whiskey, no ice, and at perfect room temperature—it was always the same. After the first black eye that you had to hide under mountains of concealer, you taught yourself to perfect it. You didn’t want to disappoint him. You didn’t want to get into trouble. 

You spent more money than you could afford on the one brand of Whiskey he always told you to get, even if that meant traveling to a store miles away from home. He always wanted that Whiskey, and who were you to deny him?

You didn’t pay attention for one second, and the glass shattered on the kitchen floor. Your heart stopped. The last drops of the brown liquid spilled everywhere, including your clothes. The glass was his favorite. Expensive, too. It broke because you weren’t looking. You were so stupid. 

Fear froze the blood in your veins. Your heart stopped beating. You couldn’t breathe. You reached for a cloth with shaky hands, trying to pick up the pieces in time, but the sound of the glass breaking—that godforsaken loud sound that reminded you of obnoxious screaming—was instantly followed by an even louder echo of angry footsteps. 

Over time, you became painfully aware of those footsteps. You knew how they sounded on wooden floorboards, carpet, and the stairs in the hallway of the apartment building. You still remember how they sounded when he was wearing those squeaky sneakers on the linoleum floors of the hospital.

It’s a sound that always sends shivers down your spine; everyone has those sneakers, but his footsteps were much heavier, much more demanding even when he wasn’t demanding anything. 

And back then, you knew what would follow as soon as you heard them.

“What is this?” his voice reached your ears. 

Your throat tightened. You didn’t even dare to look up. If you had met his eyes, you would have seen your fate in them, and the empty black hole that was his soul. “I’m sorry, I– I lost my grip and–and I dropped it,” you said. You thought that would fix it. How foolish of you, to have faith in someone who never had faith in you. “I’m so sorry,” you couldn’t stop repeating it. 

You thought this time, he would listen to your apology. He would let you fix what you broke. You would have done anything for his approval, for his praise, and for him not to be mad at you. You didn’t want to fight. The evening had started so well. He even kissed you when he came home because you finished dinner in time. He smiled because you managed to clean even the last crevices of his apartment after your shift. He promised he would reward you. 

You fucked up. You knew you fucked up, but you prayed to God that his good mood would keep you safe this time. That he would give you a pass because you have been so incredibly good. You’ve been the best girlfriend he could have asked for, so obedient, never questioning, and always on his side—you were wrong. So, so wrong. 

He saw the empty bottle of Whiskey. He picked it up. “That was the last sip of my good Whiskey,” he remarked. 

You stopped moving. 

“I’ll pick up a new one,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “Stores are still open. This is my fault. Let me clean this up and I will–”

“You had one job.”

The sound of his voice turned cold, colder than usual. You exhaled a shaky breath. 

“You had one job,” he said. “I go to work, I save lives, and I teach young, useless doctors like you how to do the same. All I asked of you was to cook dinner, clean the apartment and make me a fucking drink.” 

With each word, his volume ascended. Your shoulder started vibrating, but you forced yourself to hold your breath. You couldn’t let the fear show. Being afraid, in his eyes, equaled weakness, and he would prove to you time and time again what weakness truly meant to him. He would turn you into a weak mess and laugh about it. You were trying your hardest to avoid any more unnecessary punishment. You had to tread lightly. He was in charge, not you. 

And you breaking the glass was so stupid, all you wanted was to surrender. In your twisted mind, he was right. It was just a glass, but he told you how useless you were many times before, and you were slowly starting to believe it. 

Without him, you were nothing. No one else could have possibly put up with you.

“What do you do?” He reached out and slammed the empty bottle on the ground. 

You barely had time to react before some of the bigger shards hit your cheek, slicing the skin. It took you a second to process, the pain not even kicking in because you expected his hand to come down on you, not an entire glass bottle. The trajectory almost hit your eye. Almost. 

“You spill my fucking drink!” this time, he yelled. 

A sob escaped your lips. There it was, the smallest sign of fear and pain. 

He rolled his eyes. You shouldn’t have sobbed, you knew that. “Get up,” he said. 

You winced when he grabbed you and yanked you off the floor. The trail of blood ran hot on your cold cheek. It stung. Your heart was pounding in your chest, hammering against your ribcage and the fresh bruise that still hadn’t healed. 

You were scared, and the tighter he grabbed you, forcing your chin upward to look him dead in the eyes, the harder it got to hide what you were truly feeling. In his eyes, you were nothing. And you were so weak, all you could do was to submit. 

“Look at me,” he said. His eyes roamed your face. 

You couldn’t not look at him. It was impossible. What you saw made you sick to your very stomach. It tied a noose around your neck, threatening to kick you off the high chair. Your feet were dangling dangerously close to the cliff. 

“You’re pathetic, you hear me? Useless. You had one job. One. And you couldn’t even do that right.”

You opened your mouth, but instead of letting you speak, his hand tangled in your hair and he pulled, hard. “No!” he bellowed. “You have lost the right to speak to me.” 

He said your name. He always said it in a way that made you want to vomit. Your first and last names were tainted because of him. He used them in vain. He used you. He used everything as he saw fit and believed he was entitled to it. 

You hated him, but you also loved him.

“You’re going to clean up the mess you made, and then you’re going to go to the store, buy me another bottle of Whiskey, and you’re going to make me another drink. I don’t want to hear a single word out of you,” he said. “Are we clear?”

You nodded. He pulled a little harder. 

“What was that?”

“Yes, sir,” you choked out. 

When he finally let you go, you fell to the floor, your chest heaving with dry sobs. Perhaps he was too annoyed or maybe leaving you alone, finally, was a display of humanity. 

The man you once believed to have loved you turned out to be a monster that would not have wept, not possibly, if you had died. He only wanted to control you, and whenever he felt like he couldn’t, he punished you. You stayed way too long because you believed in someone who was never there in the first place. The real him you believed to know once had never been real. He had been a fraud. He did anything he possibly could to lure you in, and then you were stuck. 

But even knowing this, you wanted to please him, and you took what he gave you. You ate it up like a starved cavewoman. You had no one else but him, and that alone is a sad thought that you keep entertaining now. 

The sound of broken glass has haunted you since that day. Whenever it happens, either to you or someone else, you find yourself in a state of shock. It’s never the same memory, but always alike. And it hurts. It hurts so much, you can’t breathe. 

You touch your left cheek. The scar is barely visible anymore, but whenever you touch it, it feels like a mountain of regret. You can still feel the blood pooling under your fingertips, the liquid as sticky as it was hot. 

You stumble over to the sink, circling the broken glass. Cold water; your senses need a sudden slap across the face or you will cower in a corner and surely die. Your heartbeat is racing in your ears, and your fingers shake as you form a bowl with your hands to catch the water from the tap. 

Air returns to your lungs. Burying your face in the cold water, you focus on the way it seeps into your hot skin.

Broken glass triggers you. Squeaky footsteps in the hospital hallways trigger you. You zone out so easily. You can’t talk to strangers without suspecting the worst. Every time you pass the hospital administrator’s office, you’re scared you will get fired—that you will lose your job and your entire career. 

He took everything from you. He broke you and the optimistic young woman you used to be. You were so bright, so ready to change your life for the better. You worked hard to escape the toxicity of your childhood, and you still managed to run into the arms of an abusive narcissist who saw you as nothing but his property. 

It’s sad, and it’s utterly ironic; you told yourself you would never make the same mistake your mom made before she died, and you still did. You were foolish, and you’re still foolish now. 

You can’t call Matthew. You can’t trust anyone, not even yourself, and even if he is trustworthy, he doesn’t deserve someone as damaged as you. 

The business card lands in the trash can under the sink. You give it one last teary-eyed look before slamming it shut. It’s better this way. The excitement you felt when you first held it in your hands was bound to only be temporary. You knew reality would screw it up, maybe it truly is for the best. Or maybe this is the trauma talking and you’re sabotaging yourself, but even then it’s better this way. 

It’s early in the morning, and you leave the broken glass on the sticky kitchen floor. You can’t touch it, not even with gloves. Every time you do, the scar on your cheek stings, and you lose your breath. Every bone, muscle, and nerve is hurting in your body, and every breath tears right through your soul. 

You don’t want to live like this anymore.

The warm water of your small shower rains down on your clothes frame. The bottle of wine in your hand is no longer cold and mixed with water, but you don’t care. Your mind is fuzzy, intoxicated, and in agony. It’s a raging wave of anger with no possible point of release. You’re drowning in despair, buried in a grave of your own making. Alcohol knowingly doesn’t mix well with heartache, but it’s the only thing that will make the voices go away. It silences your thoughts just long enough for you to find a sliver of rest in this stormy ocean, something to hold onto so you won’t drown completely. 

Your heartbeat aligns with the rhythmic pattering of the water. It serenades you. The fog engulfs your brain, weakening your already strained muscles. The cocktail in your veins is poisonous. You should know better than to do this to yourself. You’re a doctor, after all. You are well aware that liquor is not medicine, but it’s the closest you can get. You don’t care as much about your own well-being as you should. 

Getting drunk all by yourself under the hot shower stream fits right into your miserable state.

The sun rises and falls over the next couple of hours. Your alarm goes as night befalls Hell’s Kitchen, but you don’t hear it. Only after it has gotten dark and your phone has started ringing with calls from the hospital does your mind registers that something isn’t quite right. 

You wake up in a cold sweat. Your head is pounding. The wine bottle lies empty on the nightstand next to you, together with a bottle of tequila that you decided to open. Glasses are strewn around with empty takeout containers that are more than a few days old. At first, you’re disoriented, reaching beside you for your phone, which is still in the living room next door. 

You forgot to close the blinds, but you were so out of it that you didn’t notice the hours pass by. The analog clock on the bedside table tells you that it’s a few hours before eleven. At night. 

Your shift was supposed to start at ten. 

The information takes a moment to connect and process, but as soon as it does, you snap out of whatever hungover state you are in and force yourself out of bed. You stumble over empty bottles and dirty laundry on your way to your phone.

“Shit, shit, shit!” you curse. You almost step into the pile of broken glass in the kitchen. “Fuck me! Shit!”

You are screwed, you know that. You’re not even sure if all the alcohol has left your system. You might as well lose your job tonight. 

With one hand, you dial the hospital administrator’s number, who called you over thirty times over the past hour, while you try to find something to wear with your other hand. 

The line finally clicks after what feels like an eternity. “You better have a damn good reason why you aren’t here, Olivia, or I swear to God–”

You cut her off. “I’m so sorry, Shelly,” you say. Your voice is slightly shaky, but you keep it together. “I didn’t hear my alarm a-and I slept in. This has never happened before. I’m usually a very light sleeper. I… I’m already halfway out the door, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“You slept in?!” Shelly answers, her voice resembling a screech. “What— Liv, seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just… I slept in, that’s all. I’m so, so sorry. I know I screwed up.”

“Unbelievable. First Claire calls out with a mystery illness that apparently still hasn’t gone away, and then my best trauma surgeon sleeps in.” You can hear her shake her head over the noise of the hospital in the background. She sighs. “You’re lucky that this is your first tardy,” she says. “I’ll let it slide just this once. Just… hurry, okay?”

A weight falls off your shoulders. You let out an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you tell her. “You have no idea how much this means to me. I–”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just make sure you get here before midnight. And you will have to work the time that you’ve missed, even if that puts you at risk of having to pull a double shift. This is not up for debate. I feel like I’m working at a children’s daycare.”

You’re not sure if that was meant for you or if she simply forgot to hang up.

You grab your bag and your keys in one swift motion. “I’m leaving now. See ya!”

The bus you usually take to work at this time of night is long gone. There is one more that could take you to your destination, but you arrive at the bus stop just a millisecond too late. It takes off right in front of you, refusing to turn back even when you start sprinting after it, flailing your arms around wildly. 

It’s late, it’s dark, and you’re all alone. The walk to the hospital is over half an hour long, and you promised Shelly you would make it in time before midnight. The next cab is miles away; you’ve checked the app twice, and anything beyond that would be too expensive. 

Hell’s Kitchen is dangerous at this time of night, but you don’t have much of a choice. If you don’t try, there is a high chance Shelly will fire you. If she fires you, you would have to find another country to start over in—you burned bridges in all possible States, and anything closer to where you came from would be too dangerous for you. 

Darkness doesn’t scare you; broken glass and loud footsteps scare you, but the dark of the night has always been somewhat of a soothing companion to you. What scares you is what could be lurking in that very darkness, and the thought makes you walk a little faster. 

Your head is still pounding. Every step you take delivers a punch to your temples. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat. The streetlights are suddenly too bright for your sensitive eyes, but you push through. You have to. 

“So stupid,” you mutter under your breath. “Universe, if you can hear me, just kill me now.”

Passing a particularly dark part of town with the mace on your keychain clutched tightly in your hand, a loud scream pierces the air. Your feet glue themselves to the ground. 

Some things you can only understand if you have experienced the paralyzing feeling of dread that would cause a human being to scream bloody murder. 

You would be lying if you said that the scream you heard coming from that alley wasn’t in any way familiar to you. Perhaps that’s why you choose to abandon all rational thought and run toward danger rather than away from it. Adrenaline is a funny thing, and when it interacts with trauma and anger that has been building for years, there is no knowing what the human body might be capable of doing. 

With the mace in your hand, you walk toward the alley. The closer you get, the louder the desperate pleas grow. The helplessness in the woman’s voice paints a clear picture of what is happening. 

“Hey!” your voice resembles a shout in the poorly lit alley. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” you ask. Your voice becomes a foreign language. 

The man, dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a hoodie, is towering over a terrified woman. The bottom of her dress is slightly ripped, and it keeps riding up as she struggles against his grip. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see the shiny handle of a knife sticking out of his boot; there is no telling when or if he will pull it. And when you look into his empty eyes, you realize you overestimated yourself. 

“Get lost!” the man tells you. He must be around your age, judging from his features. 

You shake your head. “I have no intention of letting you live out your disgusting rape fantasies on a real-life human being,” you retort. “Let her go, or I will call the cops.”

He takes a step toward you, his hand reaching for the knife. Instinctively, you extend your keychain and spray the pepper directly into his eyes. You empty the entire bottle on him, the adrenaline in your veins locking your thumb to the fragile button.

The woman slides out of her attacker’s grasp when he topples over in agony. He cries out. The spray is quickly causing the skin around his eyes to redden and swell. For a moment, he’s completely incapacitated. 

You can tell that he didn’t calculate for this to happen. He also doesn’t seem to know the woman he decided to attack personally. He just saw a woman walking alone at night and thought he could take what he wanted like the animal he is. 

Your eyes flick toward the woman. Sweat is starting to pool from your pores, mixing with the adrenaline. 

She adjusts her dress, her sobs turning into heavy panting. You know that look on her face all too well. She has scratches on her thighs and arms. It’s hard to tell just how badly he already hurt her before you came along, at least in this lighting and from where you’re standing. 

You reach out to support her. “Are you alright?” you ask her. 

She looks down at her shaky hands, then back at you. She reminds you of a deer in headlights. With a gentle tug, you pull her further out of the alley. The man who attacked her is still blinded, clutching his skull and scratching at his eyes, making the effects of the pepper spray worse. In your mind, he can’t hurt you anymore, but you still need to get her away from him—as far as possible, too. 

“A few cuts and bruises,” you observe, trying not to touch her as you assess her injuries. “Listen, I’m going to call the cops and we’re gonna get you to a hospital, alright?” You search her eyes until she finally looks back at you. “This is nothing I can’t stitch up in a few minutes,” you say, “and then I’ll get you someone who can help you process what happened. Just know that he can’t hurt you anymore. I promise. I’m a witness, and I will make sure he gets what he deserves.”

You should know better than to make promises, especially in the heat of the moment. This is not something you can confidently promise because things might not turn out in your favor. 

The woman pulls her arms away suddenly. “No! No cops, no hospitals,” she pleads. 

“I know you’re scared, believe me, I do, but–”

“No!” She shakes her head again, her voice becoming more determined as the seconds tick by. 

You wish the world wasn’t as cruel as it is. You can’t force her. If it were easy, you probably would have turned to law enforcement too, but it’s not easy. What hurts the most is that you understand why she is so adamant about not calling the police and not going to a hospital, even with so many variables still unknown; you understand too well what it is like. 

Shame and fear are powerful emotions—when all else fails, they take over. 

“I’m sorry,” the woman’s voice quivers. She looks between you and her attacker once more. “Thank you, really, but I can’t—I have to go. I’m so sorry.”

“Wait!” You try to stop her, but she slips through your fingers before you can convince her otherwise. 

She disappears down the street. Calling the police seems almost futile now. You look down at your phone. You’re still a witness to a crime. You should speak up about what you saw. You should try to get justice, even if it will be your word against his. 

Your finger hovers above the call button, but a dark voice from the alley stops you in your tracks. “You bitch!” the man shouts. His voice carries, making you shiver. Now that you’re alone with him, you realize how helpless the situation really is. 

You can’t move. You can’t run. You can’t hide. Your eyes widen. Even half-blind, he has managed to pull the dirty knife from his boot, and he is charging right at you. As if you are the substitute for the woman you just saved. You should have run with her. This was a bad idea. 

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. You press down on your keychain, but it’s empty now. You’re weaponless with a lot of fake confidence that is slowly swindling, and somehow, you still can’t move. 

You’re frozen in place. Your own recklessness will get you killed. No one will miss you. Your corpse will be buried in a strange cemetery in a strange city that has only been your home for two years, and no one will ever know who you truly were because you told Claire to take your secrets to the grave with her. You will die alone with the familiar feeling of fear and despair spreading through your veins like wildfire. 

Something inside of you cracks, and it melts your frozen muscles. You snap out of your haze when he is only a few inches away from you. In an instant, you have started backing out of the alley almost entirely. You’re running, and you’re running fast. 

You believe that karma comes back around, but sometimes, it takes the wrong direction. You lose your footing suddenly, stumbling over your own shoes, and your ass hits the pavement with a force that knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your wrists bend at a painful angle as you catch yourself, and you look up into the red eyes of what you expect to be your certain demise. 

The impact from the knife never comes. You know what it feels like to be impaled by a sharp object. You know what pain feels like—but it never comes. 

You open your eyes when your ears pick up on the sound of bone breaking—the sight you’re met with startles you, and for a second, you wonder if you’re still alive. You touch your wrist to check for a pulse; it’s still there. You’re not dead, and you’re not hallucinating, either. This is real. 

You’ve seen the news reporting on a man in a black mask scouring the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at night. For weeks now, gang bangers, suspected rapists, and drug dealers have been piling up in the emergency room with several fractures, some of them severe enough to require extensive surgery, but none of them were ever hurt enough to die from their injuries. 

A Russian was dropped from a building a while back. He fell into a coma and then died suddenly a few nights ago, but that was the only patient who got beat up by the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen who lost all quality of life. 

You don’t like to judge, but there is something about him that makes you feel safe rather than afraid. He only beats up those who are in the business of committing injustice and pose a danger to innocent lives. He’s there when the law fails. And so far, he has never killed anyone. The injuries on the patients you treated were quite severe and suggested that whoever did it has a great collection of anger issues, but he has enough self-control not to kill. 

He’s not a threat to people like you. He is, however, a threat to the kind of man who tried to rape an innocent woman and then threatened you with a knife. 

Your attacker drops to the ground with a pained grunt. The man in the mask is towering over him, his chest heaving. You admire his physique for a moment too long. Your eyes trail from his toned chest in that tight black shirt to his backside in those tight-fitting black pants. 

He seems oddly familiar yet, at the same time, he is a total stranger. A stranger in a mask. A stranger who throws fists like a professional boxer. A stranger who could crush your head within seconds. And still, there is something about him that reminds you of someone else, someone you just recently met, but you can’t put your finger on it. It wouldn’t even make sense if you tried. 

You’re still sitting on the cold asphalt, staring up at the man who saved you. He turns his head toward you, slowly. His plump lips glisten in the moonlight. 

“You hurt?” he asks. 

Your throat is all dried up. One glance down at your palms tells you that you only scraped the skin, but you’re not injured. So, you shake your head. Maybe there is a little fear mixed into your stunned eyes, but only because this is a very strange situation to find yourself in, and you have been in a lot of very strange situations in the past. 

He tilts his head ever so slightly. His nostrils flare. “You’re bleeding.”

You don’t even want to know how he knows that.

“Just a scratch,” you finally manage to speak up, although your voice sounds embarrassingly small.

You wipe your palms on your pants and slowly rise to your feet. Every bone in your body hurts. Standing across from him, you realize how much taller he is in person. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says. 

“I know.”

He stops. You can’t see his eyes, but the lower part of his face reveals the confusion that has taken him over. 

“I’ve dealt with men worse than you,” you state. “I’m not scared.”

He chuckles darkly. “You’re welcome.”

People usually don’t talk back at him, it seems. At least those he saves usually don’t. 

“I could’ve defended myself. In fact, I already did.” You lift your keychain. “I don’t know if playing the hero is your thing, but I’m not a victim.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t trying to play hero,” he clarifies, a humorless smirk resting on his lips, “I was saving your life ‘cause you were trying to play the hero. Next time, I suggest you don’t bring mace to a knife fight.”

“And I suggest you don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong,” you retort. 

You were grateful for no longer than a second. Now, you’re just annoyed. 

The alley is still. The atmosphere is heavy with the aftermath of the danger you only narrowly escaped—thanks to him, and you hate admitting that even to yourself. He seems unfazed, almost amused, by your attempts at asserting your independence, and the arrogance radiating off him is hitting the wrong nerve.

“This guy was gonna kill you because you decided to do the right thing,” he says, adjusting his leather gloves. “I decided to save your life. We both made decisions tonight, and it doesn’t matter whether we are happy with them or not. What matters is that no one got hurt.”

“Tell that to the woman he traumatized for life.”

He sighs at your words. “You still did the right thing.”

“I know,” you say.

“Are you always this feisty?”

“Only to masked vigilantes who think I’m some damsel in distress that needs saving and that everything can be solved with their pretty little fists.”

“Well, my pretty little fists are the reason you didn’t end up stabbed, so,” he answers, and his lips curl into a smug smirk. He shrugs, his black shirt riding up only slightly, revealing a sliver of marble skin. You can’t help but let your eyes wander.

“I don’t need a thank you,” he says, “but you need to be more careful next time. Don’t go into dark alleys alone, especially at night. It’s not safe.”

You want to give a snarky remark, but the sound of church bells in the background signal to you that it’s midnight, and you are supposed to be at work. Checking your phone would be a death sentence. Sirens can be heard in the background, but they are not headed for you. 

Maybe Shelly won’t fire you if you’re honest with her about what conspired tonight—if you bare you allow her a glimpse into your soul—but you will suffer the consequences of your own stupidity gravely in the days to come, that much you do know. 

You exhale an exasperated sigh. “I don’t have time for this,” you mutter. 

“Got somewhere to be?” the masked man asks you. 

“As a matter of fact, I do. But that’s none of your business.”

You wonder if he’s frowning under that thin cloth that is hiding his real identity. He still seems so familiar to you. How can he fight if he’s keeping his eyes covered? It’s not the first question you have asked yourself about him, but it surely is the most prominent one because no explanation for it makes sense to you; at least not one you can think of. You want to ask, but you also don’t want to keep encouraging him. You shouldn’t care.

You look back down at the man he knocked out. He’s still unconscious, and he’s bleeding profusely. The angry woman in you wants to let him rot here and let the masked man have his fun, but the doctor in you can’t just leave him there. 

“What about him?” you hear yourself asking, but your mind is far away. 

He tilts his head toward where you’re pointing, not actively looking. How could he? His eyes are covered. His eyes… You can’t make sense of this, and it is affecting your judgment. It’s making you frustrated. 

“He can’t touch you anymore,” his dark voice suddenly sounds so soft. 

A sliver of humanity shines through his facade. Your angry demeanor cracks. “You beat him up pretty good. He could have lasting brain damage,” you remark. 

He pauses, tilting his head further toward the man on the ground. “No,” he says, pouting a little. “He’s still breathing.”

“He could still have brain damage.”

“He has a few broken bones, cuts, bruises, but he’s alive.”

“Those things are totally unrelated. You’re not a doctor, you wouldn’t understand. I’ve already treated more bad guys in the past month than I could possibly count on my fingers, and all of them seemed to fear the same man. Now, not many things can scare a gangbanger to death. Not many people can deliver blows so deliberately without actually fatally wounding anyone. I know it was you,” you say. “Everyone knows it was you, and they’re afraid of you. I’m not, but I am a doctor, and I took an oath to do no harm. I vowed to help those in need, including those I believe may not be worthy of my help. This has nothing to do with judgment. I know you don’t kill; I see it with my own eyes every damn night, but the Russian you beat up a couple days ago?”

That catches his attention. His head whips back around to you, his upper lip twitching slightly as if he is tasting the air. His attention is entirely on you. The question, “What?” gets lost as nothing but a breathless whisper in the cold night air. 

“He was in a coma,” you continue, “and then he died. It’s probably unrelated to what you did, but there was only a small chance he would have ever woken up again anyway. Just because someone is still breathing doesn’t mean their brain is alive. What makes us human, who we are, that is all anchored in our brains. We can’t survive without it. You may not have killed him, but that guy barely had any brain activity left, and that is not something you can consider life.”

You didn’t expect him to sneer. You must have hit a nerve with your words, but it must have hurt him deeply. 

“My point is, I am not letting you do the same to this guy. I’m calling an ambulance and the police, and I will let them figure this out.”

“He’ll walk,” he says, and his voice is dark again. It sends shivers down your spine. 

You look at him, your confidence not wavering this time. “Then so be it, but I am not letting him die,” you say. 

“How is having a rapist walk the streets of this city not doing harm?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Beg your pardon?”

“He will do this again, and maybe next time there will be no one to step in and he will hurt another woman.”

“So what, you want to kill him instead of surrendering him to the authorities?”

“That’s not what I do.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I’m trying to make this city a better place!”

His voice bounces off the walls building a cage around the alley. “And I’m just trying to save a human life, even if it’s a shitty one!” you shoot back. “It’s not our choice who gets to play God, okay? Death would be too kind for a man like him, and leaving him here won’t solve anything either. Like it or not, but I’m not breaking my oath.”

You made a promise when you became a doctor, and you are not going to risk letting someone die on your watch. That could get you into a lot of trouble. 

You approach your attacker’s limp body. When you kneel next to him, a gush of wind blows through your hair. You assess his skull, his abdomen, and his limbs. So far, all you can see are superficial wounds, and the same fractures you have seen pass through the emergency room more than once in the past couple of weeks. He did a number on him, but his pulse feels normal and he is breathing. 

You lift your head, but when you do, you find the spot before you empty. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen has disappeared into the darkness, leaving you to fend for yourself. You should have seen this coming. 

The ambulance takes a while to arrive after you’ve dialed 911. You try your best to keep the man stabilized, but he remains unresponsive. When help finally arrives, the emergency responders are followed by police, and you don’t hesitate to give your statement. You leave the masked vigilante that saved your life out of it—you may not have seen eye to eye just now, but you don’t want to rat him out either. You owe him as much. 

Just as you’re picking your purse off the dirty ground to follow the EMTs to the hospital in the ambulance, giving you the perfect excuse to give to Shelly on why you are even later than you already were, a glimpse of silver in the shadows catches your attention. 

“You did the right thing,” the Devil speaks only loud enough for you to hear, hiding in the darkness protecting the fire escape of the nearest building. 

You swallow your pride. “Thank you,” you finally tell him. 

He chuckles. “For telling you that or saving your life?”

“Both,” and you even offer him a small smile with your gratitude. That is all you’re capable of giving him, for now. 

“Take care,” he says. 

The glimpse of silver disappears, causing the metal of the fire escape to shake under his weight, and he is long gone before you even whisper, “You too.”

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14

[steve-chandler]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER TWO: Imposter Syndrome

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You've been trying your hardest to focus on your work, but there is something else that is bothering you. Claire decides to give you a call and check up on you. It seems like both of you are keeping secrets of your own, and then there is this handsome lawyer who refuses to leave your mind after he quite literally burst your little bubble of solitude...

Warnings for this chapter: Slight angst, mentions of domestic violence, Reader's POV, use of reader's fake name

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: It took me a few tries to finish this chapter because I couldn't, for the life of me, settle on a plot, but I think I've got it figured out now. I didn't do the classic "this scene from another POV", I switched it up a bit, so what happened in chapter one isn't repeated word for word. I think it flows better like this. I hope you guys like it, and thank you for your support so far! I really appreciate it.

Read Chapter 2: Imposter Syndrome on AO3.

The human body holds up to six liters of blood. Without saline or a blood transfusion, losing more than two liters can be fatal—and every drop lost after that decreases your chance of survival. A paper cut won’t kill you, but a gunshot wound might. It’s a simple equation that doesn’t require a medical degree to solve. 

If the human body experiences trauma though, everything is on the line. A nicked vessel or artery can lead to a bloodbath. Trauma to any of the major organs can lead to internal bleeding and cause the body to suffer fatal consequences. You could lose too much blood too fast, or the blood could travel to your brain, and you could herniate. 

Depending on the place of injury, trauma can lead to a large number of complications that are therefore a threat to life. But it’s not just blood that the human body needs to survive; oxygen is another vital player in the game against time. Without it, the brain dies, and if the brain is dead, there is nothing anyone can do to bring you back.

Many things could kill a human being, and many complications could occur in a split second, and that makes trauma an unpredictable event. 

Your fingers instantly stop moving over the keys of your computer when the black phone on your desk starts screaming. At first, your eyes switch to your phone, but you have any non-emergent calls silenced. That explains it. 

You flinch. You suddenly become painfully aware of the city’s lights shining on you from behind, the blue light of your laptop illuminating your face and causing your pupils to shrink, and the bulb in your desk lamp that is flickering every so often, reminding you that you need to switch it sometime soon. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose, then press the acceptance button. You answer the phone. “This is Doctor Clarke at Metro General,” you say. “How can I help you?”

“Jesus,” the familiar voice reaches your ears, and you let out an almost annoyed sigh. “You sound like hell,” Claire answers. 

“And you don’t sound sick,” you retort. 

You aren’t sure what to make of her sudden mystery illness, or why she didn’t tell you and you had to find out from the hospital administrator who was losing it over the fact that her favorite nurse called out sick that morning. 

The phone goes silent for a short moment before she says, “It’s complicated.”

“Hey, we all need sick days sometimes,” you shrug. “Just took us all by surprise, is all.”

“Are you trying to turn this around on me so we won’t have to talk about you?”

Your lips part in a dry chuckle. “Is this about me?” you ask, even though you know very well that it is. You’re the one trying to deflect.

“You silenced your phone.”

With another sigh, you push the stack of papers you’ve been working on aside and take the next folder from the pile. “I’m fine.” You hold the X-ray picture up to the light, squinting your eyes. “Just... splendid, yeah. You want me to do a psych eval? Urine sample? My social security number?”

You can physically hear her roll her eyes at your comment. “Can’t I just be worried about you without you taking it like a personal attack?”

It’s a loaded, rhetorical question asked in a tone that you are more than familiar with. It is a train wreck waiting to happen, but Claire is your friend—a very caring friend, too—and she hardly ever lets loose when she wants to know something. 

She knows you better than anyone, after all. She knows everything, even the parts you swore to never talk about again—parts you swore you would take to the grave. 

That is the purpose of a new life, isn’t it? Forgetting the past ever happened, then moving on? If that could actually heal trauma, life would be so much easier. Unfortunately, denial tends to make the wounds bleed faster. You will die faster if you keep it all bottled up, but it’s easier said than done when it comes to reality. Sometimes, denial is the only luxury you can afford for yourself, even if it slowly kills you. 

You have seen your fair share of traumatic injuries pass in and out of the emergency room over the years. Not just physically but mentally as well. There is only a small margin of error in an even smaller time frame in which traumatic injuries can be treated without lifelong consequences. The scars though, they remain forever. 

“Look,” Claire continues softly, “I’m worried about you. I know you hate talking about yourself, but every once in a while, I have to make sure you’re alright and not... falling apart or something.”

You swallow thickly, the lump slowly starting to hurt your esophagus. “Why would I be falling apart?” you question, but your voice no longer has the same level of conviction in it. 

Feigned confidence doesn’t go a very long way, you’ve noticed. You can’t stand your ground when you don’t believe in where you’re standing. 

“A little birdy told me you had a bad day. That’s why.”

In the halls of a hospital—any hospital—word travels faster than lightning. You roll your eyes, but you don’t know what to say. She isn’t wrong. You did have a bad day. Your blood is still boiling. Everything in you feels a hundred pounds heavier. You may not be falling apart because there is not much of a foundation left to fall apart, but the feeling is eerily similar. 

You used to be a beloved surgeon at a prestigious hospital for all five years of your residency, but with each year that passed, what had once been just a spark turned into gigantic flames that slowly began torching your skin. They burned your flesh and dragged it down to your fragile bones. Your body went into shock over the years. You became septic. And it almost killed you, too. 

Your heart froze in place before it miserably cracked. It didn’t take long before the inferno took over every last crevice of your life. It burnt out everything that was remotely good for you. You were so dependent on something—someone—that was slowly poisoning you. 

You ran for months. You moved from State to State, you changed your name and your whole identity twice. You tried everything to get away, but your demons kept haunting you. The distance between you and your old life grew bigger until eventually, you reached the other side of the country, hundreds of miles from the hell you escaped from. There was nothing left in your past to exist for, so you became someone else. You lost yourself and gained a stranger’s identity in return. Someone who wasn’t scarred from a battle that she almost fully lost. 

You thought it would be easy to pretend to be someone else, someone without the same wounds that have been inflicted on you, but that turned out to be the wrong thing to believe. 

Claire’s voice rings out again. “What’s going on with you, Liv?” she asks.

You’re not really present at the moment, but this time, you hear her. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.” It’s a blatant lie, but it rolls over your tongue so easily, you are tempted to believe it yourself before your friend even can.

“You keep zoning out,” she says. “You’re not helping your case.”

“It’s been a long day, that’s all. What’s going on with you?” 

Her lips part in a soft exhale. You hit the nail right on the head. “Nothing’s going on with me. I just had to take a sick day. Migraines, you know? I get them sometimes.” 

You don’t buy it. Her voice sounds strained, but more like she is forcing herself to sound sicker than she is. Not that you are allowed to judge, it simply strikes you as odd, considering that she isn’t usually like this, and it makes you wonder what else she is keeping from you. 

A pregnant pause follows. “I heard about the girl,” Claire says then, changing the subject. You’re both way too good at that. You’re hypocrites.

“Annie,” you cut her off. “Her name’s—was Annie.”

You keep replaying it over and over in your mind. From the moment you received the page to the ER to the little girl landing on your operating table, you retrace all of your steps. You rethink every decision you made, every uttered order, every cut, and every stitch. Every time you do, you come up empty.  

Annie was six years old. She got hit by an oncoming car. It was a gruesome sight, but you kept telling yourself that it could have been worse. She was stabilizing when you took her to the operating room. All the tests suggested that controlling the damage could buy some valuable time for the specialists to do their jobs. In your mind, the path was clear to a full recovery. 

Everything you did to save her life ended up doing absolutely nothing. 

It elicited a feeling that you are more than used to—inadequacy. You know that it is utterly selfish to think that way; this isn’t even about you. The feeling wraps like a noose around your heart, but you can’t allow yourself to make this about you. You’re not that type of person. 

Claire takes your silence as an answer. “I logged into the hospital server and took a look at the X-rays,” she says. “That aortic tear was irreparable, as much for you as it would’ve been for the world’s best cardiothoracic surgeon. This wasn’t your fault.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know that,” you argue. “I could have caught it earlier. I could’ve… I could’ve done something.”

“No, Liv, you couldn’t have. But I think you know that.”

You search the depths of your mind for the right words to say, but you come up with none. “Who blabbed, anyway?” you ask.

In this case, though, the question is, who didn’t? Everyone must have heard about Annie by now, and the people around you care too much. It was bound to reach Claire’s ears eventually. You just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

Claire holds off on her answer for a moment. “Doesn’t matter,” she answers. It’s the kindest choice. “What matters is that you can’t beat yourself up for something that wasn’t your fault.” Her voice suggests that she’s smiling.

“I…I’m fine,” you lie.

“I know you’re not.” 

“You’re the one who called in sick but clearly isn’t. You don’t see me bugging you about it.” 

That shuts her up for a moment. “This isn’t about me,” Claire tries to talk herself out of it, but you see right through her.

“Are you sure?” you ask. 

“I—” She sighs. “I promise you, if there was something going on, I’d tell you.”

You should return the sentiment. You should tell her what you’re really thinking, but you’re mute. When it comes to your own feelings, all words in the English dictionary elude you.

Still, the feeling that Claire is lying to you keeps eating away at you. She has no reason to. Or maybe she has, but it’s none of your business. You’re curious, maybe a little worried, but you can’t expect her to tell you every little thing about her life and then refuse to do the same because you can’t possibly ask for help with something you don’t even understand yourself. 

You’re miserable enough as it is. You would rather suffer through it alone than bother her with your chronic overthinking and the fear of failure. 

“I’m still cat-sitting for Jenny,” she breaks you out of your thoughts. 

You chuckle slightly. “But you’re allergic to cats,” you say.

“I know, but…” She stops herself. “The point is, I still have an almost full bottle of white wine in the fridge and there’s this deliciously cheap pizza place around the corner. Their breadsticks are to die for, trust me. You could come over after your shift and we could look after that stupid cat together. Maybe. Just until we both feel better.”

Until you both feel better. You feel like it would take more than wine and pizza to make you feel better. 

You need to sulk. You need to marinate in your misery. That way, you can suck it up and be better next time. Everything else seems like too much of a waste of time.  

You shatter what little hope she had about you agreeing to her offer like a full wine glass on a white cloth, sure to leave stains. Your hand momentarily motions toward the stack of paperwork, but then you remember that she can’t see over the phone. “I wish I could,” you say, “but I have to finish my surgical reports by tomorrow.”

Claire nods slowly. “Are you sure it’s the paperwork?”

“I promise.”

She accepts defeat. She can’t change your mind. You’re stubborn, determined, and a pain in the ass most of the time. She still loves you, but she has long given up on forcing you out of your shell. 

Sometimes, which is more often than not, you prefer to be miserable because you have no idea how to be anything else.

“Well, I tried. So… at least call me if you need anything,” she says.

You offer her a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re tired. Your heart is pounding from all the caffeine and the frustration of the unknown. You have paperwork. As long as you have paperwork, you’re occupied. It’s as good a reason to avoid talking about anything that could be considered even remotely personal. 

“Thank you, Claire. For everything,” your voice is barely above a whisper. “Take care of yourself. I’ll talk to you later.”

You hate that you’re like this, but you can’t change who you are now or what all those years of suffering have made out of you. You can’t change the fact that underneath Olivia Clarke, it is not who you are. And it will never be who you are because her identity is a fraud.

You may have escaped the worst time of your life and traded it for a fresh start, but that doesn’t take away the paralyzing fear that still sits deep in your bones, making it impossible for you to sleep at night. It may be a fresh start to a new life, but the slate is far from clean. There are bloodstains that you can’t get out. Stains that will haunt you forever. 

Every day and every night that you spend at the hospital, you’re reminded of the terrible past that threatens to overshadow your future whenever you set foot outside. Your name may be Olivia Clarke, but that will never be your real name, no matter how badly you try to pretend it to be. And on some days, it breaks you just a little more when you fail at the one thing you have always excelled at. The one thing you have dedicated your life to. To do something good, to be worth something, and to prove the cruel monsters in your mind wrong about their assessment of you. 

You don’t want to be a coward. You don’t want to be weak. You don’t want to be dependent on anything or anyone ever again. You forgot how to be happy. You became someone you’re not because the person you used to be was broken by someone she thought she could trust. 

He took everything from you, and he took all that you are. Olivia was never taken advantage of. 

Claire saved your life. She knows the truth, but facts aren’t enough. She’s your only support system, the only one who knows who you truly are, deep down, and yet she knows nothing at all. 

Long after you’ve hung up the phone, you start wandering the halls of Metro General. You haven’t quite figured out what you’re looking for yet. You want to be alone. You want to be not needed. You want to exist somewhere that isn’t here. And you don’t want to be found, just for a little while. 

When you get settled on an empty bed in one of internal medicine’s abandoned hallways that had to be emptied after severe budget cuts affected the hospital, the tears start pouring out without warning. You barely manage to stifle the sobs that slip past your lips. You hate crying. You used to believe that it was a sign of weakness, but tears have become as much of a partner in crime to you as the pain has. 

It’s not as easy as it used to be to hold all of those treacherous feelings in—feelings you don’t even understand yourself—and that makes you hate yourself enough to cry even harder. Because you try, try, and you try even harder as you give all of yourself over and over again to be someone you never thought you would turn into, and still, you find yourself failing more times than you could possibly count. 

Your life ended when you met the man who ruined you; ever since then, you have only been a shell of the person you used to be, and there is seemingly nothing you can do about it other than accept that Olivia Clarke is who you are now, and she is all you can be. 

You didn’t expect another lonely soul in need of an escape to find his way to your little haven. This hallway isn’t even on the hospital map anymore, but he still somehow found his way here. 

Your eyes switch to his cane, the red glasses, and the way he so awkwardly carries himself when he seems to realize that he, in fact, isn’t alone. You know that feeling of instant disappointment all too well, and he just caught you crying, which only makes matters worse. 

After the initial awkwardness has dissipated and you get to talking, you take a moment to appreciate him. His name is Matthew. He is a defense attorney. He is unlike any man you’ve ever met before. You’re cautious when it comes to new people, but there is something almost calm about him. He’s funny, charming, and he’s respectful. He made you feel comfortable from the start.

There is a mystery surrounding him. You know all about mysteries. They draw you in. They make you feel less alone in a way. He is the biggest one you have encountered so far. 

People tend to consider you an enigma, too. Most of them are wary of you because you barely share anything about yourself. You’re still learning, even after two years, to be someone new. You’re constantly reinventing yourself because all you were before is gone now. You lost yourself in the fire. So, most people you meet don’t talk much when they do; you’ve gotten used to having only one friend. It keeps your identity safe, as guarded as you are. It’s the safest bet for everyone involved—or everyone not involved. 

Matthew is different. He seems genuinely curious, but he doesn’t pry. And that makes you open yourself up to him, even if it is just your body language. He’s sitting right next to you, his calm voice like a gentle symphony in your ear. He serenades you every time he speaks. That is a dangerous quality. He’s an attractive man, and you can’t keep your eyes off of him. You can’t stop listening. He’s like a work of art—a damaged work of art.

The man before you is broken and bruised. That’s what makes him so mysterious. The hesitation you showed when he introduced himself, indirectly asking for a piece of you in return, shows when you ask about his injuries. 

You have seen all kinds of injuries, including those on a blind man who fell down the stairs. Matthew doesn’t fit the profile, and that only makes him more mysterious and therefore more interesting to you. 

You have to stop yourself before you ask too many questions. You don’t want to push him away, but you also can’t draw him in. You can be nice, but that is as far as you are willing to go. You hold your walls so high that no one can break through them, no matter how fascinating or attractive they are. 

Matthew is a dangerous man because he makes you feel things that you have long told yourself never to feel again. But it’s hard when he makes it so easy to like him. 

You patch him up. It’s not just professional courtesy; he seems like he desperately needs someone to look after him. You are being nice to him, that is all. You keep telling yourself the same thing. 

You’re still disappointed when you get paged to the emergency room and you have to leave him behind. The chances that you will see him again are low, and they shrink to zero when you return to the hallway four hours later and find it dark and empty again. The plastic packaging of the bandages you used on him is still lying around, but that is all that is left of him. All you have is a memory of a very unexpected encounter that will probably never occur again. 

But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing, after all. At least like this, you can’t make the mistake of falling for a guy claiming to be nice. At least like this, you can keep your fragile and already broken heart safe from enduring the same kind of pain ever again. 

You pass the nurse’s station in the emergency room on your way out. Dropping the chart of your last patient on the counter, you wish everyone a good night. 

“Liv, before you leave–” One of the senior nurses stops you dead in your tracks, “Someone left a card for you,” she says.

You turn around, frowning at her. “A card?” you ask. “Who did?”

Her lips curl into a mischievous smile. “Handsome fella. And he had good manners.”

Your mind reels. There are only a handful of people that would fit that description. Every time someone leaves something behind for you, your first response is to panic. Your blood pressure spikes. You can feel your heart beating up to your throat and your vision blurs. You’re not a fan of the suspense or knowing grins, and it’s obvious. 

The nurse’s smile fades and she rummages through the stack of papers next to the computer. “He only knew your first name and his blindness made it a bit harder to figure out who he was talking about, but thankfully we only have one excellent trauma surgeon named Olivia,” she says, her eyes still twinkling. She can’t help it. 

You let out an audible exhale. Your body relaxes. Your heart rate slows down. You can finally see her clearly again, and she slides the card across the counter for you to take. You want to apologize for the hostility, but her face tells you that she understands. 

The next time your heart starts beating faster, it isn’t out of panic. You look down at the names on the card and the distinctive number on the back, and your brain releases a sudden rush of dopamine. It’s late, you’re tired, but somehow this little gesture puts a surprising smile on your face. 

You shouldn’t be as excited as you are. Your plan for this evening has been tossed far out of the window in an instant.

“So,” the nurse asks, “who is he? A patient? A friend?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “A guy from Hinge?”

You shake your head. “Just… a guy I met,” you answer. 

If he were an official patient, this would be highly unethical and you would have to toss his number into the nearest trash can.

The blood has permanently settled into your cheeks. You’re not usually the kind of person who blushes. It’s infuriating.

With a chuckle, she leans over. “Well, either way, the guy was smoking. Said you should give him a call. I hope for your sake that you do.”

You keep twisting and turning the card. “What else did he say?”

“Not much. Just said that I should give this to you and that you should call him if you want. You must’ve made quite the impression.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip. You would’ve never suspected this. You are essentially still a stranger to him, and he still left you his number. He wants you to call him.

It makes no sense, and yet it flatters you like nothing has in quite a while. 

You let out a soft sigh before stuffing the card into the pocket of your coat. Looking up, you meet the nurse’s curious eyes. 

Your mind is taking its time to process your thoughts and the feelings connected to your thoughts. 

She chuckles at the bewildered look in your eyes. You must look like a fool. “Where does one meet a specimen like that anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?” she says. “‘Cause I desperately need me one of those.” 

A beat of silence follows. Then, you wet your lips and answer, “Abandoned hallways. Way more effective than Hinge, apparently.”

The subtle joke makes her laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You put in the effort to fake a smile with your nod. “Well, thank you,” you say. “You guys have a good shift. If you need anything, page me.” 

“Will do,” she says. The other nurses nod. Of course, they listened in on your conversation. 

With another small wave in their general direction, you make your way outside into the cool night air. You retrieve the business card from your coat, your eyes roaming over the names carefully printed on it, and the Braille that has been added for obvious reasons. 

Nelson & Murdock. Attorneys at law. 

From what he told you, this is probably the only somewhat expensive thing he and his partner afforded for a semi-successful marketing plan for their practice. It almost makes you chuckle.

Matt Murdock is a very fascinating man, though as you stare at the card and the number on the back you can’t help but feel a slight hint of unease bubble up in your chest, and you ask yourself, what did you get yourself into?

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson