matt-murdockk

[matt-murdockk]

1k????? oh god?????? thank you so much, damn 😭🫂

Statistically Speaking

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

words: 600 words

summary: Spencer thought he was in a long-term relationship— turns out, he forgot to tell her.

warnings: none, babe. this is pure fluff <3

“Come on, man,” Derek said, arms folded as he stared Spencer down across the break room table. “You can’t just read a thousand relationship books and think that’s the same as the real thing.”

Spencer looked up from the folder in his lap, utterly unbothered. “Thirty-nine books. And they’re peer-reviewed studies. It’s not about anecdotes, it’s about data.”

Penelope leaned over her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Oh boy. He’s going full empirical. This should be good.”

“It’s not that I think I understand relationships,” Spencer continued, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just that I recognize functional dynamics when I see them. And I happen to know what one looks like.”

Derek snorted. “Yeah? Like what, The Notebook?”

“No,” Spencer said. “Like me and Y/N.”

There was a beat of silence.

Y/N, seated two chairs down with a half-drunk coffee in her hand, turned very slowly. “I’m sorry, what now?”

Spencer blinked at her like she’d asked if water was wet. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘you and me’?”

He frowned, confused. “I mean us. Our dynamic. It’s a prime example of a healthy relationship.”

Garcia dropped her muffin.

Derek leaned in like he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. “Go on.”

Spencer tilted his head at Y/N. “You seriously didn’t know?”

She blinked. “Know what exactly?”

“That we’re in a relationship. Or— at least something adjacent to one. I assumed we were both aware of that.”

Y/N stared at him.

Spencer, sensing the disbelief, leaned back in his chair and began to list things off like he was briefing a case. “We text every night before bed. You bring me coffee the way I like it— three sugars, not stirred— almost every day, without asking. I’ve picked you up from the airport twice. You’ve stayed over at my apartment more than once, and you steal my hoodies.”

“That’s just…” She trailed off, looking helplessly at Garcia, who was frozen mid-bite.

Spencer wasn’t done.

“We hold hands when we walk across busy streets. You braid my hair when I’m stressed. I read you poetry once and you cried, which I took as a positive emotional response and not distress.”

Y/N slowly set her coffee down. “Okay.”

“I’ve memorized your Chipotle order,” Spencer added, like that sealed it.

“Okay.”

Spencer leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “We literally hold hands all the time.”

“…Okay, yeah, I see where I went wrong.”

Derek lost it.

Garcia was fanning herself with a napkin, whispering “my stars” under her breath.

Y/N looked like she was debating the moral and logistical weight of throwing herself into the nearest garbage can.

Spencer, meanwhile, just looked vaguely betrayed. “How did you not know?”

She gave him a look. “Because you never said it out loud?”

“I thought it was implied!”

Derek clapped once, loud. “Oh, I live for this.”

Garcia blinked. “Cool, so I’ve been third-wheeling a relationship that wasn’t even technically happening. Love that for me.”

Y/N turned back to Spencer, who was still trying to solve the mystery of how she missed this.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“No,” he said, after a beat. “Just… surprised. I really thought we were on the same page.”

“Well.” She exhaled, slow and a little amused. “We are now.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Does this mean we’re officially dating?”

Y/N shrugged. “Statistically speaking?”

That got the smallest smile out of him.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

a/n: first spencer fic can i get a whoop whoop (i hope this is good, oh god)

[matt-murdockk]

STOP MAKING MY LIL AWKWARD NERDY BOYS BE CONFIDENT AND SO SURE OF THEMSELVES!!! I LIKE THEM BECAUSE THEY’RE NERDY NOT BECAUSE YOU FANFIC WRITERS MAKE THEM EGO MANIC ASSHOLES

[matt-murdockk]

1k???? y'all are INSANE 😭😭😭😭 thank you so much 🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂

Time

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader

words: 2.8k

summary: On their wedding night, (Y/n) disappears in Matt’s arms-blipped without warning. For five years, he mourns her, tormented by grief and hallucinations. When she returns, unchanged, he’s convinced she’s not real. (angst mostly with fluff ending)

warnings: angst, cussing, lack of proofreading rip, set in infinity war - endgame timeline (reader getting blipped, etc)

a/n: Listen, my boy Matt is the PERFECT practice for writing angst. I just like to put him in situations and watch him like he's in a fish tank and I'm outside tapping on the glass. This man absolutely cannot catch a break and while I am partially to blame (cause I'm writing it this time), just how Matt is written in general is in a way that it just makes sense to put him through shit. He is a walking amalgam of Catholic Guilt, adrenaline, and poor decision making and I love him so much. This one is a boatload of angst but I threw in some fluff in the ending because well, we deserve good things.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment door creaked open with the softest thud, and then her back hit it as Matt pressed her gently against the wood, lips grazing her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He was smiling.

That rare, devastating smile he only wore when it was just them.

“You’re supposed to carry me across the threshold, remember?” she whispered, breathless with laughter.

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” Matt murmured. “Just wanted a moment alone with my wife first.”

Wife.

The word made her stomach flip in a good way- warm and giddy and ridiculous.

He scooped her up easily, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back, and she looped her arms around his neck like she’d never let go. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I’m legally required to now,” he said with a smirk. “It’s in the vows. Carry you everywhere. Worship the ground you walk on. Try not to lose my mind over how good you look in that dress.”

“Flawless delivery, Murdock,” she teased. “Truly. I can tell you definitely wrote your own vows.”

He chuckled against her shoulder as he carried her through the doorway into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. Candles flickered. Soft music still hummed faintly from the speaker they forgot to turn off before the ceremony.

And for a second- just one perfect second- it was all stillness. Just them. Just this.

He set her down gently, hands lingering at her waist. They kissed again, slower now. Softer. Everything feeling like it had finally settled into place. She pressed her forehead to his, heart beating a little too fast.

“I think I’m going to cry.”

“I’ll beat you to it,” he murmured, eyes closing, nose brushing hers. “You’re here. You’re mine. We made it.”

She smiled, eyes glassy. “We did.”

They stood there for a while. Just holding each other. Breathing the same air. Wedding bands warm against skin.

But then-

She shifted slightly in his arms. Her brows furrowed.

“Matt?”

He straightened a little, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“I feel... weird.”

He tilted his head, concern filtering through his features. “Weird how?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I don’t know. It’s like- I just got dizzy all of a sudden. Like the room’s moving.”

Matt gently guided her toward the couch, helping her sit down. “Okay. Just breathe. You might be dehydrated. Or just- adrenaline crash.”

She tried to smile. “Yeah. Big day. Lots of emotions. Too many speeches.”

She stood too fast. Her hand slipped from his.

“Careful,” Matt said, already reaching for her again. “Take it slow- ”

“I think I need to throw up,” she mumbled, voice shaky.

“Okay, yeah,” he nodded, already guiding her. “Bathroom’s just- ”

She staggered.

Her balance tipped.

Matt caught her by the waist before she could fall. “Hey. Hey, I got you. It’s okay- ”

She didn’t answer.

Her body felt... lighter. Unsteady. Like her weight was shifting in his arms.

He tilted his head, trying to focus on her. “(Y/n)? You with me?”

She looked up at him.

Confused.

Scared.

“M-Matt, I...”

And then her voice just- cut out.

His arms were suddenly empty.

He blinked.

No sound. No step. No breath.

Just... gone.

The faintest warmth lingered against his fingertips- and then something like dust scattered through them.

“What the- ?” he whispered, stepping back. “(Y/n)?”

His hand shook. Her scent was still in the room. Her heartbeat-

No. No, that wasn’t right.

He turned, listening harder, straining his senses.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

The silence grew louder. His throat closed up.

“(Y/n)?”

He moved down the hallway. Checked the bathroom. The bedroom. “(y/n), c’mon. Say something.”

No heartbeat. No motion. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Like she’d never been there. Matt’s chest started to cave in.

“Okay, this isn’t- this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Maybe you passed out. Maybe you hit your head. Maybe- ”

His foot bumped something.

Her ring.

Her wedding ring.

Lying on the floor.

His knees hit the hardwood before he could stop them. “No.”

He crawled forward, hands blindly reaching, as if she might be hidden just out of reach.

“(Y/n)!” His voice cracked. “Where are you?!”

Still nothing.

Just the flicker of the candles.

Just the soft sound of ash settling.

“No, no- God, no!” He stood again. Stumbled. Slipped.

“(Y/n)!” He shouted so hard it tore something in his throat. “Talk to me!”

He made it to the front door. Opened it. Nothing. No one. No footsteps. No sounds of retreat. Matt’s breathing picked up. His fingers trembled as he unlocked his phone, nearly dropping it before hitting Call.

Foggy.

It rang once. Twice-

Pick up.

The sound of the city outside had changed. He could hear it.

Screaming. Tires screeching. Glass shattering six blocks over. Someone crying for help. Sirens multiplying like wildfire. It all surged into his head at once- too much, too fast.

He pressed his palm against his ear, gritting his teeth. “Too loud. I can’t- ”

Click.

“Matt?” Foggy answered, out of breath. “Hey, shouldn’t you be- ?”

“She’s gone,” Matt said immediately, voice fraying. “Foggy- she was right here, and then she just... disappeared.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

“I mean she turned to ash in my hands,” Matt snapped, breath catching. “I was holding her. She said she felt sick and then- then she just... she was gone.”

There was a pause.

“Matt, hang on- wait- ” Foggy’s voice shifted, panic creeping in. “I think... Matt, something’s happening. It’s not just her.”

Matt stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m outside and people are vanishing. Right in front of me. There was a guy walking beside me- just turned to dust. A woman screaming for her kid, and the kid vanished. A guy in a cab just disappeared behind the wheel, Matt. It crashed into a light post.”

Matt pressed a hand to the center of his chest like he could anchor himself to the sound of Foggy’s voice. But even that was drowned out by the chaos around him.

“I can’t hear her,” he whispered. “Her heartbeat- her breathing- it’s just gone. Like she was never here, foggy.”

Foggy’s voice came through again, strained and tense. “It’s happening everywhere. I can’t keep up. There’s shouting, people running- I think half the crowd outside just vanished. I’m not exaggerating.”

Matt stumbled toward the couch, hand landing on the coffee table. “She was right here.”

“I’m coming to you,” Foggy said quickly. “Stay there, Matt. Don’t go outside- Jesus Christ, someone else just- ”

The line crackled. Cut out. Came back.

Matt’s hands were shaking as he reached for the remote.

The TV flicked on.

"...mass disappearances reported in New York, Chicago, London- this is now confirmed to be a global event..."

Footage played- Times Square chaos. Pedestrians turning to dust mid-step. News anchors looking off-camera in horror. Phones on the ground. Car alarms going off in every direction.

“We are receiving reports that approximately half the world’s population has- vanished.”

The camera panned to a child’s stuffed toy, untouched, lying in a pile of ash. Everything was still. Except the noise. And the empty space beside him on the floor.

“She was right here,” he said again, softly. Like it might undo it.

“She was right here.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

five years later

She came back mid-step.

One foot lifted toward the bathroom- and when it landed, everything was wrong.

The apartment was darker. Colder. Rearranged.

The soft glow from the corner lamp was unfamiliar. The kitchen counter had a different crack. The rug was new. The air carried a different scent- like dust and time and a city that had moved on without her.

“Matt?” she called, voice hoarse.

Silence.

She stepped further in. The living room looked lived-in, but not by her. Not anymore. Not for a long time. The coffee table was cluttered with open case files. There was a cane by the door she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded faster.

“Matt-?”

And then he was there. He stood in the doorway like he’d been carved from stone, unreadable and unmoved. Then, quietly- too calmly- he said, “So. You’re back.”

She stopped cold.

“Matt-”

He tilted his head slightly, almost as if studying her. “Took longer this time.”

“What…?” she breathed.

“Usually you show up around hour thirty-six,” he said, like it was a fact. “Right after the exhaustion hits but before the whiskey does anything useful.”

Her stomach twisted. “Matt, I’m not-”

“Don’t,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t do that.”

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t what you think.”

“No?” His voice was soft, even, lethal. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like every other time I’ve lost my mind and imagined you standing in this room.”

(Y/n) blinked, her chest rising and falling too fast. “Matt, I- I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, no trace of humor. “You wouldn’t.”

“I was just- I felt sick and then it was cold, and everything looked wrong and-" Her words tangled, tripping over each other. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer.

“Matt?”

Nothing.

She took a tentative step forward. “Please. Say something. What happened? What- what’s going on?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp, like a scalpel slicing through skin without even trying.

“Don’t do this to me again.”

Her breath caught. “What- what do you mean, again?”

“I know your routine now,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “You show up, confused. You ask questions. You cry. And then just when I start to believe you might be real- when I almost let myself feel something again- you vanish.”

“Matt, I don’t- ”

“No,” he snapped. “Stop. Just stop.”

She froze. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his jaw locked, eyes unreadable.

“You know what it’s like to bury someone without a body, (Y/n)?” he asked. “To sit in this apartment with your ring in my hand, trying to convince myself that ash on the floor was all that was left of you?”

She shook her head, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t remember anything-”

“Exactly,” he said, bitter. “You never do. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You pretend like you’re all confused. Like you don’t know what’s happening. And I- I fall for it. Every time. Like an idiot.”

“Matt- please, just listen to my heartbeat-”

“I did,” he cut in. “I’ve heard it before. Right before it disappears.”

Her lips trembled. “I swear I’m not-”

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, his voice suddenly shaking, but no less cruel. “You don’t get to come back here like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave me bleeding on the floor that night. Like I didn’t spend years trying to claw my way out of what you left behind.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she whispered.

“But you’re dead,” Matt hissed, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat off his skin. “You died. And whatever this is- this illusion, this dream- it doesn’t change that. You don’t get to hurt me again.”

He said it like a closing statement. Like a sentence passed down after a trial that never had a chance. But he didn’t stop there.

“You think this is easy for me?” he went on, voice low, cracking at the edges now. “You think I want to keep seeing you in doorways? Hearing your voice when I close my eyes? You think I haven’t begged for it to stop?”

(Y/n) stood frozen, lips parted, tears streaking silently down her face.

“I have spent five years trying to forget the exact way you said my name before you disappeared. Five years trying not to hear it in someone else’s mouth. Five years waking up thinking you might be there- just once- and then realizing that all I’ve got left is a bed that’s too big and silence that’s too loud.”

He was pacing now, hands in his hair, breathing hard, unable to stop himself.

“You were my wife. You were supposed to be the rest of my life. And I had you for minutes. You were ripped out of my arms before I even got to love you properly. Do you understand that? Do you even get what you left behind?”

“Matt-”

“I grieved you like a man who’d never believe in God again,” he growled. “I went back to that night a thousand times in my head-wondering if I missed something, if I could’ve saved you, if I’d just done one thing different-”

“Matt-”

“I begged,” he snapped. “I begged God to bring you back. I lost everything trying to survive you. And now you show up here, looking exactly the same, like time hasn’t touched you, like you’re just picking up where you left off- like you didn’t burn me to the fucking ground-”

“Matt.”

She said it once.

Quietly.

And then she reached for him.

He flinched on instinct, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, gently, deliberately, she took his hand in hers- still trembling from the weight of his words- and guided it up between them.

To her chest. To her heartbeat. Right there. Steady. Real. Alive. His breath hitched. She kept his hand pressed there, fingers wrapped around his wrist like she could anchor him to this one undeniable truth.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not in your head. I don’t know how or why or what the hell happened, but I’m here.”

Matt didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hand pressed to her chest, like he didn’t trust what he was feeling. Like it might stop if he acknowledged it out loud. Then- suddenly- he let out a shaky breath and pulled her into him, hard.

His voice was muffled against her shoulder. “What the fuck.”

Her hands gripped his shirt like she was afraid he’d drop her again. “Yeah, what the fuck. I don’t know what’s happening.”

He laughed once, breathless and half-broken. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They just stood there for a second. Breathing each other in. Trying to recalibrate. Then, against his chest, she mumbled, “You look like shit, by the way.”

It slipped out before she could stop it. Matt let out an actual laugh- short, incredulous, almost like it startled him.

“That’s not funny,” he said, wiping at his eyes, still half-laughing.

She smiled weakly. “Little bit funny.”

He shook his head, still not quite believing any of it. “God, I missed you.”

And then he kissed her.

Desperate and real and messy- too much force, too much urgency, like he didn’t trust it to last. His hands found her face, holding her like he needed proof she was solid. She kissed him back just as hard, fingers in his hair, anchoring him to now. To her.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And that was enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a little bonus content because well it was funny in my head

A few days later

She was curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled, one of his old hoodies hanging off her shoulder. The TV was on, volume low, neither of them really watching.

She was still catching up- on everything. The blip. The aftermath. The years she missed. Sometimes it hit her like a freight train. Other times, like now, it just snuck up and poked her in the ribs.

She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “Wait a second.”

Matt tilted his head toward her. “Uh-oh.”

She sat up a little. “So… technically, you’re five years older than me now?”

He blinked. “That’s what you’re choosing to focus on right now?”

“It’s a valid question,” she insisted, grinning. “I married a man my age, not some grizzled thirty-something.”

He scoffed. “Grizzled?”

“I mean, I don’t see any grey hairs, but-”

“I’m blind, not deaf. I heard that smirk.”

She tried to hold back a laugh. Failed. “So you’re like… what, thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-seven,” he corrected flatly.

“Oh no. I married an older man.”

Matt deadpanned, “And I married a time traveler. Guess we’re even.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “You gonna start calling me ‘kid’ now?”

He turned toward her, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Only if you want to see how fast a five-year age gap doesn’t matter.”

Her face flushed. “Okay, grandpa.”

Matt groaned. “Regret. Immediate regret.”

She laughed, leaning back into him again, warm and solid and finally, finally real.

“Still married me,” she said, smug.

“Still would,” he replied, without hesitation.

And that shut her up for a minute.

[matt-murdockk]

Nine-Nine!

an extremely self indulgent brooklyn 99 and criminal minds crossover

pairing: spencer reid x reader (with a tiny bit of almost jake peralta x reader for funsies)

words: 3.0k

warnings: none, this is fluff and comedy <3

summary: Spencer Reid’s grip on sanity? Loose. (Y/n)’s patience? Tested. Jake Peralta? Accidentally in the middle of a romcom finale with no snacks. There’s banter, jealousy, a tasered vending machine, and one (1) emergency love confession.

a/n: crossover episode my beloved; this was extremely fun to write lolllllll, hope you like it <3

Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.

“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”

“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”

Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s… statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”

She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”

He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”

She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”

Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”

“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”

“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.

Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”

JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”

“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.

“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”

Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”

She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”

He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”

“I outrank your list.”

“You outrank logic?”

“I outrank you, Reid.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”

“You’re never letting that go, are you.”

“Absolutely not.”

(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”

Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”

And just like that, she paused.

It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.

Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”

He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”

“That was one time.”

“I still have the video.”

Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”

“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.

And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.

But his knee brushed against hers under the table.

And he didn’t move it.

——————————————————————————————————

The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.

Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.

“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”

The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.

“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”

(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”

Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.

“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”

Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”

Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.

“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”

“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”

Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”

She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”

“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”

(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”

“It’s the only thing holding me together.”

Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.

Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”

Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”

Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.

He walked faster.

Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”

JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

——————————————————————————————————

The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.

Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.

“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”

(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”

Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”

She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”

Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”

She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”

He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”

“Oh, just charming?” she teased.

Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”

(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”

He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”

A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.

Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.

“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.

Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”

“With him.”

“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”

The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.

“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.

“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.

“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”

“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”

Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.

“What? No— I’m working.”

“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”

Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”

“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”

“I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.

He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.

“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”

Emily stayed quiet.

He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.

“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.

Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.

“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”

He shook his head.

“This isn’t that.”

Emily just watched him.

“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”

A pause. His voice dipped even lower.

“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.

“…She’s really okay. With him.”

Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”

He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”

Emily tilted her head. “And?”

Spencer blinked.

“…And I think I’m in love with her.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”

Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”

He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”

“You tell her,” she said gently.

“What? No, I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”

Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”

He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.

Spencer exhaled. “Yeah. Okay. I’m completely screwed.”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."

"You'll live."

"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.

——————————————————————————————————

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.

Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.

“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”

(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”

She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”

Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”

“But—”

“Wait!”

Both of them turned.

Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.

(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”

Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”

He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.

“I need to say something.”

(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”

Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.

“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.

“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”

“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”

“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”

Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”

He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”

(Y/n)’s breath caught.

Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”

He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”

Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.

(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”

“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”

Silence.

Then—

“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”

His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.

Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.

“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”

They didn’t hear him.

(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”

She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”

Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—

“Thank you for not asking her out.”

Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”

Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”

He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.

God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Rosa.

[matt-murdockk]

inshallah jk rowling loses her fortune and all her hateful deeds are returned to her x10

[matt-murdockk]

Statistically Speaking

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

words: 600 words

summary: Spencer thought he was in a long-term relationship— turns out, he forgot to tell her.

warnings: none, babe. this is pure fluff <3

“Come on, man,” Derek said, arms folded as he stared Spencer down across the break room table. “You can’t just read a thousand relationship books and think that’s the same as the real thing.”

Spencer looked up from the folder in his lap, utterly unbothered. “Thirty-nine books. And they’re peer-reviewed studies. It’s not about anecdotes, it’s about data.”

Penelope leaned over her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Oh boy. He’s going full empirical. This should be good.”

“It’s not that I think I understand relationships,” Spencer continued, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just that I recognize functional dynamics when I see them. And I happen to know what one looks like.”

Derek snorted. “Yeah? Like what, The Notebook?”

“No,” Spencer said. “Like me and Y/N.”

There was a beat of silence.

Y/N, seated two chairs down with a half-drunk coffee in her hand, turned very slowly. “I’m sorry, what now?”

Spencer blinked at her like she’d asked if water was wet. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘you and me’?”

He frowned, confused. “I mean us. Our dynamic. It’s a prime example of a healthy relationship.”

Garcia dropped her muffin.

Derek leaned in like he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. “Go on.”

Spencer tilted his head at Y/N. “You seriously didn’t know?”

She blinked. “Know what exactly?”

“That we’re in a relationship. Or— at least something adjacent to one. I assumed we were both aware of that.”

Y/N stared at him.

Spencer, sensing the disbelief, leaned back in his chair and began to list things off like he was briefing a case. “We text every night before bed. You bring me coffee the way I like it— three sugars, not stirred— almost every day, without asking. I’ve picked you up from the airport twice. You’ve stayed over at my apartment more than once, and you steal my hoodies.”

“That’s just…” She trailed off, looking helplessly at Garcia, who was frozen mid-bite.

Spencer wasn’t done.

“We hold hands when we walk across busy streets. You braid my hair when I’m stressed. I read you poetry once and you cried, which I took as a positive emotional response and not distress.”

Y/N slowly set her coffee down. “Okay.”

“I’ve memorized your Chipotle order,” Spencer added, like that sealed it.

“Okay.”

Spencer leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “We literally hold hands all the time.”

“…Okay, yeah, I see where I went wrong.”

Derek lost it.

Garcia was fanning herself with a napkin, whispering “my stars” under her breath.

Y/N looked like she was debating the moral and logistical weight of throwing herself into the nearest garbage can.

Spencer, meanwhile, just looked vaguely betrayed. “How did you not know?”

She gave him a look. “Because you never said it out loud?”

“I thought it was implied!”

Derek clapped once, loud. “Oh, I live for this.”

Garcia blinked. “Cool, so I’ve been third-wheeling a relationship that wasn’t even technically happening. Love that for me.”

Y/N turned back to Spencer, who was still trying to solve the mystery of how she missed this.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“No,” he said, after a beat. “Just… surprised. I really thought we were on the same page.”

“Well.” She exhaled, slow and a little amused. “We are now.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Does this mean we’re officially dating?”

Y/N shrugged. “Statistically speaking?”

That got the smallest smile out of him.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

a/n: first spencer fic can i get a whoop whoop (i hope this is good, oh god)

[matt-murdockk]

Daredevil: Born Again Season 1 Episode 09 - Straight to Hell

[matt-murdockk]

Daredevil: Born Again Season 1 Episode 09 - Straight to Hell

[matt-murdockk]

Taglist:

@moth-murdock @tsukiko26 @xoxabs88xox @badbishsblog

a/n: Taglist is always open, lmk if you'd like to be added, I hope you like it!

Killshot 0.2 | Denial is a river

I ain't a killer, but don't push me

series masterlist | full masterlist

matt murdock x black widow! reader | action, conflict, revelation | words: 2.2k | fic from reader's pov

summary: Your domestic bliss seems to be hitting a roadblock. Old habits die hard?

Retirement looked good on me, if I can say so myself.

Most days, it looked like a half-unpacked box of used books, a cinnamon candle burning too low, and a handwritten sign that said No, we don’t sell Colleen Hoover taped above the register.

Some days it looked like bad takeout and worse TV with Yelena. Other days, it looked like laughter spilling out of a bar booth with Karen and Foggy while Matt nursed a glass of O'Melveny's like he hadn’t just helped win a case that should’ve been impossible.

It was good. Better than I thought it could be.

So of course, something had to ruin it. Just my fucking luck.

It started at a bodega. Late night, nothing fancy— just me, a bag of hot Cheetos, and a cashier who looked like he was one mild inconvenience away from quitting forever. I was paying in coins because I refused to break a twenty for junk food. A totally normal night.

Until the guy walked in.

Tall. Hoodie up. Nerves buzzing off him like static. He didn’t see me— too focused on the cashier, who stiffened the second their eyes met. That was my first clue.

Second clue? The guy didn’t ask for anything. Just slammed a hand on the counter and hissed something under his breath.

I watched the cashier fumble for the till.

No weapon. No yelling. Just quiet menace.

“Hey,” I said softly.

The guy didn’t turn around.

The cashier glanced at me— wide-eyed. I shook my head once, slowly, and mouthed Don’t.

Then I stepped back, silent.

Waited.

He didn’t even know I was there until my arm locked around his throat and he hit the floor.

No one screamed. No one moved. I made sure of it.

I looked down at him— dazed, breathless, and officially having a Very Bad Night. “You ever pull this stunt again, I’m snapping your spine.”

He tried to mutter something. I tightened my grip.

“Not a fucking suggestion.”

The cashier thanked me when it was over.

Apparently the guy came around often. No weapon. Just threats. Cops didn’t care— said it wasn’t serious unless someone bled.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Cops are real big on bleeding.”

The guy groaned at my feet.

I looked at the cashier. “You didn’t see anything. Got it?”

He nodded like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

I grabbed the mugger by the hoodie and dragged him out back like a sack of garbage. Dragging a grown man two blocks while avoiding security cams was easier than it should’ve been. Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t exactly known for its watchful eye.

By the time we reached the rooftop, he was starting to come to. I put a waste piece of cloth over his head for anonymity and whatnot and tied his hands to a pipe with zip ties I absolutely didn’t carry around regularly, and crouched in front of him.

He groaned. “The fuck are you…?”

“Tired,” I said. “Mostly. I had cookies in the oven.”

He looked up, blinking. “Lady, you’re insane.”

“Funny,” I muttered, flipping the knife between my fingers, “you’re not the first guy to say that tonight.”

I got closer.

“Now,” I said, voice low. “Give me one reason not to throw you off this roof.”

He coughed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You won’t.”

I hit him.

Not hard. Just enough.

He choked. “Jesus—!”

“Wrong,” I snapped. “Try again. One reason. Anything.”

“You don’t wanna kill me.”

“That’s not a reason,” I said. “That’s a prayer.”

He laughed again. I hit him again.

“Okay, okay!” he spat. “Fuck, man. I— look, I didn’t even hurt anyone. I just needed money. That kid’s a pushover. Easy target. It’s not—”

“Right,” I cut in, standing. “You’re the victim.”

“C’mon—!”

“I’m not fucking around, asshole,” I growled, leaning down again. “You’re really fucking up my retirement. You think I like doing this? You think I want to spend my night scrubbing blood off my sleeves?”

He looked up at me. Eyes wide, I can tell. Real fear, this time.

Good.

“You’ve got two options,” I said. “One— disappear. I never see your face in this part of the city again. Two— I make sure no one does.”

I saw the exact moment he believed me.

He nodded. Fast. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m gone.”

I straightened. “That’s what I thought.”

I turned to go. Got about five steps away before I heard it.

“Aren’t you gonna untie me?” the guy rasped, voice somewhere between incredulous and pathetic.

I didn’t stop walking. “Figure it out yourself, asshole.”

“What the hell—”

“You wanted to be tough, right?” I called over my shoulder. “Cool. Be tough. Use your brain. Gnaw through the zip ties or whatever. Let the shame motivate you.”

“Lady—!”

I paused at the edge of the roof, turning just enough so my voice carried.

“Next time you fuck around,” I said calmly, “make sure it’s not with someone who knows how to make a zip tie cut off your circulation in under thirty minutes.”

And then I was walking again. I was halfway to the fire escape when I felt it.

Not footsteps. Not sound.

Just… presence.

A shift in the air. Like the weight of the city tilted slightly.

“Leaving so soon?” a voice asked behind me. Smooth. Gravel-edged. Familiar.

I turned slowly.

There he was. Red suit. Cowl pulled up. Billy clubs in hand like it was part of him.

Oh.

Hello, Daredevil.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen stood with one foot on the roof ledge like he’d been born in shadow and stayed there just for fun.

“Awfully dramatic entrance,” I said.

He tilted his head. “Says the woman who zip-tied a guy to a gas pipe.”

“Takes one to know one.”

He didn’t smile. But I could tell he was amused.

“You should’ve called the cops,” he said.

I snorted. “Like that'll help.”

He said nothing.

I crossed my arms. “Or is that your thing? You get to keep people in line, but the rest of us have to sit back and light candles?”

“Someone has to draw the line,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Cool. Let me know when they stop moving it.”

A pause. Then—

“Who are you?”

I tilted my head. “Does it matter?”

“I like to know who’s working in my city.”

“Working?” I echoed. “Oh, that wasn't working. Just a temporary relapse. Some might even call it a mistake.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Look harder.”

He took a step forward. Not threatening— just curious.

“Name?”

I smiled— small, sharp, and empty.

“Nobody.”

He frowned. I think. I don't know, man. The mask doesn't exactly convey emotion.

“I was never here.”

And then I dropped down the fire escape like a ghost.

No sound. No name. No goodbyes.

Because if I stayed any longer, I might’ve said something I didn’t mean. Like how I missed this. God help me, I missed it so much.

I didn’t sleep that night. Not from guilt— God, no. I’ve made peace with my particular brand of justice a long time ago.

It was the stillness that kept me up. The way it rang louder now. Like something inside me had been switched on again, and no amount of chamomile tea or late-night sitcom reruns could turn it off.

By morning, I’d made it through three cups of coffee and zero pages of the book I’d been trying to finish for a week. So I did what any sane, well-adjusted person would do in this situation.

I called Yelena.

She picked up on the third ring, voice raspy. “If this isn’t about food or someone you're fucking I’m hanging up.”

“I did something.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“Okay. How dead is he?”

“He’s not.”

“…How maimed?”

“Moderately?”

Yelena sighed, then I heard movement on her end— rustling sheets, a thump, possibly her elbow hitting a wall.

“I’m coming over.”

Ten minutes later, she kicked open the bookstore’s back door with a coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. Black hoodie. No makeup. Hair a mess. Still somehow looking like she walked off a magazine cover called Casually Dangerous Weekly.

She flopped into the chair across from mine, threw her legs up like she paid rent, and took a bite of her bagel before saying, “Talk.”

So I did.

The bodega. The mugger. The rooftop. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself.

Yelena listened quietly— which was rare. Her eyes narrowed at the right moments. She only interrupted twice to curse at the mugger, and once to mutter, “That’s hot,” when I mentioned Daredevil’s whole rooftop brooding thing.

When I finally finished, she took a long sip of her drink and said, “I fucking knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That you missed it.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s literally the point.”

“No, the point is this place is a mess,” I snapped. “That guy? He’d been doing this for weeks. The cops knew. They didn’t do shit. Daredevil’s out here zip-lining from building to building trying to keep people from dying and for what? For what?”

Yelena just stared.

I exhaled. “It’s just… unfair. I get to sit in this peaceful little bookstore, hang out with you and Matt and Foggy and Karen, drink good coffee and pretend like everything’s okay— and then shit like this happens and I remember it’s not.”

She leaned back, arms crossed. “Yeah. And I told you that like a hundred times before you moved in.”

I rubbed my face. “I know.”

“You said you wanted peace. That’s what you have.”

“I know,” I said again, quieter this time.

Yelena didn’t press. She never does. Not unless she really has to.

Time passed.

Not a lot. Just enough for the bruises on my knuckles to fade and for the guy on the roof to probably develop a healthy phobia of strong women in bookstores.

But the stillness didn’t return.

And worse— I didn’t want it to.

That was the part that made me feel like a traitor to myself. I liked it. That night. That rush. The clarity of it. The power in knowing I could stop something bad from happening and then actually doing it.

I was still me. Under all this softness. Under the sweater vests and candle wax and paperbacks with cracked spines.

I guess Killshot never really left. She just got quieter. And I don't know how I feel about that.

And life— ironically— was good. Blissful, even.

Matt, Karen, and Foggy had all grown on me like a very well-dressed fungus. We had lunch together more days than not. Drinks on Fridays. Debate night once a month that I never won because Matt was a lawyer and Foggy was worse (read: brutal).

Karen brought pie sometimes. I brought sarcasm and low standards. It balanced out.

Yelena popped in like a hurricane now and then. Usually when I was least prepared for it. Sometimes she and Matt would argue about Russian literature or American diplomacy and I’d just sit there eating popcorn, enjoying the chaos.

It was… beautiful. Honestly.

But then I’d see the bruises on someone’s wrist when they came into the shop. Hear Foggy talk about a pro bono case where the victim didn’t get justice. Watch Karen’s eyes darken after another lost witness or crooked testimony.

And every time, the itch would return. The one I’d buried. The one that whispered you could fix this. That you used to fix this.

And some nights, I’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about rooftop threats and flickering streetlights and a man in a red mask who asked me who I was— and I’d wonder if maybe the question scared me because I didn’t have an answer anymore.

Because maybe I wasn’t just Y/N, the retired bookstore owner. Maybe I never had been. Worse? I don't know if that's all I wanted to be anymore.

Feeling like this about the life I so meticulously built for myself, it felt like a betrayal. Aren't I supposed to like domesticity? Shouldn't I be satisfied with retirement? I mean, yes. I am happy with this life. Honestly? I love my life. I hang out with my friends all the time, I love my day job that's doing well enough to keep the doors open, I don't have to keep moving all the time, or be in constant fear for my life, or pretend like I am somebody else. Well, the last one not so much, but everything considered? I am content.

I am content?

No, the fuck I am not. I cannot sleep at night knowing somebody out there is violating the fuck out of an innocent person. It's not fair that I get to live a comfortable happy life when there are assholes that prey on others. It's fucked up enough that shit like this keeps happening, but what's worse is having the power to do something about it and still being a sitting duck.

Oh, fuck. I really did not see this coming. Welcome back Killshot, I guess.

[matt-murdockk]

Killshot 0.2 | Denial is a river

I ain't a killer, but don't push me

series masterlist | full masterlist

matt murdock x black widow! reader | action, conflict, revelation | words: 2.2k | fic from reader's pov

summary: Your domestic bliss seems to be hitting a roadblock. Old habits die hard?

Retirement looked good on me, if I can say so myself.

Most days, it looked like a half-unpacked box of used books, a cinnamon candle burning too low, and a handwritten sign that said No, we don’t sell Colleen Hoover taped above the register.

Some days it looked like bad takeout and worse TV with Yelena. Other days, it looked like laughter spilling out of a bar booth with Karen and Foggy while Matt nursed a glass of O'Melveny's like he hadn’t just helped win a case that should’ve been impossible.

It was good. Better than I thought it could be.

So of course, something had to ruin it. Just my fucking luck.

It started at a bodega. Late night, nothing fancy— just me, a bag of hot Cheetos, and a cashier who looked like he was one mild inconvenience away from quitting forever. I was paying in coins because I refused to break a twenty for junk food. A totally normal night.

Until the guy walked in.

Tall. Hoodie up. Nerves buzzing off him like static. He didn’t see me— too focused on the cashier, who stiffened the second their eyes met. That was my first clue.

Second clue? The guy didn’t ask for anything. Just slammed a hand on the counter and hissed something under his breath.

I watched the cashier fumble for the till.

No weapon. No yelling. Just quiet menace.

“Hey,” I said softly.

The guy didn’t turn around.

The cashier glanced at me— wide-eyed. I shook my head once, slowly, and mouthed Don’t.

Then I stepped back, silent.

Waited.

He didn’t even know I was there until my arm locked around his throat and he hit the floor.

No one screamed. No one moved. I made sure of it.

I looked down at him— dazed, breathless, and officially having a Very Bad Night. “You ever pull this stunt again, I’m snapping your spine.”

He tried to mutter something. I tightened my grip.

“Not a fucking suggestion.”

The cashier thanked me when it was over.

Apparently the guy came around often. No weapon. Just threats. Cops didn’t care— said it wasn’t serious unless someone bled.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Cops are real big on bleeding.”

The guy groaned at my feet.

I looked at the cashier. “You didn’t see anything. Got it?”

He nodded like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

I grabbed the mugger by the hoodie and dragged him out back like a sack of garbage. Dragging a grown man two blocks while avoiding security cams was easier than it should’ve been. Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t exactly known for its watchful eye.

By the time we reached the rooftop, he was starting to come to. I put a waste piece of cloth over his head for anonymity and whatnot and tied his hands to a pipe with zip ties I absolutely didn’t carry around regularly, and crouched in front of him.

He groaned. “The fuck are you…?”

“Tired,” I said. “Mostly. I had cookies in the oven.”

He looked up, blinking. “Lady, you’re insane.”

“Funny,” I muttered, flipping the knife between my fingers, “you’re not the first guy to say that tonight.”

I got closer.

“Now,” I said, voice low. “Give me one reason not to throw you off this roof.”

He coughed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You won’t.”

I hit him.

Not hard. Just enough.

He choked. “Jesus—!”

“Wrong,” I snapped. “Try again. One reason. Anything.”

“You don’t wanna kill me.”

“That’s not a reason,” I said. “That’s a prayer.”

He laughed again. I hit him again.

“Okay, okay!” he spat. “Fuck, man. I— look, I didn’t even hurt anyone. I just needed money. That kid’s a pushover. Easy target. It’s not—”

“Right,” I cut in, standing. “You’re the victim.”

“C’mon—!”

“I’m not fucking around, asshole,” I growled, leaning down again. “You’re really fucking up my retirement. You think I like doing this? You think I want to spend my night scrubbing blood off my sleeves?”

He looked up at me. Eyes wide, I can tell. Real fear, this time.

Good.

“You’ve got two options,” I said. “One— disappear. I never see your face in this part of the city again. Two— I make sure no one does.”

I saw the exact moment he believed me.

He nodded. Fast. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m gone.”

I straightened. “That’s what I thought.”

I turned to go. Got about five steps away before I heard it.

“Aren’t you gonna untie me?” the guy rasped, voice somewhere between incredulous and pathetic.

I didn’t stop walking. “Figure it out yourself, asshole.”

“What the hell—”

“You wanted to be tough, right?” I called over my shoulder. “Cool. Be tough. Use your brain. Gnaw through the zip ties or whatever. Let the shame motivate you.”

“Lady—!”

I paused at the edge of the roof, turning just enough so my voice carried.

“Next time you fuck around,” I said calmly, “make sure it’s not with someone who knows how to make a zip tie cut off your circulation in under thirty minutes.”

And then I was walking again. I was halfway to the fire escape when I felt it.

Not footsteps. Not sound.

Just… presence.

A shift in the air. Like the weight of the city tilted slightly.

“Leaving so soon?” a voice asked behind me. Smooth. Gravel-edged. Familiar.

I turned slowly.

There he was. Red suit. Cowl pulled up. Billy clubs in hand like it was part of him.

Oh.

Hello, Daredevil.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen stood with one foot on the roof ledge like he’d been born in shadow and stayed there just for fun.

“Awfully dramatic entrance,” I said.

He tilted his head. “Says the woman who zip-tied a guy to a gas pipe.”

“Takes one to know one.”

He didn’t smile. But I could tell he was amused.

“You should’ve called the cops,” he said.

I snorted. “Like that'll help.”

He said nothing.

I crossed my arms. “Or is that your thing? You get to keep people in line, but the rest of us have to sit back and light candles?”

“Someone has to draw the line,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Cool. Let me know when they stop moving it.”

A pause. Then—

“Who are you?”

I tilted my head. “Does it matter?”

“I like to know who’s working in my city.”

“Working?” I echoed. “Oh, that wasn't working. Just a temporary relapse. Some might even call it a mistake.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Look harder.”

He took a step forward. Not threatening— just curious.

“Name?”

I smiled— small, sharp, and empty.

“Nobody.”

He frowned. I think. I don't know, man. The mask doesn't exactly convey emotion.

“I was never here.”

And then I dropped down the fire escape like a ghost.

No sound. No name. No goodbyes.

Because if I stayed any longer, I might’ve said something I didn’t mean. Like how I missed this. God help me, I missed it so much.

I didn’t sleep that night. Not from guilt— God, no. I’ve made peace with my particular brand of justice a long time ago.

It was the stillness that kept me up. The way it rang louder now. Like something inside me had been switched on again, and no amount of chamomile tea or late-night sitcom reruns could turn it off.

By morning, I’d made it through three cups of coffee and zero pages of the book I’d been trying to finish for a week. So I did what any sane, well-adjusted person would do in this situation.

I called Yelena.

She picked up on the third ring, voice raspy. “If this isn’t about food or someone you're fucking I’m hanging up.”

“I did something.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“Okay. How dead is he?”

“He’s not.”

“…How maimed?”

“Moderately?”

Yelena sighed, then I heard movement on her end— rustling sheets, a thump, possibly her elbow hitting a wall.

“I’m coming over.”

Ten minutes later, she kicked open the bookstore’s back door with a coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. Black hoodie. No makeup. Hair a mess. Still somehow looking like she walked off a magazine cover called Casually Dangerous Weekly.

She flopped into the chair across from mine, threw her legs up like she paid rent, and took a bite of her bagel before saying, “Talk.”

So I did.

The bodega. The mugger. The rooftop. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself.

Yelena listened quietly— which was rare. Her eyes narrowed at the right moments. She only interrupted twice to curse at the mugger, and once to mutter, “That’s hot,” when I mentioned Daredevil’s whole rooftop brooding thing.

When I finally finished, she took a long sip of her drink and said, “I fucking knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That you missed it.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s literally the point.”

“No, the point is this place is a mess,” I snapped. “That guy? He’d been doing this for weeks. The cops knew. They didn’t do shit. Daredevil’s out here zip-lining from building to building trying to keep people from dying and for what? For what?”

Yelena just stared.

I exhaled. “It’s just… unfair. I get to sit in this peaceful little bookstore, hang out with you and Matt and Foggy and Karen, drink good coffee and pretend like everything’s okay— and then shit like this happens and I remember it’s not.”

She leaned back, arms crossed. “Yeah. And I told you that like a hundred times before you moved in.”

I rubbed my face. “I know.”

“You said you wanted peace. That’s what you have.”

“I know,” I said again, quieter this time.

Yelena didn’t press. She never does. Not unless she really has to.

Time passed.

Not a lot. Just enough for the bruises on my knuckles to fade and for the guy on the roof to probably develop a healthy phobia of strong women in bookstores.

But the stillness didn’t return.

And worse— I didn’t want it to.

That was the part that made me feel like a traitor to myself. I liked it. That night. That rush. The clarity of it. The power in knowing I could stop something bad from happening and then actually doing it.

I was still me. Under all this softness. Under the sweater vests and candle wax and paperbacks with cracked spines.

I guess Killshot never really left. She just got quieter. And I don't know how I feel about that.

And life— ironically— was good. Blissful, even.

Matt, Karen, and Foggy had all grown on me like a very well-dressed fungus. We had lunch together more days than not. Drinks on Fridays. Debate night once a month that I never won because Matt was a lawyer and Foggy was worse (read: brutal).

Karen brought pie sometimes. I brought sarcasm and low standards. It balanced out.

Yelena popped in like a hurricane now and then. Usually when I was least prepared for it. Sometimes she and Matt would argue about Russian literature or American diplomacy and I’d just sit there eating popcorn, enjoying the chaos.

It was… beautiful. Honestly.

But then I’d see the bruises on someone’s wrist when they came into the shop. Hear Foggy talk about a pro bono case where the victim didn’t get justice. Watch Karen’s eyes darken after another lost witness or crooked testimony.

And every time, the itch would return. The one I’d buried. The one that whispered you could fix this. That you used to fix this.

And some nights, I’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about rooftop threats and flickering streetlights and a man in a red mask who asked me who I was— and I’d wonder if maybe the question scared me because I didn’t have an answer anymore.

Because maybe I wasn’t just Y/N, the retired bookstore owner. Maybe I never had been. Worse? I don't know if that's all I wanted to be anymore.

Feeling like this about the life I so meticulously built for myself, it felt like a betrayal. Aren't I supposed to like domesticity? Shouldn't I be satisfied with retirement? I mean, yes. I am happy with this life. Honestly? I love my life. I hang out with my friends all the time, I love my day job that's doing well enough to keep the doors open, I don't have to keep moving all the time, or be in constant fear for my life, or pretend like I am somebody else. Well, the last one not so much, but everything considered? I am content.

I am content?

No, the fuck I am not. I cannot sleep at night knowing somebody out there is violating the fuck out of an innocent person. It's not fair that I get to live a comfortable happy life when there are assholes that prey on others. It's fucked up enough that shit like this keeps happening, but what's worse is having the power to do something about it and still being a sitting duck.

Oh, fuck. I really did not see this coming. Welcome back Killshot, I guess.

[matt-murdockk]

I can fix him (no really I can)

They shake their heads saying, "God help her" When I tell them he's my man But your good Lord doesn't need to lift a finger I can fix him, no, really I can And only I can

college!matt murdock x fem!reader | fluff— a whole lotta fluff | sorta friends to lovers? | fic from reader's pov, then a pov switch to third person

Matt Murdock famously doesn't stick around for longer than a month, tops. You were determined to change that.

Pre-law golden boy with an aura that exudes confidence, Matt was the person everyone either wanted to be, or wanted to be with. He knew that, and his faux modesty only made it worse for the masses desperate to get a piece of him. Am I one of—? Please, I'd fuck a tree before I fuck Matt Murdock. Not that I hate him or anything. I'm just not on the bed anyone with abs and a personality bandwagon. Good for him for all that attention he's getting, but my ties with him start and end in class. He's just a classmate.

Okay, maybe not just a classmate.

We share notes. Sometimes. Only when he forgets his, which is rare, because apparently being hot and capable is a combo this man insists on wielding like a goddamn weapon. Once, he offered to buy me coffee as a thank you and I made the mistake of saying yes. We ended up talking for an hour. One hour. And somehow I left that conversation knowing his middle name, his favourite diner his dad used to take him to, and exactly what kind of espresso he drinks before a big exam.

It was fine. It’s fine. People have conversations all the time. I’m not spiraling.

We became friends. Real ones. That was the problem.

Because here’s the thing: Matt Murdock is a disaster.

Not on paper. No— on paper, he’s perfect. He’s top of the class, charming when he wants to be, a little cocky, but in a way that makes you laugh instead of wanting to push him down the stairs.

But spend enough time around him and you start to notice things.

Like how he never lets anyone get close. Like how he flirts with half the campus but every single one of his flings ends in vague silence and awkward glances the next day. Like how he knows exactly how to listen to someone but refuses to let anyone hear him.

It’s not a red flag. It’s a goddamn red parade.

So of course I did what any completely normal person with an ounce of self-preservation would do.

I caught feelings for that bastard.

Of course, it's the emotionally unavailable mess with enough red flags to decorate a fucking carnival that catches my attention. Just my goddamn luck.

And, in a moment of sheer lunacy, decided I could fix him.

No really, I could. Just needed time. And patience. And maybe a crowbar for emotional extraction. Whatever. I’ve done harder things. If I can survive Mr Vasquez's class, I can survive whatever this is.

I just have to make sure he never finds out I like him. And also make him like me back. And maybe heal years of trust issues in the process.

Easy, right?

Well, it wasn’t.

Because what started as some deranged attempt to break into the fortress that is Matt Murdock turned into something else entirely. We became friends. Real friends. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about fixing him and started being about just… being there.

And God help me, I think he needed that more than anything.

It wasn’t just me and Matt anymore, either. Foggy came into the picture fast— bright-eyed, effortlessly funny, with an incredible ability to sniff out bullshit in under five seconds. The three of us? Unstoppable. Study sessions, lunch breaks, late-night coffee runs before an exam. They were my people.

So yeah. The plan backfired. Spectacularly. But I had friends for life now, so I couldn’t exactly call it a failure.

It didn’t mean it stopped hurting, though.

Matt’s life… it wasn’t easy. I could see it in the way he shut down when he was overwhelmed, how he buried himself in work instead of letting anyone in. Some nights he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, but he’d still crack a joke just to make Foggy laugh.

And when he was with other women— when he flirted like it was a language only he spoke— it hurt. Even when I told myself I didn’t have a right to feel that way. He wasn’t mine. I made sure of that.

I’d smile through it. Tease him, even. Make some stupid quip about his tragic taste in women and let the ache settle where no one could see it.

Except Foggy noticed.

He always does.

One afternoon— study session turned snack break in our usual booth— Foggy caught me staring too long. Matt was across the room talking to a girl from one of our electives, charming smile and all.

“You okay?” he asked, nudging me with his elbow.

I blinked. “Yeah. Fine.”

“You sure? Because that definitely wasn’t your ‘fine’ face. That was your ‘I’m swallowing feelings and pretending to be emotionally stable’ face.”

I sighed, resting my chin on my palm. “He’s not doing anything wrong.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I turned to him. “Foggy, I’m not gonna pull a dramatic ‘what are we’ in the middle of a group project. Matt may be a lot of things, but you really cannot force him to be something he doesn’t want to be.”

Foggy frowned. “But do you think he doesn’t want—?”

“Matt would probably suck at relationships,” I said, more tired than bitter. “Like, actual long-term ones. He likes the chase, he likes the moment. And that’s fine. He’s allowed to live how he wants. I just… I’m happy being his friend. Genuinely. Give it time. I’ll get over it.”

Foggy was quiet for a second. “That was… wildly mature.”

“Yeah well, personal growth is a bitch.”

He grinned. “Still. If it helps, he’s not as smooth as he thinks.”

I snorted. “No, but he is absurdly pretty. That makes up for a lot.”

We let the topic die after that. I figured that was the end of it.

I didn’t know Matt had heard.

—————————————————————————————————

Third Person POV

Matt had only come back for his notebook.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He hadn’t meant to hear that.

But he had.

He stopped just shy of the hallway corner, heart thudding loud in his chest. The way her voice dropped when she said “I’ll get over it.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

She thought he’d be a bad boyfriend.

Worse— she didn’t even think he was worth trying.

And Matt knew— he knew— he hadn’t been great. He had a lot on his plate, a whole goddamn feast of mess, but he never once thought she saw him like that. Not undeserving.

She didn’t know he stayed up wondering what it’d feel like to kiss her. For real. Without laughing it off or playing it cool. She didn’t know how often his fingers hovered near hers and didn’t reach. How badly he wanted to.

But if she thought he wasn’t capable of it? Of loving her the way she deserved?

He had to change that.

Not just for her. For him. For the version of himself he wanted to be—the kind that could love someone, openly and fully, without messing it up.

“Jesus,” Foggy muttered when he saw Matt later that night. “You look like you saw a ghost. Or rather... felt a ghost? I don't know, man.”

“I heard something,” Matt said, collapsing onto his bed, voice low.

“Define ‘something.’”

“(Y/N) said I’d be a bad boyfriend.”

Foggy blinked. “Okay. Context?”

Matt dragged a hand over his face. “She was talking to you. In the booth. Earlier.”

Foggy raised his brows. “You, uh, you were there?”

“I forgot my notebook.”

Foggy held up his hands. “Alright, okay. First off— she didn’t say you’d be a bad boyfriend. She said you’d probably suck at steady relationships. Big difference.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, because you’ve never tried a steady relationship. Which is kind of the point.”

Matt groaned. “I need to fix this.”

Foggy stared. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to walk me through your version of fixing this.”

Matt sat up. “I’m gonna prove her wrong.”

Foggy blinked. “You’re gonna… ask her out?”

“No,” Matt said quickly. “I mean— yes. Eventually. But first I need to become the kind of guy she thinks could be a good boyfriend. You know. Change her mind.”

Foggy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ. Just fuck already.”

Matt frowned. “What?”

Foggy threw his hands in the air. “You like her. She likes you. I have seen you two. Why do you think you want her to stay longer after we're done studying? Why do you think you linger? Why do you think you bring her coffee and save her a seat and remember her deadlines better than your own?”

Matt opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“She fell first, you fell harder,” Foggy said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know the drill, man.”

Matt stared.

“…Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. My brother in Christ, you’re in love.”

Matt exhaled.

“…Shit.”

——————————————————————————————————

Matt didn’t sleep that night.

He lay awake, headphones in, a lecture playing that he didn’t hear, the words echoing over and over again in his head.

“She fell first.”

“You fell harder.”

He didn’t even realize when it happened. Somewhere between her snorting at his awful Latin puns and handing him half her sandwich because he forgot to eat again— he’d fallen. And now she thought he was incapable of loving her the way she deserved.

It felt like a punch to the chest.

But instead of wallowing, he decided to do something.

Starting now.

The next morning, Matt showed up to your apartment with coffee. Your exact order. No text beforehand. No heads-up.

You opened the door in pajama shorts and a hoodie, one sock on and a pen still tucked behind your ear.

“Matt?”

He held up the coffee like it was a peace offering. “You mentioned your 9 a.m. was with Vasquez today. I figured you’d need a hit of caffeine and a minor miracle.”

You blinked. “…That’s weirdly thoughtful of you.”

He smiled. “I’ve been working on that.”

And then he left. Just like that.

No flirting. No lingering.

Just… left.

You stared after him, cup in hand, completely thrown.

It didn’t stop there.

Matt started walking you to class. All the time.

Not just when you happened to be heading the same direction. On purpose.

He’d show up at your building with some excuse— “I needed air,” or “Foggy wasn’t ready yet”— and fall into step beside you like it was routine.

Then came the favors. Printing your notes when the Wi-Fi was down. Fixing the broken strap on your bag. Letting you drag him to that awful late-night diner when you were too wired to sleep.

You didn’t get it.

This wasn’t how Matt Murdock operated.

Matt Murdock flirted, ghosted, and moved on.

This? This was effort.

It was also torture.

Because the more he did it, the more you started to hope. Stupid, dangerous hope. Maybe he did like you. Maybe this wasn’t one-sided after all.

But every time you thought about asking, about saying something— he’d flash that same unreadable smile and change the subject.

So you kept your mouth shut. Kept watching. Waiting.

Hoping.

Meanwhile, Foggy was losing his mind.

“You can’t just— Matt, you cannot boyfriend her without telling her.”

Matt frowned, folding his arms. “I thought this was the part where I prove myself.”

“To who? To her? She already likes you. You’re not proving anything except that you’re allergic to communication.”

“I’m building a foundation.”

Foggy looked pained. “You’re building a bad sitcom plot. Just tell her.”

Matt hesitated. “She said she didn’t want that. She said she’d get over me.”

Foggy sighed so hard, his soul probably left his body.

“Matt. Listen to me. She said that because she didn’t think she could have you. You have ghosted every girl before her, remember?”

Matt winced. “Not every—”

“Every.”

“…Fair.”

Foggy ran a hand down his face. “You’re gonna lose her if you don’t speak up.”

Matt didn’t respond.

Because deep down, he knew it was true.

——————————————————————————————————

It started with Foggy texting you.

Which was already suspicious, because Foggy never texted first unless Matt was—

foggy: hey can you swing by the quad after class?

foggy: matt’s planning something

foggy: i’m scared :,)

Now, when someone like Foggy— sweet, unshakeable, usually-down-for-anything Foggy— is scared, you listen. You changed your route and headed toward the quad.

And promptly stopped dead in your tracks.

Because what the hell were you looking at.

Matt Murdock stood on a bench.

On a goddamn bench. In broad daylight. Holding what looked like a beat-up portable speaker above his head like he was channelling John Cusack in Say Anything.

Button-down rolled to the elbows. Hair tousled like it’d been run through about seven too many times. Foggy was standing off to the side looking like he was actively regretting every life decision that brought him here.

“Oh no,” you whispered. “Oh no.”

A group of students was already watching, phones half-raised. Matt didn’t seem to care.

You watched, frozen, as he raised a hand and cleared his throat. Actually cleared his throat. Like he was about to deliver a valedictorian speech. You saw Foggy mutter don’t do it, like a prayer.

Matt did it anyway.

“I, uh… I know this is weird,” he began, voice carrying over the quad, “but I have something to say. Something important.”

The crowd murmured. A few giggles. One guy yelled “Murdock, you proposing?” which earned a sharp shut up from someone else. Foggy, probably.

Matt ignored it. His face was dead serious. “There’s someone I’ve been an idiot about. Someone smart and stubborn and too good to waste time on someone like me. But she did anyway. She does. And if she’s here—” his head turned slightly “— I want her to know I’m sorry. And that I like her. A lot.”

You blinked.

Foggy made frantic eye contact with you from the sidelines and mouthed stop him.

But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Matt continued. “I was scared, okay? I thought I’d ruin it. Ruin her. But then I realized I’d rather screw up trying to be with her than let her go without even trying. So, (Y/N),” he called, voice way too confident for a man committing this level of social suicide. “This one’s for you.”

A soft click, followed by the unmistakable synthy intro of Truly Madly Deeply by Savage Garden.

Savage. Fucking. Garden.

You clapped a hand over your mouth.

Someone nearby went “What is happening?”

Matt? he looked hopeful.

And you— stupid, stunned, wildly endeared— were just about to take a step forward when—

Cue the sprinkler system turning on.

Every. Single. Sprinkler.

They sputtered, then blasted to life across the quad like a synchronized ambush. A collective scream rose as people scrambled away, books and phones held over heads.

Matt? Got hit square in the chest, earning a strained Jesus from him.

Foggy somewhere in the periphery muttering “I told him” like a man in mourning.

You? Soaked. Wide-eyed. Laughing.

You actually had to cover your mouth, you were laughing so hard.

Matt stepped down, water dripping from his sleeves. He looked around like he was being personally smitten by the gods. It was like the universe waited for maximum dramatic tension just to drop the punchline.

The song cut out with a strangled sputter as the speaker died a wet, heroic death. Students screamed. Matt cursed under his breath as he was immediately soaked. Foggy, who had clearly seen this coming, was already power-walking toward the nearest tree, muttering “I’m too pretty for this.”

You stood there in shock as water poured down on everyone.

And then— you burst out laughing.

You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it. You doubled over, drenched, laughing so hard it echoed louder than the chaos around you.

Matt stood on the bench, blinking water from his lashes, the speaker dangling uselessly from one hand. He looked like a wet, confused puppy. A hot wet confused puppy. Weird analogy. But still.

You pushed your hair from your eyes and walked over, completely soaked.

“This was your grand romantic gesture?” you asked between giggles.

He ran a hand down his face, sopping. “It was supposed to be better.”

You looked up at him, the pathetic speaker still crackling faintly in his grip. “It was absolutely ridiculous.”

A pause.

You smiled. “It was perfect.”

Foggy squelched up behind you both. “Okay, you’ve both had your romcom moment, can I go home now? My socks are... squishy.”

Matt turned to him, still trying to catch his breath. “Thanks for… whatever part you played in this.”

“I want that thank you in writing,” Foggy muttered. “And a refund for emotional distress.”

You turned back to Matt.

“Do I get to keep the boombox?”

He grinned. “It’s mostly water now. But sure.”

You took a slow step closer. “So… boyfriend material yet?”

He reached out— careful, gentle— and brushed a piece of wet hair behind your ear. “Getting there.”

And then you kissed him.

In the middle of the quad. Soaked to the bone. Surrounded by students who definitely started applauding and whistling, because of course they did.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Foggy just shook his head.

“Seriously. I hate you both.”

You smiled at him. “Love you too, Fog.”

And Matt?

Well, he didn’t run.

Not this time.

a/n: alright so the fic took a detour from what i had originally planned, it was going to be angst, reader was going to be fwb with matt, and well it's a whole thing, a lot of changes happened but i didn't change the title because well i got attached. i know it doesn't really make sense now with how the story turned out, but i'm leaving it in the story anyway, hope you liked it!

[matt-murdockk]

"miss should be headliner" over GREEN DAY girl bffr

[matt-murdockk]

[matt-murdockk]

warning hardcore smut under cut

peanits

[matt-murdockk]

Daredevil: Born Again S1.E8 "Isle Of Joy"

[matt-murdockk]

Matt's laugh in this scene?? The Charlie jumped out!

[matt-murdockk]

does he know? does he know what he's doing with this?