#anyway weird experiences i love being sober when everyone else is drunk i do genuinely think it’s so much fun

[justinefrischmanngf]

i have so much information about this random man’s sex life now because people in their late 20s LOVE telling me too much about their lives and i love listening to people be insane

[vi0lentquiche]

RDC3

I don’t think I fully admitted to myself that this con was a different beast long after it was over. After swanning through BTRDC last October, chatting to tons of people and getting to all the photo and autog sessions and Q&As on time and having time to chill and people-watch, I did expect this one to be less relaxed, but I didn’t expect a 3-day endurance catharsis. 

Friday

Every guest who walked onto the stage at the opening ceremony appeared momentarily stunned, all wide eyes and “woahh” expressions. Except Bryan, of course, who clearly wanted to crowdsurf but had to settle for high-five running through the crowd instead. For the rest of them, I guess they genuinely hadn’t expected quite so many people or quite so much noise and enthusiasm. 

Met my hero @bansheegrahamtao during registration, cracked up at her bag: 

As for the M&G, well, as @existingcharactersdiehorribly remarked midway through our suffering, it’s a tough tough thing, having to sit around drinking whiskey and wine, waiting for Bryan Fuller to come talk to you. Especially tough when Ellen, Hugh, Aaron and Scott all stop by for a brief chat at some point as well. I remember realizing around midnight that we’d be there for three more hours at least and wondering if I should go to my room for a quick nap, but that’s just not how it’s done, so I napped right at the table instead. When Bryan did get there he was greeted by a sight unlike any other, leading him to grab one of the straws and wave it about and tell us an AG production story about the sex scene between Salim and the jinn. The size and shape of the VFX jinn penis had to be juuust right because they couldn’t have a goofy-looking penis in a sexy scene, but production was hellbent on 12 inches because they had made some odd assumptions. Mousa Kraish the jinn actor was also more than fine with 12′, which is when Bryan stepped in and firmly said no that’s ridiculous, we’ll go with 9′. He then showed us a picture of the flame-eyed ifrit with the vetoed penis on his phone. We wrapped up around 3:30 am on a sobering SOTL vs Will note that sent everyone into black despair, but All Seems Well Now after some panicking and course correction. He wants to write for them forever and ever, gotcha, we’re good, whew. 

Saturday

What even are alarms and wake up calls, we don’t hear them and sleep straight through breakfast and the first photo op like real men. Shrugged it off assuming they’d let me do Aaron and Scott on Sunday and queued for Bryan instead, got a nice hug and a concerned “did you get any rest?” from this miracle of a man, who apparently made a point of inquiring this of everyone he remembered from the night before, which if you’re Bryan is probably easily all 200 of us. 

Demore turned out to be the breakout guest of the weekend. I say this as someone who is so hypersensitive to the quality of public speaking/presenting/live performance/showmanship that I’ll walk out if something is so off it starts bothering me. Case in point: the crowd fluffer later that night; literally 45 seconds into his routine I noped out of the room and didn’t return until he was done. With Demore, it was immediately apparent it would be a smooth sailing throughout. I don’t know if he came prepared or if he is just that good, but there was a friendly and warm quality to his command of the audience that I’ve never experienced before. I wish someone *glares at self* had recorded the Q&A, because I’ve since forgotten most of the specifics. He made a very #relatable point about how both Hannibal and Tobias prize authentic expression above all else. Overall I am left with an impression of a nice balance between thoughtful and playful, funny and profound. Bonus: amazing moment that was more than the sum of its goofy parts. I got goosebumps. 

Another thing that stands out from the afternoon is Hugh freaking Dancy with his freaking word choice poetry. I don’t know if it only seemed this way to my ESL brain but he did that thing where he paused for a moment while appearing to pick a word and then the word he went for was on point, and not in a suffocatingly completist way but rather in a fresh and elegant way. So basically he’s a terrible man and I’ve been very distracted. I’ll even give Sabbath’s Theater a go, that’s how bamboozled I am by the whole thing. 

I won’t recap Bryan and Hugh’s Q&As since you can actually listen to them thanks to the brilliant @pka42. The highlight for me was Bryan talking about how he would have revisited Miriam Lass given the chance: as a law enforcement officer too traumatized to continue active duty, she would have been hidden away in some FBI basement doing clerical work so the sight of her wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable, and the rhetorical question here would be whether Hannibal made a better family for her than the FBI *cue instant anguished Will and Abigail feels, oof* 

Another highlight was Bryan referring to Sean’s “time to wrap this up” gesture as a “sexy dancing fingers thing”, which evolved into “the nipple thing” by Sunday. Bless. 

Was seated too far back to actually watch the Fannibal musical so buried myself in the booklet instead, pausing every now and again to loudly exclaim “NO BUT ACTUAL HUGH DANCY IS WATCHING THIS”. Loved the firefly from the costume competition, shame it got no mention. 

Sunday 

Things I learned Sunday morning: a Bryan&Hugh sandwich grips you like a vice, whereas being in the middle of an Aaron&Scott sandwich is a much squishier experience. 

The rest of the day is kind of a blur. Started seriously flagging so skipped the first two Q&As in favor of sitting on a bench staring dazedly into middle distance, which is when @louiselux and @emungere materialized next to said bench in a fine example of just how surreal things can get at a Hannibal con, <3. 

At the Q&A, most of which I spent in the question line, Bryan went on being highly #relatable telling us about how he lives his life in constant fear of mediocrity, Hugh cracked jokes about Will possibly being into Austrian chamber music (or was this Saturday, who even remembers anymore). Bryan was honest about the things he would have done differently in S1-S2 but didn’t venture into S3 territory at all. Still too soon and too fresh, I suppose. 

Glad I had a quiet moment sitting down with @byronicwoman before that brutal autog session started, or was that Saturday? *cries* I have no idea. 

Two things I have to say before I bring this meandering report to a close: 

1. Since I listed all of the low points of this con in the Gothic post I feel like I have to point out that there are highs that balance all of them out xD Aside from the obvious thrill of meeting Bryan and co, there’s really nothing quite like The Second Wave of Fannibal Recognition where you’ve exchanged real names with someone to no effect and then you exchange Twitter/Tumblr handles and a lot of AAAAAAHHHHhshfsflskdfjhsdf ensues. It’s fascinating to see the people behind the writing and the art. It’s fun when previously two-dimensional things come alive in the real world. It’s a real trip to get drunk on something pink and sit in a cloud of Bigarade xD  

2. Those of you I got very little or no quality time with besides hurried hellos, hugs, snippets of conversation and trying to survive the con right alongside you, and I won’t tag you all - firstly wtf, secondly how frustrating, thirdly ilu anyway and will talk to you anyway so whateva, we’ll make it up next Feb, unless of course Mads is there in which case we’ll all just huddle together and cry, <3. 

Finally, a helpful tip: the only way to avoid PCD is to actively preempt it in any way you can. What I did was get together with @lactobacille, @meres-argias, @rav3nsta9 and @fourth-axis for some ~thematic entertainment: 

REPRESENT. We sure survived that killer good \m/

Went wandering around Sir John Soane’s, well, mind palace, complete with oubliettes, weird little recesses, moveable planes, holes in the floor and a slightly demented-looking collection of antiquities and paintings. 

Naturally could not walk past a museum of anatomy and surgery. Check out the light and air and color on these nervous and circulatory systems! 

All in all, some seriously good, funny times <3.  

P. S. The context for Hugh uttering the words “Pacman uncontrollably guzzling cum” is Cards Against Humanity.  

[regrettablewritings]

Valentine’s Day Love Languages: Physical Touch

If you weren’t a particularly religious person before, Matt Murdock’s introduction into your life sure had you reconsidering. Not necessarily because Matt himself was a God-fearing Catholic, but more so because you personally needed to find God and shake his hand for doing damn fine job on creating your boyfriend.

After all, not everyone could land themselves a miracle in the form of an intelligent, loyal, handsome sweetheart with backside to kill for.

Matt was amused when you slurred the slew of praises during your third date (destination: Josie’s, of course) and only mentioned in it light teasing the next day as you hid yourself underneath your covers, both out of embarrassment and out of distress from the bright lights of day. Of course, taunting as Matt could be, he recognized that right then and there was not the time to keep pushing it, deciding to instead tuck your little confession away for a later date.

That later date eventually arrived, about three days later when you decided to drop by the office and surprise your darling boyfriend and his equally darling friends with takeout for lunch. You were pissed that he couldn’t see the killing look you were shooting in his direction; it never occurred to you that he could sense it.

“ ‘Sweetheart’?” Foggy laughed incredulously. “If Matty’s a sweetheart, then I’m the latest model in Playgirl.”

“Yeah, I’m also gonna have to question the smartness part,” Karen chipped in. “You guys may have only been dating for, what, a few weeks? I know for a fact that by now you’ve realized he forgets to eat unless you tell him to. Who does that!?”

You could only blush and force an awkward smile in response. “To be fair, I was drunk,” you shrugged. Matt, of course, wasn’t buying it.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts, (Y/N),” he smirked. He heard your heartbeat pick up a bit and tried not to vainly relish in it; he knew what that smile of his did to you. But he also usually knew when you were at your limits and decided that as much enjoyment as he was getting out of pointing out how cute and silly you had been the other night, it wasn’t worth risking getting a lecture from you later. Time to calm the situation with some good ole “sweetheart” words.

Matt delicately speared a piece of broccoli from his lo mein. “And to be fair” – the smirk turned into a genuine smile – “not everyone can say that they managed to acquire a relationship with an equally intelligent, devoted, beautiful woman who I’m sure also has an equally nice – “ Matt stopped short, remembering where he was. He’d mentioned everything else you’d call him but the comment about his posterior. “… face.” Nice save, Matthew, he told himself sarcastically.

Whether or not anyone had bought it, however, was never made entirely certain. What was made entirely certain, however, was the pondering expression on Foggy’s face, followed by one of growing confusion.

“Wait … Wait, you said ‘sure.’ As in, you’re ‘sure’ (Y/N) has a nice face,” he repeated. Foggy looked between the two of you. “Are you insinuating that you guys haven’t done the face thing yet?” Matt pressed his lips together; you just looked back and forth between the two men.

The face thing?

“He just means, does Matt know what you look like, yet?” Karen offered.

“Uh … Pretty sure blindness puts a damper on whether or not Matt can see my face.”

“No, I mean – has he, you know, felt your face before,” Karen clarified.

“Like, put his fingers all over it,” Foggy gestured, taking his own hand and pantomiming it over his face in a circle. His brows furrowed. “That sounded a bit weird, didn’t it? Anyway, it’s been a couple of weeks, you haven’t done it yet?”

Despite Foggy and Karen both still having their site, it was not they who could detect a change in your body language or mood; that, of course, went to Matt. He sat there quietly as Karen and Foggy tried to explain his shtick for him, unsure as to whether or not there was even a point to add into it. Truthfully, he did want to touch your face. And he had for a while: Not long after the two of you had met, when he considered you worth keeping in his life. But for as normal was such a thing was for him … He didn’t know; he just felt a little nervous about asking you if you’d comply. Apparently, this nervousness might have had some foundation: The moment Karen explained that “the face thing” was him touching his own girlfriend’s face, he heard your heartbeat pick up. Not enough to raise concerns, but enough for him to nearly quirk an eyebrow. When it picked up only just so slightly once more upon Foggy’s contribution, he decided that maybe now was a time to usher in his skills with words.

“Well, Foggy, Karen,” he began, “if you must know, we have not done the so-called ‘face thing.’ I feel that it’s an intimate part of any relationship of mine and ought to be done in our own time. If two weeks isn’t enough time for either side, then two weeks just isn’t enough.” He said it with finality. Your heartbeat dropped only by a fraction. Matt could hear it even as the conversation drifted to easier-going topics, even when you laughed alongside everybody else.

You had never been one for vanity, but you had also never necessarily seen yourself as unattractive either. You preferred to see yourself as custom-made in terms of looks, aesthetically appealing and damn desirable to your special one-and-only, of whom you dared to suspect that Matt was proving to be. Even when you first met Karen as a client for Nelson & Murdock, you never felt insufficient in terms of looks because you felt that she was pretty in her own way and you were pretty in your own way. But then you started to date Matt.

Matt, who was aesthetically pleasing to a great many, rather than custom-tailored like yourself. Matt, whom you found attractive when you first came to the office but only found more and more beautiful as you came to know him more. Matt, whose universal appeal actually began to make you waver in that self-efficient way of thinking that had kept you afloat for so long …

It felt ridiculous to think this way, you knew that. But then again, the world and all of its experiences were ridiculous: For God’s sake, you lived in a city whose alien attack had been thwarted by a team composed of a man in a flying metal suit, a blond hunk with an enchanted mallet, and a ‘roided-out Jolly Green Giant who was far less than jolly! So forgive you for beginning to think about how others on the street might be thinking when they see this tall, sophisticated-looking Columbia graduate walking alongside, well, you.

You tried not to think this way – God knows you did. But God also knew that not long after you began to think this way, you would catch yourself looking in the mirror probably three times as long as you had before. Your eyesight suddenly appeared to reach CSI unit levels, catching an acne bump or the tiniest zit on your face even twelve feet away from the smallest mirror. Soon after, you’d begin to recognize every split end, every wayward hair, every hair in the center of your brow that threatened to become five more upon being plucked.

Outfits that you loved suddenly just didn’t “feel right”; as if they suddenly weren’t “you” anymore. Unfortunately, the things that apparently were you tended to be less than flattering, baggy sweatshirts, t-shirts, etc. depending on the weather. Of course, Matt was pleased to smell his Columbia hoodie on you (he never implied to you that he knew it was on by scent, but by touch).

“Where’d you dig up that old thing?” he smiled as he began to crawl into your bed. He heard face muscles tense; not enough for a real smile, but a false one.

“Oh, you know. Around.” You shrugged. “I like sleeping in your sweats.”

“And wearing them,” he pointed out. He heard the facial muscle loosen into the pattern he linked with a frown and felt immediate remorse. “I – I mean – ”

“Matt, it’s okay,” you insisted. You even held up a hand, knowing darned well that he couldn’t see it. “I just like wearing baggy stuff, that’s all. It’s cozy,” you insisted. You then wished him a goodnight and turned off the lamp. Matt returned the offer quietly. He considered attempting an apology with physical affection. It was nearly a month into your relationship, and while you eventually caved about letting him stay over, you never tried anything in bed. Or outside of it, for that matter.

Matt understood the concept of waiting very well and never pushed for anything, wanting your comfort to come before his. Nevertheless, it just felt odd to him, being that his relationship history, while filled with very brief stints, consisted of sexual activity rather early on in each run. But with you, it never went beyond a peck on the lips and handholding. No long kisses, backrubs, or anything. Maybe you were asexual and didn’t know how to tell him?

Matt didn’t know. How could he?

As he fell asleep, he instinctively laid an arm over your body to hold you close while in slumber. The next morning, he woke up with you out of his embrace and close to the edge of your side of the bed.

“So, how goes it? Anything . . . interesting?”

Matt pressed his lips together in bemusement. He knew exactly what Foggy was insinuating, both by his friend’s tone and by the fact he’d been asking the same thing for the last month. Every day when the two would retrieve their cups of coffee at the office, it was a sure thing that Foggy would, without fail, ask for Matt to basically kiss and tell, bang and tell, or at least face-thing and tell. The only kiss and tells Matt had had were the usual pecks; the latter two were nonexistent.

“Foggy, I’ve told you, that’s personal,” Matt replied before taking a sip of his coffee. His friend, much to his dismay, wasn’t buying it.

“It wasn’t all that personal when it was those other chicks. What about that one paralegal?”

“You do realize that more than half the time, the women I said I was sleeping with was just a cover for you-know-what, right? And besides, even in the cases where I actually was … doing something ‘interesting’ with someone, this is different because it’s (Y/N), okay?” He noticed that he sounded a tad tense while responding. Foggy noticed it, too.

“Whoa, there, bud: Are we getting a little … frustrated? In that way?”

Matt groaned with exasperation, “No, Foggy. I am not.” He tried not to crush his hot, flimsy Styrofoam cup. His knuckles were already sore from the other night’s escapades, and surely a hot cup of essentially bean juice wasn’t going to soothe the pain. Thankfully by then, Foggy began to notice he was poking a nerve.

“Okay, but seriously, Matt,” Foggy’s voice dropped into serious territory, “what’s going on? You’ve been kinda sorta … Yeah, well, tense when it comes to (Y/N). Are things, well, okay?”

At first, Matt nearly said that everything was fine. It was instinctive for him to insist upon that. But the moment he opened his mouth to say it, he knew he couldn’t. Matt made it a goal to be honest when necessary; right now, his gut told him, was a necessary moment. He stood in silence, trying to piece together the right sentences, the right words, before sighing in defeat and looking in Foggy’s general direction, eyes dulling further behind his red shades.

“Honestly, Foggy, I don’t know anymore,” he answered. “I mean, I thought things were fine between (Y/N) and me: We got along great! I know the honeymoon isn’t eternal or anything but … I just didn’t think that the honeymoon with her would be so …” He slowly waved his cup in a circle in an attempt to drum up the right word. “. . .Brief,” he decided. He chose it in competition with “quick”, “dissatisfying” and “alarmingly short-lived.”

“How do you mean?” Foggy inquired, brows creased.

Once again, his friend sighed. “I just – This is going to sound weird, but there’s nothing to speak of when you ask if things got ‘interesting.’” Foggy didn’t get it; Matt could tell. He could feel his face warming up as he realized how much of it he had to spell out. “(Y/N) won’t …” He groaned with mortification. “(Y/N) won’t touch me!” he spat out. He could hear the muscles in Foggy’s face become embarrassed and surprised all at once. He also heard the obligatory, “Oh, wow, that’s, uhhh …”

Matt exhaled heavily through his nose and cast his unseeing eyes downward. The secret was out; nothing he could do now but explain further.

“We kiss – well, it’s more like a peck on the lips – and we hold hands, but that’s it. It’s not even about sex or anything, it’s just, well, it’s almost like she’s repulsed by me.” The blind man roughly ran a hand through his hair. “We barely cuddle (and if we do, it’s not for long); when we share a bed, I fall asleep holding her but then wake up to find her practically falling off the mattress; hell, even the way we hold hands feels like she wants nothing more than to pull away. And no, that’s not just my suspicion, her heartbeat suggests anxiety!”

“Well,” Foggy started. He tapped unsurely on his own Styrofoam cup, uncertain as to how to handle such a situation from his usually calmer friend. “Have you, you know, talked to her about it?”

“No,” Matt admitted. “I haven’t. God knows I want to, I need to. But it also feels like it’s my fault in the first place. Or something. Really, I don’t know! If she doesn’t even want me to touch her face, then maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised that she doesn’t want to initiate anything more.”

Foggy’s expression fell completely into shock, complete with the furrowed brows of judgement. “What do you mean you haven’t even done the face – Matt, it’s been a month!”

“Yes, I know – ”

“It shouldn’t be that big of a deal –”

“Well, to you it may not be. And to me it may not be. But to (Y/N), it apparently is. And I’m not forcing her to do it if it is.”

“ ‘If’ ,” Foggy pointed out. “It’s a big ‘if’, buddy. You don’t know if that ‘if’ even exists.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to force her to do anything to me,” Matt scowled, though he was unsure as to who or what he was scowling over. He tried to calm down in all of his frustration, just barely becoming exhausted in his thought process. “I just … I don’t know what’s up. I know I should ask – I should’ve done that before I talked with you, actually – ”

“Fair enough.”

“ – but as stupid as it is, I can’t help but feel a little, well, scared about it. Don’t give me that look, I know how stupid it is, being scared of this. But I have a good reason to be: Even before we hit the honeymoon stage – hell, even before we started dating – I just wanted (Y/N) in my life. I wasn’t sure how, or even why I wanted to risk that. I just knew that I wanted to be near enough so that she would be a constant in my life. And the messed up part is, even throughout all of this, that’s still something I want.”

Matt went quiet for a moment as if in contemplation. “I guess I’m just hung up on the fact that maybe I did something wrong but she won’t tell me. I’m so used to relying on touch to determine things, y’know? I guess having … Being deprived of this one thing, it’s driving me on edge.” He heard Foggy sigh deeply before feeling a hand pat him on the shoulder in a consoling fashion.

“Hey,” Foggy said quietly, “I don’t think you did anything wrong. But maybe you should really talk to (Y/N) about how you’ve been feeling.” Matt heard the muscles that made a smirk. “And by ‘maybe’, I mean definitely.”

Matt offered a small smile back. “I guess …” However, the smile, barely existent as it was, had been just as quick to dissolve upon its owner hearing something.

“What?” Foggy asked.

Matt cocked his head slightly, trying to pick up what he thought he’d detected. “Footsteps. They sound familiar. They’re going … Sounds like … (Y/N)?”

You had decided that if you couldn’t be physically divine, then you would produce divine baked goods. You hoped deep down that maybe the confections would temporarily distract your boyfriend from the storm that you knew was brewing. Of course, that was wishful thinking.

But a girl could hope right? you thought as you climbed the flight of stairs to the Nelson & Murdock office, Tupperware of angel cake in hand.

“(Y/N) won’t touch me!”

You froze. You obviously knew who it was and where it’d come from. After all, there was only one office on this floor, it being the one right in front of you.

“Oh, wow, that’s uh …” If you weren’t stuck in your petrified state, you would have placed a hand to your mouth in shock: Why was Matt telling Foggy of all people this!? Foggy was, by no means, a dog , but compared to Matt, he was more prone to cooler side chitchat about sexcapades. You already knew that there was no such thing for Matt to speak of. You just didn’t think he’d pose it in the manner you’d just heard him snap.

“We kiss – well, it’s more like a peck on the lips – and we hold hands, but that’s it. It’s not even about sex or anything, it’s just, well, it’s almost like she’s repulsed by me.” You felt your stomach try to escape your hollowing shell of a body by climbing its way out of your throat. You didn’t mean for – That’s not what – You didn’t think Matt was repulsive at all!!

“We barely cuddle (and if we do, it’s not for long); when we share a bed, I fall asleep holding her but then wake up to find her practically falling off the mattress; hell, even the way we hold hands feels like she wants nothing more than to pull away. And no, that’s not just my suspicion, her heartbeat suggests anxiety!”

With every word, you felt worse and worse. You only pecked because you didn’t want him feeling how chapped you felt your lips were; if he cuddled you long enough, you feared that he would feel the rolls in your skin and realize that your face probably matched; same with sleeping so closely, only you also feared that maybe he could smell the gross morning smell on you; and you worried that he could feel your hands sweating if they remained entwined with his, but apparently he could feel your heartbeat as well!

You tried to inhale but found yourself struggling to. You blanked out for a second, only to be revived by the voice of Matt, your beloved and sweet and deserving boyfriend, confirming something you’d feared he’d eventually conclude: “But it also feels like it’s my fault in the first place. Or something. Really, I don’t know! If she doesn’t even want me to touch her face, then maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised that she doesn’t want to initiate anything more.”

No … No! You’d heard enough. It took nearly everything you had, but you eventually found yourself able to summon the strength to revive your physical being and hurry down the stairs. But not before hearing Foggy chide, “What do you mean you haven’t even done the face – Matt, it’s been a month!”

It didn’t matter how hard you tried to run, the guilt was always able to catch up with you. The damage had been done and it was all your fault.

Your apartment was eerily quiet when Matt arrived to confront you. He still knew you were there, based on the fact that he could hear your heartbeat, but he at least expected to hear crying, considering that he was pretty positive you heard the wrong end of a conversation. What he instead heard was a heartbeat of various emotions: Anger, sadness, and … guilt? Matt wasted no time pretending that he needed to feel his way around your apartment, making a direct beeline to your room where he found … you. On the ground. And if he gently rubbed his fingers together, he could also detect that you were sitting in front of a mirror.

You made no acknowledgement of his presence, though he was pretty certain you knew he was there. Instead, you sat, staring at your reflection. Judging by the muscle tension, you wore a determined expression, but not a good one; more like the determination one feels when they try to force themselves to get better about a bad situation before they were ready to.

Matt quietly, slowly padded over until he stood behind you. He took a quiet breath in: “(Y/N), we need to talk.”

Your stare did not falter. “There’s nothing to talk about; I’m trying to fix it.”

“(Y/N), I don’t think you have the right idea – ”

“I don’t touch you; what’s not to get?”

“(Y/N), would you please just – ” before he could finish his sentence, he heard you scowl and noisily get up from your position on the ground before turning to face him.

“What is it that you want from me, Murdock?” you demanded. Matt’s expression became one of worry. You only ever referred to him by his surname when you were frustrated. “Is it a sorry? Is it not enough that I’m trying to do something that’ll fix everything!?” Worry turned into growing fear: Your voice was hitching, and Matt could smell salt water developing where your eyes ought to be.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay!? I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m – I’m – !!” You could feel your throat constrict, and it was becoming harder to breathe. Harder to see, even. Shit. You thought you had cried all you needed to before Matt had arrived; apparently you were wrong. The initially quiet room soon began to fill with squeaks and pitiful whimpers and hiccups. It also would have echoed with brutal, howling sobs if not for the fact that they were quickly muffled by the torso of Matthew Michael Murdock.

The cries wracked your body, causing you to tremble to the point of falling back down. Matt held you even tighter, guiding you both down to the floor safely without so much as loosening his grip enough for your cries to blast into the room. It was from this position that it all came rushing out: The “I’m sorries”, the “I’m such shits”, all formed into barely coherent sentences. They were met with Matt’s insistences of “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here” and “No you’re not.” A warm hand gently run up and down your back in an effort to rein you back into reality once your personal nor’easter had run its course.

The broken sentences soon followed, to which Matt insisted that you wait until you’d calmed down. It had taken some time before you even managed to so much as hiccup an understandable sentence.

“I-I’m (hic) so-o-o-o s-s-o-orry, Matt,” you quivered in his arms. By now, his shirt was soaked but he didn’t care. He couldn’t even begin to care less, too intent on listening to you. “I j-just (hiccup) – I just want-ed to – to – !!”

“It’s okay, (Y/N),” Matt coaxed. “Take your time.”

But you didn’t take your time; instead, everything, all you’d ever felt, and all that you’d worried up to now, came rushing out like the ugly monstrosity that they had amalgamated.

“I wanted to be pretty enough for you but if you touched me, then you’d be able to ‘see’ everything wrong with me! But then it backfired and then you thought the problem was you and it’s like my shitty self-confidence was just a burden to you and I – I’m so sorry, Matt, oh God – !” Back into his chest you went, half-in shame and half-in an effort to potentially smother yourself. Confrontation was never your forte.

You didn’t stay there long, however, as you felt Matt gently remove you from your attempted safe haven. You tried not to cringe over the verbal lashing that was sure to come, one expressing how stupid you were or how ugly he could finally tell you were. Only … It didn’t come. When you dared to look up at Matt’s face, you found yourself surprised and disheartened to see Matt wearing a countenance that could only be described as … broken-hearted?

“(Y/N),” he whispered, “why would you think anything like that?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, searching for the right words to say. “T-that’s what … You said you felt unwanted!”

“No, I mean why did you ever feel as though you weren’t pretty enough?” Matt began to think back on every compliment he’d ever given you; were they not enough?

As if reading his mind, you shook your head, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Matt, I swear it. But it’s just … Well, look at you!” You both remained quiet after realizing how dumb it was to say that to a blind man. “… You know what I mean. Anyway, Matt, I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but you’re a gorgeous man. You look like you work at a modeling company! But you’re dating me. And I’m … I’m just …” Your voice trailed off. You were so tempted to say exactly what you thought of yourself; it was all you had been thinking for the last month. But was now really a good time to say any of them? Before you could come to a conclusion, however, Matt decided for you:

“You’re intelligent. You are faithful. You are exquisite. You are beautiful.”

You looked back at your boyfriend with judging eyes. “How can you even say that! You’re blin – ” You stopped yourself short, ashamed of even thinking such a thing, let alone daring to nearly say it. Matt, however, seemed perfectly unfazed.

“I know you’re beautiful because you’re (Y/N). I also know you’re exquisite, miraculous, angelic, and breathtaking because you’re (Y/N).” That darling smirk of his began to appear across his features. “Also, Foggy claims that I always know when I’m in the presence of a beautiful woman.”

You found yourself giggling at that comment, marking it as such a comedic turn for an initially and still somewhat tense aura.

“That,” you heard him say, “And I can feel your form through this sweatshirt.” You immediately stopped laughing. Before you could even think to move, he continued, “And I must say, (Y/N), you have quite the cute figure on you.”

Not too many words were exchanged during the process of cleaning you up. Sure, more things needed to be discussed but the entire ordeal that had transpired over the last few hours was enough for one day, you both wordlessly decided. You proceeded with your typical bedtime routine, as though nothing had happened. What was not, typical, however, was what occurred once you wished Matt a goodnight and turned out the light. In fact, what happened was what Foggy would have considered interesting.

Matt was a bit stunned to say the least, feeling you slowly but surely inching your way into his arms. But he accepted it easily. After all, physical touch was something even the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen couldn’t turn down. Even if it was baby steps.

Epilogue:

“…Matt?”

“Hm?”

“… I think I’m ready to do the face thing…”

“ …!”

You had to admit, it felt nice to have Matt’s fingers caressing every bit of your face, warts and all. It would have felt nicer if he’d given it a break after the fourth hour of memorizing your features and just let you sleep.