#matt murdock imagines

[gay-dorito-dust]

Matt: what’re you in jail for?

Frank: the fuck you think I’m in here for? Playing nice?

Matt: you’re right, how stupid of me. (Name) what’re you doing here? You usually keep your head out of trouble.

You: I hugged a manatee!

Frank: …

Matt:…

You: apparently manatees are a threatened species due to habitat loss and such, so human activity with them are heavily regulated regarding them, but I’d gladly do it again because what do you mean I can’t hug the manatee that’s clinging onto my leg?! That should be illegal in my opinion!

[astraljedi]

you're a mansion with a view (Matt Murdock Imagine)

Summary: You are a growing food content creator on social media and since you moved in with Matt, the kitchen is being put to good used with your constant cooking/working on new recipes or videos for your social media platforms. And sometimes Matt pops up in videos trying the recipe and giving his feedback.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Female latina reader

Warnings: Sexual content, light smut, P in V, 18+ content. But it's mostly sweet and cute

Word Count: 2.9k

Song: Delicate by Taylor Swift

A/N: I've had this idea for a couple of days and when I saw someone request something sweet and mundane for Matt, I just had to do it. I also took the liberty to make the reader latina, especially after watching ep. 3 of Born Again *sobs*. The coqui singing and the sound of waves crashing broke my heart so much. Let me know what you think, feedback is always appreciated ❤️ -

Long night with your hands up in my hair Echoes of your footsteps on the stairs Stay here, honey, I don't wanna share

I was never a morning person. I used to hate waking up early, before the sun even showed up. But since moving in with Matt, I’ve started to see mornings differently. It’s the one time we can be tangled up in the sheets, alone, before the chaos of the day starts.

Matt’s alarm goes off a few minutes before he actually needs to get up. He turns it off, and I stir on his chest, already half awake. “Good morning,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. His arm slips under my shirt, his hand gently roaming the skin of my back.

I used to hate being touched, but now I crave it in a way I didn’t know I could. I lift my chin, searching for his lips in the dark, the sun still hidden behind the sea. His lips meet mine, and I rest my palm against his scruffy jaw. His hand on my back slides up to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, holding me there.

It’s lazy, but it’s still a kiss with hunger lingering beneath it. He slips his tongue in to meet mine, his body shifting so that I’m pressed into the mattress, and he hovers over me.

“Matt,” I sigh as his lips wander down to my jaw, his hand fully covering one of my breasts. I arch my back, melting into his touch.

“Honey,” he murmurs, his lips now on my chest. “Join me in the shower.”

He doesn’t have to ask. He doesn’t need to order me. I was already on my feet with him trailing behind me.

In the shower, my back presses against the cool tile, one leg wrapped around Matt’s waist as he moves with that same slow, steady rhythm that always drives me insane. I cling to him, the pleasure buzzing through me. I didn’t want to let go, I need him, I want to be surrounded and held by him like this every moment of the day. 

My head falls back with a sigh, his name slipping from my lips. “Please,” I whisper, breathless, “harder, baby.”

He leans in, lips brushing mine, his breath warm even as the cold water splashes on us. “God forbid a man tries to savor a moment with his girlfriend before work,” he teases, and I let out a half-laugh that melts into a moan the second he shifts and hits that spot perfectly.

“That’s it, baby. Let go,” he groans, kissing me hard.

My whole body shudders as I fall apart in his arms. My legs shaking as he holds me through it, one hand gripping my waist without stopping his sloppy pace. A second later, he follows with a low, shaky moan, buried against my neck, his body trembling with release.

The air is so hot and heavy that the cold water barely does anything to cool us down. 

“I love you,” I murmur, pressing a soft and gentle kiss to his shoulder. His hands trail up from my hips, one of them resting on my cheek like he needs to feel my face to believe I’m still here.

I grab the body wash and start gently working it over his skin, my hands gliding across his shoulders and chest. He sighs quietly, relaxing into my touch. 

“Turn,” I say softly, and he does, slow and trusting. I massage the soap into his back, letting the familiar, warm scent of his body wash fill the air around us. When I guide him under the water, the citrus and cedar notes come through and fill the shower.

“Let me do you,” he says, searching  for the bottle of my body wash on the shelf. 

“Absolutely not,” I laugh, pulling his hand away. “If you touch me again, you’re going to be late for work.”

His mouth quirks into a crooked devilish smile. “It’s worth it.”

“You can pamper me tonight,” I say, placing the towel in his hand before guiding him out of the shower.

I take a quick shower, letting the cold water splash over me to help wake me up from the haze Matt never fails to leave me in. I brush my teeth quickly after stepping out of the shower and then join him in our shared walk-in closet. When I walk, Matt is already half-dressed.

My hands find his bare torso immediately, the smooth, clean skin of his lower back beneath my fingertips as I lean in close. He shivers slightly at the touch, and I smile, running my hands down a little further before grabbing one of my tennis skirts, the matching bra, and a long-sleeve jacket from the drawer beside him.

“If you keep touching me like that, we won’t make it out of this bedroom,” Matt warns, teasing me with my own words from earlier. “And you apparently want me out of the apartment so eagerly.”

“It’s not like that, Murdock,” I roll my eyes, a soft smile tugging at my lips. “If it were up to me, I’d have you in that bed all day. Cook for you, spoil you, whatever you want me to do. I don’t know how, but you’ve got complete power over me, Matt.”

He grins with a wicked glint in his eyes, tilting his head amused as Matt steps closer. His fingers brush my wrist, tracing the soft skin before he grabs it, pulling me hard into his chest. His other hand slides up to my neck, his grip tightening enough to send a shiver through my body before he lets go. “I’ll make sure to use that power wisely.” 

I watch him as he runs the back of his hand over the shirts hanging in the closet until he picks one and throws it on like nothing happened. My heart pounds in my chest rapidly, my breath caught in my throat as I try to calm down in the same spot he left me dazed.

I feel the rush of arousal building up as the feeling of Matt’s hand linger on my neck and Matt acts like he doesn’t hear or feel me trying to calm down my heaving chest. I get dressed while my mind is swirling with the things we could be doing instead if he called off work. 

In the kitchen, I brew some coffee and pour it into Matt’s mug, adding a splash of cream and stirring it gently. I place the mug on the counter and pull out the lunchbox I bought him a few weeks ago. It’s a sleek, black, insulated lunch box that has that professional style on the outside. 

I pack the homemade overnight oats with cinnamon and berries I made last night for a video with a light turkey wrap with some veggies, and a small bowl of fruit. 

On the top, I added a small dish of tiramisu for Kirsten with a tiny handwritten note that says: Don’t even think about it, this is for Kirsten. You have your own back at the apartment. 

"I threw in a container of tiramisu for Kirsten in your bag." I mention, knowing he will completely ignore me until he sees the note on the dish. 

"You’re already her favorite person. No need to make the competition harder, honey."

"Well, if you showed up on time and didn’t disappear on her so often, maybe you could have a chance of being her favorite." Matt snorts before taking a sip of his coffee, making me smile.

"Where’s the fun in that?" He finishes his coffee and places the mug in the sink. "Are you filming today?"

"Yeah, but I also need to stop by the market. Need anything?"

"You’re the head chef in this house, you tell me." He grabs his cane and glasses from the small table by the door.

"Somebody woke up acting like a class clown." I chuckle, smoothing the fabric of his jacket once he put it on. "Go give the other lawyers a hard time, Murdock. Try not to piss off the judges or Kirsten today." I press a kiss on his lips.

"That isn’t my style, baby." He smirks. "Love you."

“Love you too,” I shake my head laughing as I close the door. 

I walk over to the record player and put on my favorite vinyl. It takes about fifteen minutes to set up the tripod, camera, and lights in the kitchen for my usual filming setup. Once everything’s ready, I hit the record button and lean back against the counter, the NYC skyline glowing behind me.

“Today we’re doing a different spin on my private chef series,” I start, talking to the camera. “Instead of creating a five-course meal for a celebrity of your choice, we’re doing one for my boyfriend, Matt.” I smile. “Since you guys have been asking for it nonstop, I figured I’d surprise him tonight—and you’re coming along with me for the prep.”

I pause the recording and move the camera to a new angle, now filming me sitting on the kitchen island, scribbling in the notebook Matt got me with the rest of the stationery set when I moved in. “I sort of already have a rough idea for the five courses, but one thing I know for sure is that dessert's gonna be helado de coco. He finished the tub I made last time and he’s been obsessed with it lately.”

I write down a layout of the five courses and scribble down helado de coco in the dessert section. I keep brainstorming and talking to the camera. “First thing’s first—head to the market and get some fresh ingredients.”

I turn off the lights and the camera, grab my phone and my tote bag, and double-check the grocery list: leche de coco, pineapple, good cuts of skirt steak, and some plantains. I glance at my watch, 11:41 a.m. and rush to turn off the record player and head out of the apartment.

At the market, I film a few clips for the video, talking about my favorite tips while shopping for ingredients and supporting local vendors. I get some behind-the-scenes shots of me walking through the streets and into the small market.

Once I’m back home, I jump straight into food prep, filming every step for the video. It takes a couple of hours to get everything done—chopping, seasoning, plating—and then I start cleaning the good dishes and pulling out the table setup decorations. “Basically everything’s done,” I say to the camera, “and now we just have to wait for my handsome boyfriend to get home.”

Before Matt walks through the door, I hop in the shower and change into clean clothes. I pin my hair up and start lighting the candles on the kitchen island. The camera and the soft studio lights create the perfect dinner setting—for both the video and the mood.

I hear the familiar rhythm of Matt’s footsteps getting closer to the door, and my heart picks up a little. I’m nervous, but the second I see him, everything settles.

“Smells good in here, Chef,” he says with a grin, closing the door behind him.

I smile big as he walks in, and I reach for his hand, guiding him toward the kitchen and the rolling camera.

“Good evening, Matt,” I reply in my most dramatic, professional voice, helping him find his seat at the kitchen island. “I’ll be your private chef tonight, and I’ve curated a very special five-course meal just for you.”

He gives me a playful smirk that nearly makes me break character. “You’re my private chef every day, honey,” he teases.

I laugh and drop the act for a second. “You’re right—but tonight, you’re getting the full experience.”

I turn back to the stove and start plating. “For the first course, we’ve got mini tostones with garlic mojo and avocado crema.” I set the plate in front of him. The crispy little tostones are topped with a drizzle of garlic mojo, a dollop of avocado crema, thin white onion slices, and crispy parmesan.

Matt picks one up and holds it to his nose, smelling it before taking a bite. “This one’s to wake up your senses with the garlic, the onion, and the creamy avocado,” I explain.

He chews, eyes closed, and lets out a satisfied groan. His tongue swipes a bit of crema from his lip.

“Nine out of ten,” he says. “This is so good.”

“Wait, why just a nine?”

“I like the onion and parmesan, but bacon would’ve made it a ten,” he says, grabbing the other toston. “But it’s a nine because I want more.”

“Bacon would’ve overpowered it,” I roll my eyes, but I’m still laughing.

I prep the next plate. “For the appetizer, we’ve got crispy pork belly over mofongo purée. Some might say it’s like mangú, but the purée isn’t as creamy. It’s garlicky and rich, and the crispy chicharrón brings the crunch.”

I show the dish to the camera before placing it in front of Matt.

“I love mofongo,” he says immediately, grabbing his fork.

While he digs in, I start plating the main course. “Grilled skirt steak with chimichurri, yuca mash, and sweet plantain chips.” I bring the dish up close to the camera—perfectly grilled, medium rare, with that gorgeous green chimichurri. The steak is the star of the plate.

“A buttery steak, but make it Puerto Rican,” I say, placing the plate in front of him.

He breathes in the scent. “Adobo?”

“Obvio,” I reply, laughing as I sneak a bite from a small dish off camera. The steak melts on the tongue, and the adobo and garlicky yuca bring it all together.

“This might be my favorite thing you’ve made so far,” he says.

For the palette cleanser and the fourth course, I serve him a tiny scoop of piña colada sorbet in a chilled glass cup, topped with whipped cream and candied cherry.

“And finally,” I say, voice softening, “for dessert—Matt’s favorite: helado de coco. Creamy, homemade coconut ice cream that tastes like summer on the island, after a long beach day with your friends and cousins.” I show the camera the presentation: a coconut shell filled with helado de coco, topped with crispy waffle cone pieces.

Matt's hands feel around the shell. “In a coconut shell? Fancy,” Matt jokes, grinning before digging in with a spoon.

Everything’s gone smoothly, the cameras are off, the kitchen’s clean, and the dishes are put away. Matt and I are curled up on the couch, my legs tucked underneath me and his arm resting around my shoulders. The only sound filling the apartment is the soft crackle of the record player, an old love song playing in the background.

“We’ve danced to this,” Matt says suddenly, his voice soft.

I turn my head toward him, and he’s already looking at me with that small smile he gets when he’s remembering something sweet. “The first night after you moved in,” he adds. “A little drunk on wine, dancing in the kitchen while we waited for grilled cheese to cook on the stove.”

“It’s the night you said I love you for the first time,” I say, smiling as I grab a spoonful of tiramisu from the dish on his lap and bring it to my mouth. 

“The moment I realized that I didn’t want to share you, is the moment I wanted you to stay here forever, honey.” Matt admits. He already had my heart and he was still making me fall harder for him. “Did we finish?” He asks, lifting the dish on his lap to see if it was lighter. 

“Aren’t you full?” I ask as he leans in, waiting for me to feed him some more tiramisu. 

“I’m never too full for your tiramisu,” he says with a serious tone, and I laugh as I shove another bite into his mouth. He leans his head back against the couch with a dramatic and satisfied sigh. “Thank you, you really went all out, honey.”

His hand searches for the throw blanket we always leave draped over the side of the couch and pulls it over us, tucking it around our legs. I glance up at him and lean into his warmth, resting my head on his shoulder.

“You always support me,” I say softly. “With this weird, non-traditional career and all my random recipe ideas. You deserve a five-course meal and then some.”

He smiles at that, then reaches for the spoon and the dish, setting them down on the coffee table before turning back to me. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me into his lap like it’s second nature. I melt into him without hesitation. One of his hands lifts to my face, fingers brushing over my features—my cheekbones, my jaw, my lips—like he’s memorizing me all over again.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “You were the missing piece in this apartment all along. You’re my home.”

The record clicks as the side ends, but neither of us moves. We just sit there, wrapped up in our little bubble.

“I’ve never felt this” I say quietly, pressing a few soft kisses to his lips between words. “You make me feel safe and loved, something I never would’ve known if it wasn’t for you.” 

Matt leans in, his lip meeting mine in a soft, sweet kiss that melts away the sirens, the music from outside, and the chattering neighbors nearby.

Somehow, we make our way towards the bedroom, hands roaming over each other, leaving desperate kisses and marks on exposed skin while leaving a trail of clothes from the living room to the bed. 

“Make sure to use your power wisely, Murdock.”

[cellophaine]

Chapter IV: Entrechat

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, description of injuries and blood, short and simple medical procedure, toxic environment.

Word Count: 5.9k

Author's Note: This is the longest chapter of the series to date! (by only 600 words but still). I ended up having to cut a chunk because time wasn't on my side and also I kept adding more stuff to the chapter and complicated the process. But here it is! I hope you will enjoy it 🫶

GIF Source – The GIF is extremely relevant!!

Your dance bag used to be indicative of your day. The heavier the bag, the longer the day, the more exhausted you'd be at the end of it. The bag would be strewn with multiple pairs of pointe shoes, two wrap skirts of different lengths, a practice tutu, warmup layers and tools, water and food. You would spend most of the day inside. Class in the morning, rehearsal for your part, and more often than not, understudy for Christine. You were only allowed to take your lunch break when the director was satisfied with your work, so it gave you an incentive to dance well and to perform perfectly every day. Every time. Some days, you didn't get a break until mid-afternoon. Despite your frustration and exhaustion, it was hard to find fault in Roger's teaching method as it clearly worked. A few passionate critics called you 'Roger Emerson's artistry crafted in a human form, and the true successor to Christine Lambert's illustrious career'. Jo and Amy shared a look of concern when you told them about the behind-the-scenes stuff, so you learned to sugarcoat the reality for them. You figured that they wouldn't get it. The harsh environment simply was something you had to live with in order to thrive. To be the best performer you could be.

In preparation for a new season, the stage calls could be as late as 10:30 PM. On performance days, you'd stay at the theatre, getting ready with your hair, makeup, and costume before helping others. You would often leave the theatre very late, walking fast with your head slightly down, a pocket knife clenched in your fist, hidden in the full bag. 

Your bag is still a reflection of your day. It holds a single pair of soft shoes, a water bottle, and the keys to your apartment and mailbox. Its inconsequential weight on your shoulder speaks for what you think of yourself – aimless, unmoored to a real and substantial purpose. No ballet class, no performance. No adoring audience who cheers for you as you take your bow at the end of the night. There are over eight million people in New York. No one cares that you used to dance for a mid-tier ballet company, and now working as a secretary for a mid-tier law firm. You have nothing except for the self-imposed helplessness. And it holds you motionlessly at the entrance to Jo's new gym.

You're torn between two opposite points of the axis – the yearning to go back to the one thing you've done your whole life, and the fear that your moment was gone the night of your injury. You know that you can't stay away from ballet for too long as the fleeting nature of your youth and the tragically short career you chose, and still love, pull at the back of your mind. They tell you the more you spend away from the art, that’s more time you don’t have wasted. But when you finally decided tonight was the night you finally made a tepid return to ballet, you're still scared. What is the point? You can never be as good as you used to be. The thought has been exhaustingly persistent. But seclusion has provided you with a comforting contemplation that you can accept. There is no audience that you have to perform for tonight. There is a sense of self-assurance that even if your dancing is mediocre, no one else will be around to witness it, except for you. You don't even have to dance if you don't want to. You quickly insert the key into the lock and turn, the door opens to your newfound determination. 

Upon entry, you can already see why Jo bought this place. It has an old-school vibe, and of course, the boxing ring to the left of the room. New lockers spread along the wall near the entrance, breaking up by a hallway and Jo's office from what you can see. A couple of towel carts gather below the window looking out into the gym. The back of the sign Fogwell’s Gym is prominent even in the low street lights, each letter red, big and bold in their respective glass pane. Sandbags spread sporadically throughout the room, but you’re not here for them. You keep straight and reach the new addition to the gym as Jo instructed on the right, opposite the boxing ring. You wave at Leon – the night cleaner – before entering the room.

The studio is small and separated from the open space, and more narrow than the room you used to dance in at Lady Liberty, but it works better than your apartment. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the length of the wall, reflecting the empty room except for a standard moveable barre on the opposite side. The window blind is drawn on the view of the boxing ring and the rest of the gym, and you keep it that way. You bring the barre to the middle of the room, vertically to the mirror, and put on the shoes. You didn’t bother putting on a leotard and tights, settling for a pair of leggings and a fitted shirt. The simple and form-hugging outfit is enough to see your lines. 

The music playing through your phone speaker is loud enough for you to follow in the stillness of the building. Plié, tendu, ronde de jambe à terre. You go through each exercise with ease. Balançoire, fondu, ronde de jambe en l'air. Your mind and muscle memories work in tandem, guiding your movements. Frappé, petit battements, relevé. Every day for five, sometimes six, days of the week for years. Adagio, grand battement, arabesque penché. Your body is warm, your alignment refined and you find yourself not too concerned about the predicament you're wrapped up in as you move onto centre work.

After a couple of simple combinations, you recall the Cupid variation from Don Quixote. It was nowhere near the hardest variation you'd done, but with the level you're on at the moment, the agility and quick footwork required would be a challenge. But you want to feel the satisfaction of successfully executing a complete piece. So you search for the music, and mark it out with your hands and feet.

Music fills the room, a little louder this time, but doesn’t mute the sound of pressure every time your feet touch the floor. You can’t land as softly as you used to, but you try your best to hold your weight. You feel a pinch in your leg on a piqué turn, but you push through to the flow of the music. As the variation almost nears the end, the door to the main area of the gym creaks loudly, and whoever enters inadvertently takes away your focus with them. Your feet knock together clumsily on an assemblé, making you lose balance when you come back to the floor. You stumble, letting the notes float past you and eventually end. The muffled conversation in the other room announces the unmistakable presence of another. Jo let you know about Leon, and you haven't expected the company of anyone else during the gym's off hours. You peek through the blind to find the familiar shape of a person your eyes perpetually search for throughout the workday. You open the door but stay at the threshold. And call out hesitantly.

“Matt?”

He turns to your direction and says your name. He's surprised to see you, but there is a moment of delay as if he already knew you were here.

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to work out.”

He’s wearing a black tank, grey sweatpants, an old pair of trainers and a gym bag by his side. Your eyes trail over the stretch along the arm holes, noticing how worn the shirt looks, and how his arms look so much bigger than you've imagined. Not that you want to admit you have thought about his arms, but you can acknowledge that the dress shirts and suit jackets he usually wears are quite deceiving. 

You course correct at his plain answer.

“But the gym is closed.”

“I can say the same to you.”

“My friend gave me the access. She owns the place.”

He thinks for a moment. 

“Ahh. That explains the new equipments.”

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of his attempt at redirecting your attention.

“You still haven't answered my question.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, amused at your directness. 

“Right, well, I also get after-hours access because of Leon.”

The man mentioned has already gone home, it seems.

“Oh yeah? You bribed him, didn't you?”

You lean against the door. Matt puts both hands up, feigning innocence.

“I admitted to no such thing.”

Your conversation has taken on a playful edge, and you allow yourself to lean into it.

“It’s clear to me that that’s what happened.”

“Are you conducting a cross-examination on me?"

"It doesn't have to be, but since you insist …"

He shakes his head in amusement.

"Can't believe it's only been two weeks since you started working for us. If I didn't know any better, I would think you'd been with us from the day we opened the practice.”

“Thank you. I’m just a quick learner. You’d know that if you came to the interview.”

Matt wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. You were only joking, but when he speaks, you can hear a touch of seriousness in his voice.

“I’m glad I missed it.”

“Why?”

The question was only a notch above a whisper, but he heard it. 

“That led us to here. You're working with us. And I get to see you more often.”

His admission draws a soft intake of air from you. You feel the skin on your cheeks and ears grow warm as your heart quickens its pace.

“Flirting with me won’t distract me from the fact that you’re trespassing.”

He turns his head to curse softly under his breath in a slightly exaggerated manner. You chuckle at his attempt to make you laugh. 

“You’re good.”

He says, shaking his head, the smile on his lips widens.

“Don’t worry, I’m just joking. I won’t tell Jo about this.”

Jo is already on the fence about Matt. Knowing about his trespassing will only aggravate her.

“What about you? What are you doing here?”

Matt asks. You straighten up from where you’re standing, suddenly feeling defensive despite the question being innocuous. 

“I’m here to … dance. I want to slowly get back to ballet. My apartment is too small for what I want to do so … here I am.”

His face brightens.

“That’s great. I’m glad you’ve decided to give it another chance. You told me how much you missed it."

You're surprised to see he still remembered what you told him on the first night you met. 

“You'll regret that when I play the same music over and over.”

“Go ahead. I don't mind. I need to expand my playlist.”

“Let me guess. All you listen to is emo, broody music that fuels your tenancy in court.”

His head tilts slightly to the side at your poking fun at him.

“Broody? Is that what you think of me?”

“A little bit. Sometimes. It’s just that … you have that air about you. Like you’re suppressing something, all the time.”

A flash of something you can't name crosses his face. But it's gone as he puts on an easy smile. 

“Hm, I didn’t expect to be cross-examined on top of a psychoanalysis coming to the gym tonight.”

“Maybe I really have spent too much time with you three.”

You share a laugh. The banter is nice. You get to talk freely to one another, and your overthinking ceases to make an appearance in this moment. The air is not laden with dread, frustration or misunderstanding like two nights ago. You have thought about the situation since after that night, and you feel like you owe Matt honesty.

“I should apologize to you. For the other night.”

Matt’s brows furrow as you keep going. 

“I misconstrued your words and intention.”

"You don't have to apologize. I could've handled it better. I should've addressed you properly–"

You interrupt with a call for his name. 

“Thank you for doing that, but it was mostly my fault. I was overly sensitive, and frankly, in way over my head about a similar situation. I was just worried that you … might have changed your mind."

“Changed my mind about what?”

Honesty, you remind yourself.

“… About me. With all of that stuff that happened with my old company, I thought you might think that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

Understanding dawns on his features. He softens.

“What happened at your old company is not your fault. I meant it the first time, and I still mean it now: anything happened between us will stay between us."

You know that now.

"And I enjoy having you around the office. I really do.”

You can't tame the happy smile on your face. You let it mirror Matt's own. 

“I enjoy being around you, as well.”

A quiet understanding makes the air between you lighter. The knot in your stomach unravels. You clear your throat, bringing both of you out of the comfortable quiet. 

“I’ll … let you get back to it.”

“Me, too.”

“I’ll close the door so the music won’t be too loud for you.”

“I really don’t mind either way.”

“Accommodating, as always.”

With a final remark and one last look at Matt, you retreat into the room and close the door anyway. As the night goes on, you can hear the rhythmic punches on the sandbag next to your own classical playlist. The melodies blur into one another, making up their own unique existence in an unlikely place.

/

You start going to Fogwell’s every other day. You find yourself looking forward to the visit for more than one reason. Every time you push through the discomfort that your old injury brings, the experience invigorates you, and you feel like you’re gaining a fraction of the old you back. You retrieve fragments of your old balance, strength, and flexibility. You're not confident enough to practice in pointe shoes yet, content with dancing in soft canvas shoes. You've been looking into ballet classes for adult dancers. A structured class with lesson plans can bolster your own framework and accelerate your improvement. You used to have classes at least five days a week, but for now, once to twice a week would be sufficient. Ballet classes are plentiful in New York, you just need to take the plunge.

You see Matt on and off throughout the nights you go. Seeing him is the other reason, but you can never admit it out loud to anyone. The delicate balance between you is restored, and you don't want to overcomplicate it. But there is no harm in innocuous talking that often veers on the side of flirting when both parties are willing participants. You chat and rehash about what happened at work before going back to your own things. You don't like staring at Matt, the act is too desperate, but your gaze does linger from time to time. The sandbag shakes from Matt's exertion, and you find yourself wondering if that's how he got the scars on his knuckles. The size of his arms, which are corded with muscles, fluster you when you've stared for too long. 

You have been avoiding Jo's invites to hang out. Not to keep Matt's trespassing a secret, but you don’t like the way she tries to overshadow your thoughts and opinions with her own. The last time you saw her, she only said what she said because she was looking out for you. But you also know how once she has formed an idea about someone in her head, it’d be hard for her to let it go. If you agree to meet up, you know that she'll ask you about Matt again, and even worse, if you tell her about the misunderstanding, she'll only double down and urge you to quit your job at the firm. No matter what, you can't win. For right now, no one needs to know. Your connection with Matt remains as yours and his alone. 

/

Time goes by, and the most accurate measure of it is your growing closeness with Karen, Foggy, and especially, Matt. To be more specific, it has been a little over a month since you started working for the firm. It’s not enough time for you to comfortably get drinks with them yet, but enough to be included and tag along on coffee runs and lunch breaks. 

Therefore, you notice that Matt is late this morning, even though technically speaking, he was late on the day of your interview as well. He's always early or on time, so for his office to still be empty by the time the clock hits 10:45 is not like him. You pretend that you’re not even glancing at the time every five minutes, but you do. When you're even just a little restless, your mind takes over and forms an unpleasant thought. Matt must've spent the night with a woman. 

The sudden delivery of the notion feels like a sharp sting on your cheeks. Your heart clenches, and what feels awfully similar to jealousy flares in your chest, making your stomach churn. You try to push the bitter feelings out, but it's too late. The silent acknowledgement is enough for your mind to helplessly dive deeper into the hole the invasive idea has dug. You don't have the right to be jealous, you're only Matt's colleague. What he chooses to do outside of work is none of your concern. With anyone is none of your rights to even question. Still, as much as you try to pretend that it doesn’t affect you, it does. Did he treat her nicely like the way he did with you? Did he kiss her with the same vigour? Same softness? Did he listen to her problems? Did he make breakfast for her this morning and that’s why he’s late? Maybe he's kissing her goodbye right now, with the promise of more whispered on her lips as he pulls away. The mental image of Matt kissing someone else pulls and cuts into your increasingly sensitive disposition. You look away from the document you weren’t really reading, willing your mind to make the words make sense again. 

You haven't made much progress when Matt comes through the door a few minutes later, looking quite pale and dishevelled. He says good morning to you and quickly crosses the space to go to his office. Your response fades on your lips as he closes the door behind him. The cold demeanour is enough to spark a disappointment ember. It grows hot in your chest and along your skin as the conclusion clicks in place: he did spend the previous night with a woman. You look at the computer, hoping a vision change will help you forget quickly.

Matt often observes quietly, heedful of every little thing. He chimes in when something doesn't make sense, or when a question needs an answer. But in today's meeting, he is unusually silent. You notice the way he pushes his glasses up on his nose every other minute, the way he touches a particular part of his torso more often than not, and when you angle yourself in a way that grants you a view under the unbuttoned suit jacket, you find red spots that look like blood on his white shirt. You can't help but blurt out.

“Are you bleeding?”

Ms. Carrero turns to you, as do Karen and Foggy. You don’t care the way their bewildered gazes as you pull on Matt's hands, the ones that are trying to button his jacket up.

“It’s nothing.”

You part the material to find the small splotches of blood seeping through the cotton. Foggy’s voice is alarmed when he asks.

“What happened?”

Matt stumbles over his words, trying to smooth out his explanation.

“Oh, uh … kitchen … accident. I ran into a knife that I forgot I put there.”

“Are you okay?”

Ms. Carrero asks with concern laced in her scrunched brows. Matt nods, giving her a tight smile.

“You should probably get that taken care of.”

“It's not that bad. I can wait until the meeting is over.”

You know what Matt is trying to do, and you refuse to let him slide this under the rug. You say without giving him another chance to make up an excuse. 

“Karen and Foggy can take care of the meeting. I can help you clean up.”

Karen nods while Foggy agrees with you. Matt hesitates. You lower your voice, almost pleading with him. 

“Please, before you bleed out in front of Ms. Carrero.”

Matt concedes after a brief moment. You excuse yourselves as you stand up and walk to the door, holding it open for Matt to step through. The meeting reconvenes while you lead Matt into his office. You pull out the chair so he can sit and ask him to unbutton his shirt. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me out to dinner first?”

Despite the cheeky remark, he listens to you, shrugging off the suit jacket. 

“That’s a great idea considering how your kitchen skills don’t seem to be that great. Let’s keep you away from those knives for a while, yeah?”

You pull the chair on the opposite side of the desk and set it up next to Matt's. 

“Ouch. Here I was, thinking we were having a good thing going on.”

You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Your voice softens.

“I’ll be right back.”

You search for the first aid kit in the kitchen before moving to your desk. In your bag, you find the tin of all-heal ointment balm and a Tide pen. You return to Matt’s office to find him leaning back on the chair with the few buttons unfastened from the bottom of the shirt. You set the kit on the desk, settle into the chair and ask.

“Can you hold your shirt up for me?”

This time, he listens without a sly remark. Your knees knock together as you get closer, and he accommodates you by parting his thighs. You slot in between, trying to calm your nerves at your proximity. He folds the material and holds it to his chest, revealing the expanse of smooth skin, well-defined abs, and a bloody bandage at his side. You're distracted by the sight momentarily before informing him of what you're going to do, and he nods. The wet patch comes off slowly under your careful fingers. The cut is much deeper than you thought, and the way Matt’s playing it off like it’s nothing alarms you. When you voice your concern, he only shrugs.

“I’ve had worse.”

“How? I’m very worried about your worse if this is nothing.”

The knot in your stomach tightens. You observe the wound, and it looks deeper than a simple kitchen knife cut. 

“It looks a lot worse than it feels, trust me.”

“It also doesn't look like a simple accident.”

“Just my luck.”

"Did you try to impress someone? A woman you met at the bar, perhaps?"

You hope the joke didn't come off as forced as it sounds in your head. Matt gives you an easy, playful smile.

"No, there was no one to impress. My kitchen wouldn't be a mess if that was the case."

You release a disbelieving hum, and Matt holds the free hand up.

"I swear. This was a one-off incident."

"Right."

You shake your head, the corner of your lips involuntarily curl into a grin. You dip your head to take a closer look. Even though the wound is small and manageable, it still has a gaping opening, so slapping fresh gauze and bandage on top won't hold the edges close. You look into the first aid kit and are surprised to find the basics of what you need to properly clean and seal the injury. You put on a pair of gloves and grab a packet of anti-bacterial wipes.

“I will have to give you a couple of stitches so the wound can stay close, okay?”

His brows raise above the red glasses. 

“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”

He hisses softly as you clean the area with the wipe. 

“Of course I do. I’ve darned shoes before. Can’t be that hard to stitch you up.”

You chuckle when his expression betrays him. He looks worried and on edge. 

“I’m just joking. I know enough to take care of a simple wound like this.”

You clean the needle with an antiseptic cloth and prepare the thread.

“If I hurt you, let me know, okay?”

The smirk on his lips is cocky, yet simultaneously endearing. 

“I’m a big boy. I can handle a needle.”

“But not a knife, apparently.”

That draws a deep chuckle from Matt. The room gradually falls into silence as you pour all of your focus on steadying your hands and making sure you don't pierce his skin too deeply. He takes the pain exceptionally well with only a few sharp breaths and soft gasps here and there. 

“Did you have to do this a lot? Back when you were still dancing?”

His voice is as gentle as your hands. You take a moment before responding. 

“Not really. It didn’t happen as often as you might think.”

His thoughtful silence gives you the courage to go on. 

“I’d get blisters, cracked toe nails, things like that. The company started out very small so we didn't get proper healthcare professionals until about three years ago.”

Your hands are steady as you make it to the other half of the wound.

“It was the first performance of the season. I needed to rehearse for this one role, and all of the studios were taken. So I practiced in a closet full of costumes and set pieces. When I … basically spun around the room, I cut myself on one of the metal poles that they used as the foundation for the set. Tore through my tights and I started bleeding. I went home, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, secured a bandage on top and hoped for the best.

“During the show the next day, the wound opened and it soaked through the white tights I had to wear. After the show, the director said that if I pulled something like that again and didn’t get my injury in line for the next day's performance, he would bench me for the rest of the season. I didn't have enough money to get it checked out at a hospital. So I went to my friend slash roommate.”

“Did that friend happen to be Jo?”

“Yes. She used to be a professional boxer. She taught me how to stitch up my wound. Since I had to dance more than one role, on top of the two performances every day for six days straight as well, the wound would rip a little. So I had to add one or two stitches here and there.”

He breathes sharply as the spot you poke through is particularly tender.

“That sounds awful.”

“Dancing with the cut wasn't the best feeling, but at least I learned how to stitch up a wound from it.”

You cut the thread off and dab away the blood seeping through the now-closed cut. You take the gloves off and open the tin. A faint scent of soothing tea tree extract emanates as you take some ointment on your finger. You carefully smear a thin layer along the edge of the cut. Matt keeps still, holding his breathing to an almost motionless state. You close the lid and tap it twice before placing it on the table.

“Apply this after your shower, and whenever you change the bandage. It’ll help a lot.”

“Thank you.”

You cover the wound with new gauze and bandage.

“Thank you for telling me. And for stitching me up, of course.”

“Thank you for listening. Now, we have to take care of your shirt.”

“Right. Can’t go to my next meeting like this.”

He moves to unfasten the rest of the buttons, but you put your hand on top of his. 

"You don't have to take it off. I can do it with this pen here."

He keeps his hands to the side as you flatten the material over your palm. The spots aren't too big, nothing a little diligent work can't fix. You dab the tip of the pen on the spots repeatedly before spreading the liquid. You watch as the red diminishes into a light pink then the barely-there colour of rust. 

You put the implements back before closing the kit. You're about to stand up to leave when Matt reaches out and holds your wrist, keeping you there.

“I appreciate you doing this for me. Truly.”

Your heart stutters at the small swipe of his thumb on your pulse. You think about what Jo said. The man sitting in front of you is proving that he is anything but the terrible, awful things Jo thinks he might be capable of.

“You’re welcome.”

The moment is transient, and you miss his warmth when he lets you go. You're about to leave the room when he calls out to you.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“Not tonight. But tomorrow night. Definitely.”

/

That night, you take the subway to Greenwich Village. The ballet studio is on the third floor of the building, and you're the first one to arrive for class. You go through your warm-up routine in the corner of the room, staying out of the way as other students trickle in. Your guts alternate between excitement and nervousness, and both do little to ease your mind. This is an intermediate class for pre-professionals and advanced students. The room is filled with mostly younger people, and everyone gathers in groups.

The class goes quiet when an older woman enters the room with a big notebook on her arm. Charlotte Hill. She was an intern at the American Ballet Theatre for two years before quitting to found her own dance center after her name. You did a quick Google search before coming in, wanting to know the teacher a little more before the class. Everyone quietly put the finishing touches on their dancewear and grab their spots on the barre. Music flares through the speaker, and everyone starts the plié exercise without guidance from the teacher. You quickly follow others by watching them, but you still feel lost. Barre exercises vary depending on the teacher, the studio or the school. But to dive right into it without a single word going through the steps is bizarre. At Lady Liberty, the headmistress always went through the steps, even if it was just the names of them.

Because your spot is in a corner, when you do a soutenu turn to the other side, you have limited vision of what others are doing. There is no mirror on the wall when you work on the other side. You try your best to memorize the unfamiliar combinations as barre stretches on, but you can't keep up as well as others. Charlotte makes her way towards you, watching you struggle as the music changes again and again. The other students in the class go through each exercise easier as if they have done this so many times before, and you realize that is the case. You're singled out, your dancing is quite stiff with the teacher standing only two feet away from you. Her face is grim, and you can feel the mild contempt in her gaze, following your every movement. When she finally walks away, you can see discreet and sympathetic glances from a few students who look at you. Your nose burns, but you refuse to cry. You move your feet and your arms, you incline, raise and tilt your head. You keep dancing. 

After putting the barre away, the class has a moment to drink water. One of the students who spared you a glance earlier comes up to you. 

“I recognize you. You used to dance with Lady Liberty Theatre, right?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I get a seasonal ticket every year. I watched you perform several times now. You danced beautifully.”

“Thank you.”

She probably didn’t mean it, but the past tense has an unwanted effect on you. You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling as she introduces herself. Judging by the teacher's look of disinterest for you at barre, it's not an uncommon thought that you're no longer capable of dancing like you used to. 

The class ends on a disastrous note. You could follow the centre works Charlotte gave decently, but that wasn't enough for her. You were asked to repeat a combination because according to her, your techniques were off. By that point, your muscles were strained, you were tired, but you carried it out anyway. You did everything she asked of you, even when she got into your space, following you as you moved through the space, shouting each step into your face. When you stumbled, she scoffed loudly, expressing her displeasure at your mediocrity while everyone else watched.

You stuff everything into your bag and try to leave the class as soon as possible, but the teacher calls out to you by your full name. So she knows who you are. 

"We have classes for little children. Maybe you can come in and watch some day. You might learn something from them."

You're enraged, and you don't care about the consequences. Your voice is level when you answer her with defiance.

"You're just a terrible teacher. Don't project that onto me."

The sneer on her lips sours into a scowl. 

"Your career is over. It's time you look for something else to do instead of wasting my time."

"Who are you to speak to me like this? At least I had a career. I'll be more than happy to never return to this place again."

You walk away before she can come up with a rebuttal. You know that you shouldn't have stooped to her level, but you don't care. You refuse to shed a tear over the teacher's deplorable hostility. Despite the positive changes in the ballet world in recent years, with more inclusivity and acceptance of races, body types, and backgrounds, there are still remnants of the old system that refuse to die. Those bits and pieces are carried on through people like Charlotte Hill, believing that ballet is the type of art that is reserved and accessible for people of certain classes. You scorn and reject that belief. 

A smaller, but more insistent part of you thinks that the teacher's attitude stemmed from the fact that your place in ballet is not yours anymore. You chose to step away, to give it up, and you don't deserve a second chance. 

Your hair is still wet when your head hits the pillow. You're exhausted and wracked with guilt and self-hatred. The night floats by, and the sun peeks through the open curtain, the soft light touches your unmoving form gently. But you're already awake, unable to sleep with the teacher's spiteful words and contemptuous looks embedded under your eyelids every time you close your eyes. 

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

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[dameronology]

marvel men + love languages

steve rogers - physical touch + words of affi

the sacred combo!! steve is a clingy mf - either always having his arms wrapped around his s.o, a hand on their leg or on their waist, and if he's not with them, he'll be texting you all day, asking how you are and just chatting. steve has had to learn to live every day like it's his last, so he'll never go to work, bed, or even to the shops, without telling you he loves you. it's just part of his routine, really.

bucky barnes - acts of service

bucky is not very good with words, or with expressing himself. even before hydra, it was something he struggled with. so, acts of service are his main love language. it can be little things - making coffee in the morning, putting the laundry away when he knows you're busy - or bigger things, like taking your car into the shop when you forget, or building new furniture, or shaking down your weird co-worker who was kinda mean the other day. he finds so much purpose in just making your life easier (in a healthy way!!).

sam wilson - quality time

sam is a man of quality time. he has to work away quite a lot and is always on the go with work and his tasks, but when he does see you - and he makes sure it's a fair amount - he tries to make it count. hell, it doesn't even matter what you do, as long as he's with you. sam does try to make sure you're always having a good balance of chill time and fun activities though, so he always plans the best day.

frank castle - words of affirmation + gifts

aight this might seem weird bc frank is not very good with words (try and make him form a sentence without a swear word or abbreviation, i dare you) but the ones he does say, he always means. especially when he says that he loves you and would probably kill for you. but, it's frank's famously bad way with words that make you realise how much he loves you - because you're the only person he will verbally open up to and be a complete and open book with. as for gifts, every single one he has ever bought you has been the most thoughtful, sweet things; stuff you wouldn't even think to buy yourself. it's just a testament for how well he knows you.

matt murdock - physical touch

this one feels fairly obvious tbh, because alongside his hearing, matt's touch is his the sense he relies on most. he loves your voice and the way you sound but most of all, he loves the way you feel. whether it's the feeling of your skin against his, your fingers all tangled up, or when you kiss him, he just fucking loves it. physical touch is matt's favourite way of knowing you.

[nevarrhoe]

mea culpa (m.m) - master list

SUMMARY: "mea culpa" (exclamation - noun/legal term)

used as an acknowledgement of one's fault or error.

↪ in which matt murdock accidentally falls in love with the district attorney's daughter.

warnings: smut, angst, swearing, fem! reader

any minors caught interacting will be blocked & reported

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

[skylarinfinity]

matt: [talking to foggy] i really love m/n but i will never trust him.

foggy: [look at matt with confused] but when you love someone don't you need to trust them- [stop talking when he see the villain they been hunting for years walk in through the front door and it's actually m/n]

matt: [sighed] see what i'm saying?

m/n: [don't care he get caught] matt you can't see...

matt: [deep sigh] heard what i'm saying?

foggy:

tags lists @sonicqaulan @graysonfriggason @thebettermaximofftwins @sloanalistair @acienthazard @starlinggoldeneyes @ortegaolsen @wednesdaywanda @sandwichmarvel @gardenofmarvel @wanda-cabin-natasha-jacket @panandinpain0 @badblondebisexualboy

[allllium]

Hey, can I make a Matt x Reader request. Reader is a doctor and lives with Matt one evening Matt comes home with Spiderman who needs help. You become surrogate parents for Peter and think about adopting him since he's a son to both of you anyway.

Peter

~ Sorry this took me so long to get to. I had something written at some point but ended up scraping it 😭

~ Fluff, Maybe a little angst bc Peter is hurt at the beginning?

~ WC: 1,536

~ Matt brings home a kid ~

Being with Matt you've learned always to expect the unexpected. Matt has a heart of gold, always doing everything he can to help those in need. It's a good thing you're the same way. You wouldn't be a doctor if you didn't have the urge to help people but sometimes Matt, in your opinion, helps people that don't help him far too often.

However, one thing you didn't expect was for your wonderful boyfriend to come home with a kid. Okay maybe not kid, he's about sixteen years old, but that's still way younger than you or Matt. And way too young to be doing what he does.

When Matt brings home the kid, the first thing you do is freeze for a second. Who is this kid? How did he get hurt? How does Matt know him? Why is he in your apartment bleeding? 

You're quickly pushed out of your thoughts when Matt helps the kid onto the couch and looks to you for help. You immediately jump in, using your doctor skills to the best of your ability. Both he and your boyfriend stay silent the whole time. Matt stays sitting in an armchair to the side, obviously stressed by whatever happened. 

It takes a while to patch up the kid, whose name you still don't know, but as soon as you're finished, he falls asleep on the couch and allows you time to discuss this strange situation with Matt. 

Why is it that he stays silent the whole time you're busy helping the kid but the second you're ready to talk he runs off to the kitchen, not exactly running off as the kitchen is right there, but still?

“Matt. Explain?” You don't know what to say or ask. A million questions are running through your head as you follow him to the kitchen. 

“His name's Peter.” He hesitates to continue. “He's spiderman, that's how he got hurt.” 

“What? He's a child!” How the hell is a teenager Spiderman? 

“Yeah, I know that's why I've been keeping an eye on him.” He says as if it's the most casual thing ever. As if he didn't just bring me a beaten-up sixteen-year-old to fix up. 

“What do you mean keeping an eye on him? Do you listen to him?” You turn back to the living room and collapse in a chair. 

“No, he lives too far away. I just mean that I call him and check up on him.” His voice is quiet, careful not to wake the sleeping kid. “I met him a few weeks ago.” 

“When you were in Queens? Is that why you left?” A couple of weeks ago, Matt spent a few days in Queens for a new client he met. He never said much about it and you never asked. You never wanted to invade his clients' privacy and you weren't sure he could tell you about it anyway. 

“Yeah actually.” He doesn't say anymore and for some reason, you don't ask. Not sure if you want to know the reasons this kid, Peter you now know, could be in danger. You know Matt can handle himself so most of the time you try not to worry yourself but this is a young kid, that you can almost guarantee doesn't have anywhere near the amount of fighting training Matt had. 

After a few hours of making sure he was okay on the couch, and convincing Matt to stay in for the night, you both decide to head to bed. 

You wake up the next morning to loud crashing noises from the kitchen. You automatically know it's not Matt because one he is a terrible cook and two he is still lying in bed with an arm over your waist. So Peter must have woken up from his injury-induced slumber and started cooking because he's hungry? 

You reluctantly throw yourself out of bed. Despite getting plenty of sleep you feel anything but well rested. As you head out of the bedroom you see Peter wearing the old clothes Matt put out for him and trying to cook something in the kitchen. From the smell of it, he's probably not the best cook either.

“Good morning.” You greet him, coming into the kitchen and leaning against the counter. He whips around to look at you in surprise, he clearly doesn't have the same super senses as Matt.

“Oh uh, good morning!” He tries his best to sound cheerful but his voice has an underlying tone of shock and awkwardness. “Sorry for waking you up. I know taking of someone you don't know so late at night isn't the best, so I thought I would make you and Matt some breakfast to try and make up for it. I'm Peter by the end.” You stay silent as he falls into an awkward ramble. 

“Hi Peter I'm y/n. And you don't have to worry about making it up to us, we were happy to help. Plus I deal with this stuff all the time.”

“Right, you're a doctor! Matt told me about that.” He puts down all the stuff he was “cooking” and leans along the counter with you. 

“Oh, he talks about me?” 

“Well, it was that or all the people we've fought as masked superheroes.” He shrugs. 

“Superhero? Aren't you a little young to be fighting like you do?” 

“Maybe but if I can help people why wouldn't I?” 

“You could always be selfish and use your powers for yourself.” You tell him out of both curiosity and the fact that if you had any kind of powers you can't guarantee you would use them to help anyone else.

“Yeah, I guess.” And just like you both stop talking. Waiting in silence for Matt to wake up before you order breakfast.

Peter stayed with you guys for a little over a week while you made sure he was fully healed from his injuries. Before long he was going back home to Queens to whoever he lives with. You know from one brief conversation that his parents are gone, he never said how or who he stays with now but that's not any of your business. 

He comes over almost every week now for dinner, one of the only nights a week you and Matt cook instead of ordering takeout. You have the feeling Matt has imprinted on Peter, kind of like a baby duck. Maybe it's because they’re so similar. They can relate to each other in a way Foggy and Karen can’t. Well, Frank can but he and Matt don’t exactly get along. 

Today is one of the days that he’s gonna be coming over for dinner. You and Matt are in the kitchen making a new pasta dish. 

“So I wanted to ask you a question?” Matt suddenly tells you, while in the middle of stirring the pasta sauce. 

“You know you don't have to ask to ask a question right?” It doesn't matter how many times you say it, Matt will always warn you before asking a question. Most likely because he's worried about bothering you.

He lets out a deep chuckle. “I know, sweetheart, but I'm worried you'll say no.”

“I doubt it. What is it?”

“You know how Peter lives with his aunt right?” He pulls the finished sauce off the stove so he can put his full attention on you.

“I knew he lived some family member, yes. Why?” You’re very curious as to where this is going. 

“Well, she’s getting older and I thought maybe he could come and stay with us for a while.” Not what you expected him to ask.

“Matt, I would say yes to that if I could see how it would work. We don't have the room.” You shrug. You would love to help Peter out but you don’t think he would like living on the couch for at least a year. 

“That’s why I'm asking you. You always know what to do with these things.” If he means the way you freak out thinking of every possible solution and pretend to know what you’re doing then yeah, you are a master at it.

“I don't know, Matty. There is about a year and a half before he goes to college, there is no way he’ll be comfortable here for that long.”

“I know. Believe me, I’ve been thinking of a way this could work. I just don’t want him to be alone.” 

“He won’t be. Even if he can’t live here he’s always welcome.” And just by saying that you come up with the perfect idea. 

A few weeks later it worked. Somehow everything magically fell into place. At the end of your previous conversation about it, you told Matt how great it would be if Peter could have his own apartment close to yours and magically one became available in the same building. Being sixteen, Peter obviously couldn't pay for the place himself but you were able to help out, having some extra money due to being a good doctor. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Matt comes up to you. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Eh, you’re rubbing off on me.” You grumble with a fake annoyance.

[cyripticchronicler]

Main Masterlist <3

Requests are open!

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The Marauders Era

James Potter

Sirius Black

Remus Lupin

Criminal Minds

Spencer Reid

Matt Murdock

ACOTAR

Azriel

[jaggedamethyst]

matt murdock with that one girl who randomly stops coming to class

(im bored before bed so here’s me satiating that desire to write something, idk what to call this but here)

over the years matt has become insanely skilled, and i think in his college years he potentially was still learning about himself…despite already having trained for years.

i like to think that he’s easily enraptured by more faint scents—ones where she so clearly was in a rush, hardly got herself ready for class. he’d let himself be excited by her story, making up the plot points of her day based on whatever he could smell or hear. every day was a new arc and he’d yearned to be part of it.

i imagine matt in college as someone who would get so caught up in her presence and imagining traits about her, that he’d forget that they were solely made up by him. he’s always inches away from talking to this girl, but talks himself out of it.

being caught up in this carousel of fantasy means that when the day arrives that she just stops coming to class, he loses his shit.

without thinking he would search popular spots, most of which he’d reasoned she’d never actually be at. he let himself imagine that she was an introvert; almost always ate the same thing, wore the same comfortable fabrics, and rarely strayed away from a signature hairstyle.

he knew all this about her, yet she didn’t even know he existed.

i imagine matt murdock to finally calm when he senses her—the faint rattle of her breath as she rushed into class. it had been weeks…and he wondered where she was.

maybe he’d ask her today.

[halfway-happyyy]

It'll All Work Out

summary: you are casually involved with a one Mister frank castle, but still have unfinished business with one of his biggest adversaries, matt murdock. angst and soft feelings ensue.

warnings: brief mentions of violence

pairings: frank castle x reader, matt murdock x reader

You awaken in the morning hush to the familiar sounds of the city coming to life around you. Millions of dust particles dance and shift in a ray of 5 AM light from the crack in your curtains. A warm weight shifts next to you, and an impossibly toned arm circles your torso ever tighter. For some inexplicable reason before you turn, you half expect to find a shock of unruly umber hair and ruddy, stubbled cheeks beneath a pair of gorgeous hazel eyes. 

And then, a barely noticeable smile lifts Frank Castle’s lips skyward, and you’re back where you’re supposed to be, as if you’d never left at all.

“Mornin’,” He murmurs and lifts the back of your hand to his lips, brushing it softly.

“Morning, Frank.” You kean into his touch, craving more of it always, as if enough of it will make you forget the way that he felt beneath you.

Frank traces a deliberate fingertip down the bridge of your nose, his molten bronze eyes alert and shining brightly in the inky light of dawn. “Last night was nice.” He offers.

And he’s not lying.

You can still feel the scorching heat from his fingertips on every inch of your body; an inexplicably satisfying ache still exists at the apex of your thighs from being stretched a little too fully by him… “Every time with you is nice.” You take cover from his gaze in the hollow warmth of his neck. The low reverberation of his chuckle against the top of your head causes a tremble to wrack your body, and his hold on you tightens involuntarily. 

When you’re close like this- when there’s no telling where either of you end or begin, it’s entirely too easy to lose yourself in all of it. Your home has been a safe space the last six months. There are no cuts to be patched up, no ghosts in the shadows, no goodbyes.

No Matthew.

“You’re a million miles away.” 

His gravelly tone is teasing, but there is a hint of something else beneath it that causes tidal waves of guilt to ebb away at you and you swallow thickly before answering- “I’m right here.” It’s as much a reassurance for him as it is for you.

A sudden vibration pierces the imminent stillness of your bedroom, the sound of it foreign and unfamiliar, and you frown against the jut of Frank’s collarbone. “Who’s even up at this hour?” His voice is thick with the weight of recent sleep. 

The ringing stops, and you think with relief, that it’s the end of that, but less than a minute later, it starts again and you groan in unconcealed frustration. 

“Whoever it is needs you.” 

Turning in Frank’s embrace, you reach for the phone on your bedside table and blanch at the name flashing across the screen. 

MM.

Frank recoils against you; it’s so quiet in the bedroom that you can hear the particular hitch of his breath as it catches in his throat. He doesn’t have to ask what MM stands for. “Better answer it, sweetheart.” His tone is frigid, touching dangerously close to full-on hostility. He presses a final, chaste kiss to the rounded curve of your bare shoulder, lifts the duvet from his body and swings his legs over the side of your bed.

You watch the muscles in his toned back ripple and flex as he bends down to retrieve the pieces of his clothing abandoned in the searing heat of passion the night before. 

“Frank, I don’t want you to go.” And it's God's honest truth.

A melancholy laugh exits his mouth in the form of a huff, as he shrugs his shoulders. “I’d be lying if I said I wanted to leave, sweetheart.” 

So stay…

“He’s never stopped loving you.” His voice was a wine glass on the precipice of shattering entirely. “And maybe I was on my way there, too.” 

God, this was never part of the plan.

Frank clears his throat, trying in vain to rid his voice of emotion. “I’m confident in my feelings for you. Have been from the moment you poured me that damn cup of coffee,” The creases next to his eyes deepen as he revisits the memory. “But the fact of the matter is that he beat me to it. And as nice as the last six months have been, there are three of us in this bedroom and it’s getting a bit crowded.” Where you expected his gaze to be angry or accusatory, it’s anything but.

Tears prickle threateningly behind your eyes as you hug your arms tighter to your frame. “I’m sorry, Frank.” 

He’s fully dressed now and standing at your window, his hulking figure silhouetted by the breaking morning light is a sight for sore eyes. He shrugs after a while. “He needs you.” 

And what about you?  You want to ask. Don’t you need me to?

But it’s Frank Castle. And he hasn’t really needed anyone for a long time- at least not the way that most people do. 

So, he gathers you in his arms for a final time, presses his lips to your forehead, and takes his leave to go. But before he vanishes from sight completely, he hesitates on the landing of your stairway and turns back to you, his penetrating gaze still just as dazzling as ever. “Right person, wrong time.” 

Right person, wrong time. 

From where you are, you hear the sound of your front door opening, but miss the sound of it closing. Instead, an indecipherable noise emanates from Frank, followed by a humorless laugh. “Well, this is rich.” 

Your heart skips a beat as you throw on an old shirt and take the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, you’re met with a scene that’s still difficult to piece together. Matt is hunched up against the side of your house, beaten and bruised from what looks like a brutal fight. Taking inventory of the damage, you notice a violet bruise blooming beneath his left eye, a shallow cut on his cheek seeps crimson blood, and he’s favouring his ribs. 

“You always were a little too good at taking a beating, Murdock.” Frank spits. 

Matt shifts, wincing from the pain. “If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.” 

“This isn’t funny, Matt.” 

He won’t look at you. Not yet. 

“Do you need a hospital?” Frank asks, finally. 

Matt shakes his head. “Just rest.” 

And it’s the look that Frank leaves you with as he climbs onto the back of his motorcycle; he needs you. He disappears at the end of your street and you find yourself missing his strong, protective reassurance almost immediately. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Matt’s voice is hoarse, and causes goosebumps in waves on your arms. 

“And yet somehow, you always manage to.” You sigh and slide down the wall next to him. Taking his hand in yours, you’re shocked at how cold it is and you turn to him, concerned. “How long have you been out here?” 

Matt clears his throat. “A couple of hours, give or take.” 

“You can’t keep doing this, Matt.” Your statement is quiet, almost lost to the white noise of the city around you. “It’s just too painful.” 

His unseeing gaze is focused on something ahead when a single tear cascades down the front of his cut cheek. It’s an unfamiliar sight; in the many years that you had known him, he’d only let himself cry once or twice. Placing an arm around him, you pull him to you and hold him as tightly as he allows you. When a light rain begins to fall, you tell him it’s time to go in. 

He reluctantly gets up, groaning in pain as he follows you back into your house. While the bathtub is filling, you get to work searching for the proper supplies to start patching him up. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” You ask, and take a step between his parted thighs. “Or shall I rely on my imagination?” 

He gazes up in the direction of your voice, and you can not help but lose yourself in his beautiful hazel eyes. “Lately, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat,” His voice is low and raw with emotion. “And I worry because I don’t feel anything. I just don’t feel anything.” 

His eyes close and you feel your heart splinter.

Ripping open an alcohol swab, you take the back of his head in your hands and warn him that what you’re about to do will sting. You pass it over the cut on his cheek and he flinches against you, his body rigid with discomfort. 

“I get worried that I’ll stop feeling everything one day.” He grunts.

So, under the cover of darkness you become the devil of hell’s kitchen and start fights you’re not always sure you’ll win. 

“A valid fear,” You agree. “You did feel that, though.” You gesture to his cheek, and he only frowns in reply. 

Matt clears his throat, his expression suddenly earnest. “Frank-” You shake your head, your heart twinging at the sound of his name out of Matt’s mouth. The rest of the words fizzle and fade in his throat. 

“Stand up.” You instruct, quietly. And he does as he’s told. You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and carefully lift it up over his head. “Jesus Matthew…” You release a pent-up breath as you notice the smattering of fresh bruises that decorate his upper body like a warzone. He recoils when you pass a delicate fingertip over a particularly dark spot. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks, kid…” 

The sound of your nickname makes you falter. It had been years since you’d last heard it, and where it should have incited immediate frustration, you are surprised to find you’d missed it. Next to go are his pants, which pool on the floor around his feet. Stepping out of them, he shimmies the black boxers from his body and steps into the all-encompassing comfort of the steaming bath. 

Turning to make your exit, a fragile noise rips from the hollow of his throat before he asks if you’ll stay. After a couple of minutes of silent deliberation, you nod your head and take a seat on a stool next to the bath. 

Matt sits in silence for a while, the only other noise in the room is the subtle pitter-patter of rain on the skylight above you. Scars of varying degrees of seriousness decorate the expansive planes of his alabaster chest, and it’s all you can do to keep from reaching out and tracing them. When enough time has passed, you fill a jug from beneath the sink with warm water and pour it over Matt’s head. Pouring a dollop of shampoo onto his head, you work the mixture into a lather in his hair and rinse that out as well. When you’re finished rinsing out the conditioner, he stands up for you in preparation of the body wash. You watch, wide-eyed as water drops race themselves in misshapen lines down the length of his lithe body, and your mouth goes dry at the sight of it all. Taking the soapy sea sponge in your hands, you make quick work of his entire body. 

“Feels good,” He murmurs when you’ve poured the final jug of warm water over him. 

While he finishes up in the washroom, you make quick work of changing over your bed. He wanders in a little while later, his hair still slightly damp despite him toweling off. Lifting the corner of your weighted duvet, he sidles in next to you, and all of it is almost painfully familiar; like he’d been here all along, like he’d never even left at all. 

You both are nose-to-nose now. Every scar, every fleck of green suspended in a sea of hazel is on display for you, and any resolve you might have had before fades entirely. “I did mean what I said earlier, Matt.” 

He reaches a warm palm up to caress your cheek. 

“You pick and choose when it’s convenient for you to let me in and I just… I can’t keep doing it. You’re breaking my heart.” A single tear slips from the corner of your eye, and he doesn’t see it- cannot see it, but his thumb catches it and brushes it away. 

He’s never stopped loving you.

“You’re it for me, kid. I’ll never leave you again.” He doesn’t say what you both know is true; that he’ll never stop doing what he does to protect the city he cherishes so deeply, but there is a truth to those pretty words that simply wasn’t there before. “That is, if you’ll have me.” 

You capture his lips in a kiss that might as well be the last one you’ll ever have, and when you eventually pull away, you’re both breathing hard. Wordlessly, you guide his hand to the spot above your rib cage where your heart beats a slow, steady rhythm. 

“I love you, Matthew.” 

I love you, I love you, I love you

[l0vergirlwrites]

✭ matthew murdock ✭

let me see you | matthew murdock x fem!reader (angst/fluff)

dancing in the street | matthew murdock x fem!reader (fluff)

intimacy | matthew murdock x fem!reader (fluff/comfort)

night in | matthew murdock x fem!reader (angst/comfort)

matthew murdock x gn!reader blurb

matthew murdock x musiciangirlfriend!reader headcanons

love & back rubs | matthew murdock x reader (angst/fluff)

overwhelmed | matthew murdock x fem!reader (angst/comfort)

shopping | matthew murdock x fem!reader (fluff/suggestive)

valentine | matthew murdock x fem!reader (fluff)

no pressure | matthew murdock x fem!reader (suggestive/angst/fluff)

exam stress | college!matthewmurdock x femstudent!reader (fluff)

you’re losing me | matthew murdock x fem!reader (angst)

wanna feel guilty | matthew murdock x fem!reader (angst)

[gay-dorito-dust]

Matt: *touches foreheads with you*

You: is there a particular reason why you always do this? Not that I’m complaining or anything, it’s cute but I’m just curious.

Matt: oh I like to pretend that I can sense your inner thoughts-heartbeat aside- I like to act like I know what your thinking and if it’s negative about yourself, then think of it as me fighting back against them, proving them all wrong. *smiles*

You: you’re too sweet for me mattie.

Foggy: wrong, you’re both far too sweet, think I might throw up from it actually.

[farfromstrange]

Is It Over Now? | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader ; (hinted) Frank Castle x Reader ; Elektra Natchios x Matt Murdock

Summary: Matt cheated on you, and you are trying to navigate through it.

Warnings: Angst, no happy ending, break-up, mention of cheating, song references (Taylor Swift), inspired by 'Is It Over Now?', (some) Matt "slander", (somewhat) suicidal thoughts, alcohol consumptions, hint at smut

Word Count: 1.7k

A/n: 1989 TV came out and I am losing my shit. Is It Over Now? Is my new favorite song and I just had a brain fart that made this. You can read this if you're a Swiftie and catch the references or just read it without listening to the song. It works either way.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

To be fair, there was a time when you thought it would never end. The thought of ever having a last kiss with him would have killed you back then. 

He told you that you were the love of his life. You believed him. He was yours, certainly. You can’t deny that.

You were happy, you laughed and cried together, and part of you figured that if you ever broke up, you would find a way to work through it somehow. 

Maybe in another universe, you are still together. Maybe in another universe, you two are still friends. Maybe in another universe, you never had to lose each other.

In this reality though—in this brutal, unforgivable reality—everything changed in a matter of a day. And there is nothing you can do about it now.

Your flower was withering in secret, and you didn’t realize what it was doing to you. Every time you woke up alone, every canceled date, every time he called you and told you he wouldn’t make it home tonight, it was sure to build up to this. 

But this, whatever the hell this is, it hurts beyond compare. 

He said you were a rose, but now that you look in the mirror, you only see a rotten mess.

The past few months have done this to you. He has done this to you. The paper airplanes crashed and burned. There is nothing left but pure bitterness and this hatred you have toward yourself and him; you just want to land your fist in his face, and then maybe your own because how could he hurt you like that after making you love him so very much? 

You loved him so much, but now you doubt he ever loved you back. 

Date after date, coffee after coffee, nights spent together on his couch and in his bed, sharing laughter, sharing tears, it all feels like a hoax now. 

You held him when he was unconscious, stitched him up and told him he was going to be okay. Where was he when you were bleeding out from your own battles? You wonder.

His smile used to be your safe haven, the epitome of innocence and strength, but now it only makes you angry. It makes you resent him. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t, but you still do.

So much has changed, and all it took was one day. 

One day. 

Three hundred days, all wasted in one. 

If you think about it, you spent almost an entire year attached to each other’s side. You moved in together. You kissed, you had sex, you shared secrets you wouldn’t have told anyone else. You helped him hide away from the world, from his enemies, made the world go quiet, and comforted him while he cried. You waited up, you worried, and you almost lost him more times than you can count, and you still stayed.

When no one else would take a chance on him, when he felt everyone was against him and going to leave him, you acted as his rock. You stayed.

You thought he was the one. 

And then it just… ended. 

You gave him the benefit of the doubt when you found her in his dress shirt on his leather couch. The very same couch you two often shared passionate nights on, but at the same time it used to be a symbol of so much more than that.

You let him explain. He explained that she got seriously hurt after showing up out of nowhere, and he just wanted to help without putting you at risk. You believed him because that is the kind of man he was in your head. He was going through some things, things you couldn’t possibly understand, and she was the connection. You tried to understand. In the process of understanding him though, you lost yourself. 

That is something you will never forgive him for. Making you care, making you love him, and unintentionally making you give up on yourself while he continued to break your heart.

You never wanted this to end, never wanted him to go, but in the end, it was the only way. Sticking around wasn’t an option anymore, you have to remind yourself.

He did the one thing he promised he would never do. He broke your heart and your trust into a million pieces that you are now left to pick up on your own. 

You didn’t want to see it before. You were too in love to open your eyes.

He wouldn’t do such a thing, right? You remember repeating that to yourself, to your friends, to Foggy and Karen, but Karen saw him with her, too, and she gave you little hope.

Still, you believed in him. You believed in his morale and his faith. You had faith in him, not even in God but in him and the man he pretended to be—and somehow, he still picked up the knife when you weren’t looking and buried it in your back. 

There were so many signs, but you were blind. So many flashing lights. Red flags. Screaming voices in the back of your head begging you to think. You were in a forest full of trees, yet you saw nothing.

When you came home to find his lips on hers, that’s when you knew. Too little, too late.

He called your name. He told you, “This isn’t what it looks like!” But you lost count of the times he used the same line in relation to her.

To anything, really. He always knew how to talk his way out of something when you were together, although back then, it was mostly harmless.

“I trusted you,” you remember saying. You couldn’t even cry. “And you turned right back around and fucked her!”

“It was just a kiss,” he argued. 

“Are you sure about that? ‘Cause if I ask Elektra, I’m sure she will tell me the truth.”

“No,” Matt was adamant because he could hear your heart breaking.

The way you spoke to him was so eerily quiet. That was how he knew he lost you, and he tried to fix it with nothing but his hands. 

But that is not how you fix a broken vase. That’s how you make it worse and hurt yourself in the process.

You remember him opening his mouth, having the audacity to apologize. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“No. Fuck you, Matt!”

You tore the necklace with his initial off your neck and tossed it at his feet. You couldn’t even look at it. You wonder what happened to it after he picked it up. 

“I trusted you. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I was there when no one else was, and this is how you repay me?” you said.

You should have never let him fool you.

At least you had the decency to keep your lonely nights to yourself.

“Sweetheart, please,” Matt tried to beg again. 

You wouldn’t let him. Thank God you were strong enough to withstand the tears in his eyes. 

“You’re a fucking traitor, Matthew Murdock,” was one of the last things you said to him. “I wish we’d never met.”

Three hundred days. You fell in love. You finally knew what love felt like, and then…then he turned around and fucked it all up. 

“We’re done.”

Some days, you still regret it, but if it was so easy for him to toss all this time together down the drain, he probably wasn’t worth it. 

But God, you were so in love. 

Sweet nothings whispered in your ear are gone now. You’re all alone in your bed. No one to cuddle, no one to touch. It has been a while since you heard someone say, “I love you,” and mean it. You felt loved until you didn’t. Until the life he led ate him up. 

Instead of talking, instead of fighting with you, he drove you into a tree. A car that didn’t need sight, and still he crashed. It was winter then, the snow painted red by the blood of your broken heart. Your favorite dress torn up as you tried to escape. He reached for you the same way you reached for him, but you weren’t there. And he wasn’t there when you needed him most.

Part of you feels bad. You could have worked through this if he hadn’t kissed her. Or maybe you wouldn’t have. In the end, it killed you. It killed him. 

You killed each other. 

Though there are still days when you think about jumping off of very high somethings just to get his attention. Just for him to see you. To come to rescue you. It is a hurtful and selfish thought. Yet, you can’t help it. 

He was your first true love. 

Your mind keeps repeating the same sentence: It wasn’t supposed to end like this. 

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he told you once. 

He searched for something greater in the bed of someone he loved before. You weren’t his first love. You should have known he would say that and not mean it.

But when exactly did you go wrong?

Was it over when he stopped coming home at night? Was it over when he forgot your anniversary? Was it over when he canceled your birthday dinner? Or was it over when he shoved his throat down his ex-girlfriend’s throat in front of you and acted as if it didn’t matter? Was it over then?

“Another one for the lady,” a voice pipes up beside you. 

Your empty glass of tequila disappears, now replaced by a full one. In your drunken haze, you see a head of brown hair, and his smirk makes you wonder if there’s more to him than he lets on. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, tipping your glass to the stranger. 

“Nah, don’t thank me.” He sits down next to you. “You look miserable.”

“What if I am?”

“I’d tell you I know the feeling.”

You huff but offer the stranger your hand with a mention of your name.

He smiles. Your name rolls off his tongue effortlessly. “Frank,” he introduces himself in return. “Castle.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say. 

Broken people make bad decisions, but whether it was over when he took her right there on his couch, or it was over when you told him it was doesn’t matter. 

It is over now, and all you want to do is forget. 

You need to forget Matt Murdock. 

And if this stranger called Frank needs to unbutton your blouse to help you do so, you will gladly follow him home. 

Matt Murdock Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @thychuvaluswife @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @ravenclaw617

(also, I keep tagging you in stuff, but I also think you might like this @blackshadowswriter)

[writingdumpster]

first impressions

pairing: Matt Murdock x reader (no pronouns used)

warnings: none I think

summary: i wrote this purely bc i know matt murdock is excellent at meeting people’s mothers. after impressing your parents matt gets to thinking about his future.

word count: 1.6k

“I’m nervous.” You sat next to Matt in the restaurant he had chosen for the evening. It was fancy. There was a pianist in one corner of the room and linen tablecloths. It was nicer than the hole-in-the-wall joints that you and Matt usually preferred. He wanted to impress your parents though, so he had made a reservation at a swanky restaurant in midtown Manhattan. 

Matt was in his court suit and you had donned the blue silk dress he bought for your anniversary. It was by far your favorite dress. Beyond being a treasured gift, it fit you perfectly and the fabric always felt soft against your skin. Karen had helped Matt pick it out, but she had told you that all she did was describe the dresses and that he had completely ignored her opinions. She had strongly recommended a yellow dress but he had refused her suggestions, insisting you would like the one he picked better. Never having seen the yellow one, you knew he was right. If he picked it, you loved it. You would have him choose between options you put out when you got dressed in the mornings by describing them to him and he always had you match his tie to the rest of his outfit. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Matt said and kissed your temple. 

“I only ever introduced Caleb to my parents,” you told him, not that you hadn’t said it before. Matt knew that Caleb was not someone you had pleasant memories of. He had heard the stories from you and he was the one who helped you get over many of the fears that Caleb had struck into you. Matt was remembering those stories while he heard in your heartbeat how nervous you were. 

“You know I’m not like Caleb,” Matt reminded you. 

“I know, Matt. I just…this is a big deal for me,” you said. 

“It’s a big deal for me too, sweetheart,” Matt told you. “It’s just an exciting big deal for me.” You inhaled deeply. Matt smiled. “You have nothing to worry about. Moms always like me, angel. It’ll be great,” he assured you. 

“All women like you,” you said. Matt laughed lightly. 

“Then that will include your mom, won’t it?” He asked rhetorically. He gave you a light peck as he tangled his fingers with yours beneath the table. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he cooed. You sighed. 

“You’re right. I know they’re going to love you. I just…” You hesitated. 

“Caleb was a mistake and you think it’s bad luck,” Matt said, always knowing what you were thinking. 

“Yeah,” you agreed. 

“This isn’t a mistake, sweetheart. I promise. It’s just the next step,” he told you. You nodded and Matt gave your hand a squeeze. You looked up at the doorway to the restaurant. 

“They’re here,” you said. You rose from the table and greeted your mom and dad with hugs. Matt was standing by your side with a charming smile across his face. 

“Hello, Mrs. y/l/n,” Matt greeted with a smile. Your mom held her arms out to Matt and pulled him into a hug. He returned it kindly.  

“Oh, please, call me y/m/n,” your mom said. “Y/N has told us so much about you. I think we can be on a first name basis,” your mom said. You felt heat rise to your cheeks as your mom told Matt how you spoke about him. Matt simply turned to you and smiled. He loved that you told your parents about him. He wished he could tell his dad all about you. Your father held out his hand for Matt to shake. Matt stayed still, not wanting to give up his powers. You took Matt’s hand and pulled it to where your father’s hand was waiting. 

“Oh, sorry about that,” your dad said in embarrassment as he shook Matt’s hand. Matt chuckled lightly. 

“That’s alright, sir. Took y/n months to stop answering me with nods,” Matt joked. 

“It was not months,” you said sharply. 

“You still do it sometimes,” Matt teased. You pursed your lips, biting back the comment about how you knew he could tell. The four of you sat down, Matt pulling out your mother’s chair for her before doing the same for you and taking his seat.

Matt was right about mothers loving him. He charmed your mom with his dry sense of humor and enchanting smile. He won your dad’s approval when he mentioned he owned his own law firm. Your father didn’t need to know that Nelson and Murdock was nearly always on the edge of bankruptcy. Your parents told Matt stories about you from your childhood, despite your protests that they were too embarrassing. Matt loved the stories. All he could do was smile at you. The night was perfect. Matt was perfect. Your father refused Matt’s attempt to pay for the meal before the four of you left. You said your goodbyes in front of the restaurant before getting into different cabs and going back home. Matt’s hand was resting innocently on your leg while the two of you sat in the back of the cab. 

“I told you it was going to be fine,” Matt teased you. You rolled your eyes. 

“Yes, you were right, Murdock,” you agreed. Matt chuckled. 

“Doesn’t happen that often. I have to brag when it does,” he said. The cab pulled up outside of your apartment and the two of you got out. You made your way up the stairs and walked through the sliding door. The glow of the billboard outside of your window was blue. A new advertiser had taken over a few weeks earlier and the red light that usually filled the room had been replaced with a blue light, making it seem like your apartment was bathed in moonlight. You were looking through the mail that you had collected on your way up. 

You realized you didn’t know where Matt went when music started playing. You smiled to yourself as you tossed away the junk mail. Suddenly you felt hands on your hips as Matt pulled you away from the counter. He spun you around and moved one of his hands to the small of your back. The other went to cup your hand in his. You giggled before moving to wrap your free arm around his shoulders, fingers tangling in the hairs at the nape of his neck as the two of you began swaying back and forth. Matt loosened his hold on your waist and moved to let you spin beneath his arm before pulling you back into his body and dipping you. 

When Matt pulled you back upright you leaned up on your toes to press a kiss to his lips. Matt smiled against your lips. You stared into his eyes when you leaned away. His eyes were so beautiful. You never cared that his eyes didn’t see you the way yours saw him. He saw you in so many other ways. 

“You really impressed them,” you said as you leaned closer to Matt, tucking your head against his neck.

“I told you moms like me,” Matt said. 

“My dad liked you too though,” you said. 

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “We just can’t let him visit my office. He won’t be impressed anymore.” You chuckled. 

“I certainly hope he won’t ever need a lawyer,” you said. 

“If you hadn’t needed a lawyer we never would have met,” Matt reminded you. 

“Yes, and that worked out very well,” you agreed. “But when we tell our kids how we met I think we should make something up.” Matt beamed. 

“Our kids?” He asked. Your heart dropped for a moment and your face went blank. 

“I mean, umm…” You started stuttering. 

“We’ll have to get married first,” Matt interjected before you could start backpedaling. Your panic turned to excitement. You grinned. 

“You obviously have my parents' approval now,” you said. Matt smiled. 

“And you’ve certainly gotten Foggy’s approval,” Matt replied. 

“Foggy likes me better than you,” you said with a laugh. 

“Yes, I know,” Matt said flatly. “He’s very clear about that.” You held back your giggles. 

“If you came into the office with cookies instead of bruises like me he might like you more,” you joked.

“I do bring in cookies,” he grumbled. 

“Yes, but Foggy knows I made them,” you said. Matt sighed. 

“He wouldn’t like me at all if I brought in cookies that I made,” he said. You giggled at the memory of Matt trying to make your birthday cake and causing the building to evacuate after setting off the smoke alarm. 

“When we have kids I bet he’ll like them better than both of us,” you said. Matt smiled. 

“That’s alright. We can use him as a babysitter that way,” he said. 

“Maybe if Karen’s there too,” you said. Matt chuckled. 

“You don’t trust Foggy with our kids?” He asked. 

“Matty, you have told me far too many stories about you dragging Foggy back to your dorm after a frat party for me to trust Foggy with our kids,” you said. “He will most certainly let one of them do something stupid.” 

“And you think I won’t?” Matt asked. 

“You won’t let them do something stupid, you’ll do it for them,” you said. Matt spun you around in his arms once more as the song came to an end. He kissed your forehead when he pulled you back against him.  Matt’s heart was full at the way the two of you were so casually talking about your kids. He hoped it wouldn’t be long till they were real. He knew what he wanted. He didn’t want to wait for it anymore. There wasn’t anything stopping him now.

“You want to go ring shopping tomorrow?”

[dameronology]

matt murdock headcanons

i have about 4000 words to write for my thesis so instead i am writing these. enjoy xx

matt takes his coffee black. nothing else added, literally just black. anything else overwhelms his senses. for the first six months of your relationship, you kept accidentally leaving little coffee grounds floating in the bottom that made him want to die, but he loves you so he did not say anything.

actually, matt is the king of "i love you so i won't say anything." if you burn dinner or wear that one scratchy jumper that overwhelms him or flood the bathroom so it's a gosh darn slip and slide, he won't say anything. why would he? he loves you as you are.

matt doesn't need you to guide him in public but he will hold your arm or hand just because he wants too. he especially likes when your hands are loosely intertwined and he can feel your pulse against his skin. it's calming for him.

sometimes he forgets that you weren't always in his life. he'll tell a story from college as though you were because it just doesn't feel right to have lived a life where you weren't in it.

matt rarely calls you by your name. it's always sweetheart, and sometimes baby.

although one time foggy heard him call you the latter and then called matt baby girl and babycakes for a week until karen threatened to beat them both up

on the subject of foggy & karen -- they both love you!! they'd always been protective of their little trio but you fit in perfectly.

those two quickly become your best friends.

josie's for drinks after work on a friday is standard. matt will always have an arm looped around your waist, or a hand on your thigh, or just any form of physical contact really. mostly because he's over protective.

matt doesn't get hungover and it's really fucking annoying. you've seen him pound back pint after pint, just to wake up feeling fresh as a daisy the next day.

the good news?? he's vision impaired so he won't open the curtains when you're hanging out your absolute arse !!

he's the best at looking after you when you're hanging, though. he'll make you a smoothy and a greasy breakfast.

actually, matt is just the best in the mornings anyways. you'll always have a cup of coffee made before you're awake, with breakfast on the counter.

living with matt is domestic bliss tbh

that's not to say you don't argue -- you're both human and in his line of work, both day job and night job, it comes with its bad days and times when he keeps shit bottled up

so you prod and you poke until he explodes and finally, you argue and it's cathartic as hell

matty is very overprotective too, which has lead to tension

it was a little over the top at first, but you settle for having life 360 on both your phones and letting him know when you arrive places safely

even when you have really bad arguments, you always find your back to each other

one time you joked "i'll send you a text if wilson fisk murders me" and he didn't find it funny

actually he almost cried

the be all and end all though is that against the back drop of new york city, and even though you're in the arse, you are everything that's pure in matt's world.

[nevarrhoe]

mea culpa (m.m)

SUMMARY: "mea culpa" (exclamation - noun/legal term)

used as an acknowledgement of one's fault or error.

↪ in which matt murdock accidentally falls in love with the district attorney's daughter.

warnings: smut !! p in v, she/her pronouns used for reader

series master list

any minors caught interacting will be blocked and reported

a/n: don't mind me bringing this series back THREE YEARS later bc i fell back in love with matt murdock. felt right to re-publish just bc i have edited it a little bit too. enjoy!!

You fucking hated these parties. 

Sweaty lawyers, classy music, champagne that cost thousands of bucks but tasted like piss. And it was all for what? For every lawyer on the Upper East Side to have a dick measuring contest and decide who the best prosecutor was? Yeah, that sounded about right.

It would have been less insufferable if the barristers in question were younger, hotter and more prone to using antiperspirant. Sadly, they were none of those things. All well past their sell-by date. You could deal with an older man but these were just…old. Daddy issues were one thing but gran-daddy issues was where you drew the line. Much unlike the gorgeous blonde girls hooked on the arms of the eighty-plus law firm partners, flaunting the expensive rocks on their fingers and praying for the day that their husbands finally keeled over and left their estates to them. You’d always sworn not to become one of them. At least not until you were twenty-seven at most - and it wouldn’t have been hard, given that your father was the District Attorney and had every high-flying lawyer in his pocket. 

You didn’t need their money though, not when you had his. Obviously, most of it was family money - district attorneys didn’t exactly make money bags. Not much of an issue given that your family name ranked a little between the Vanderbilts and the Rockerfellers. 

So there you were, perched on the edge of some random firm’s annual mixer. You’d cracked out your mother’s vintage Chanel suit - a red-and-black checkered blazer and matching mini-skirt, finished with black platform heels and a spritz of Coco Chanel. There wasn’t a hair out of place - that was rule one of finishing school. 

“Darling, are you going to mingle at all?”

Eyes flickering up from your champagne, they locked with your father’s a few feet away. The scowl was natural. 

“What am I supposed to talk about?” you asked. “They’re all boring. And old.”

“Any man here would give you a job,” he replied. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to have one.”

“Oh father, please,” you snorted. “Your great-grandad didn’t spend years exploiting oil tycoons for billions of dollars for me to break my nails working.” 

You could have gotten any job or degree you wanted - money aside, you were smart as fuck. You’d graduated top of your class at Harvard at the mere age of 21. Two years later, however, your degree was just decoration, with you having discovered you much preferred just…existing. And spending money on clothes, bags, and whatever else you fancied that day. 

“Our ancestors worked hard-” 

“- I never said they didn’t work hard,” you cut him off. “You clearly put a lot of effort into sucking Wilson Fick’s dick.”

Shoving your glass of champagne into your father’s hand, you blew him a kiss and stalked off. 

It was that particular conversation that caught Matt Murdock’s attention. 

He stood a good few meters away from you, nursing his own glass of barely-touch bubbly and fiddling awkwardly with his tie. Foggy Nelson had dragged him there - c’mon Matty, it’s just a formality he’d said - and then duly fucked off to flirt with a stunning law clerk. What a jerk. 

Your comment had been flippant, but it was the first mention of Fisk’s name in a negative light that he’d heard all night. It was no wonder he wasn’t very popular there, given how his law firm had attacked the big guy. 

“You look bored…” you trailed off, eyes flickering down to the name tag on Matt’s lapel. “...Murdock.” 

That wasn’t why you’d come over to him. Okay, maybe it was a little but also because he was a) a stunningly attractive man in a room of viable Jabba the Hutt’s and b) his blazer was just a little too tight for his arms. He’d been meaning to get it taken out a little but man, life was just so busy at the moment. 

It took exactly five seconds for your entire being to fill his senses. Faint Coco Chanel and expensive body cream, all of which had clearly been used to mask the smell of tobacco. Expensive tobacco too. The taste of champagne lingered every so slightly on your breath, but not enough to show you’d had that much. He could read you just from that. You smelt like you - or your daddy, most likely - had money and it was clear you weren’t big on drinking. At this event, at least - because what socialite in modern day Manhattan didn’t have a drinking problem? 

It was weird how he could tell when people were staring - it was just a sense that their lingering eyes just happened to be in his direction. But even if he was in their line of sight, it was clear they weren’t looking at him. No bets that you were one of the best sights in the room. 

Matt was bored. You were bored. And that was where the entire problem began.  

The lawyer gave you a smile. “This isn’t really my scene.”

“Oh, please,” you beamed back at him. “It’s not mine either. You should be grateful you can’t see what’s going on right now - it’s like watching hundreds of Rich Uncle Pennybags drag around their discount Pamela Anderson sex dolls.”

Matt let out a derivative snort. Hell, you were funny too. 

“I very briefly remember what Pamela Anderson looks like,” he replied. “Even a discounted version of her is arguably still very beautiful, no?”

“Mmm,” you hummed. “I mean…I would.”

“I can only assume based on the way you’re speaking about these established lawyers that you’re not one of them?”

“Absolutely not,” you shot back. “I never got around to passing the bar.”

“So why are you here?”

“My old man’s the district attorney,” you replied. “And I can tell by the way your face just fell that you don’t like him.”

“I don’t not like him-”

“- it’s okay, Murdock,” you cut him off. “Rest assured, I probably hate him more than you.”

“So I’ll ask again,” he raised an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”

“Family obligations,” you rolled your eyes. “But what I wouldn’t give to stop playing happy families and leave this godforsaken hall to drink alcohol that doesn’t taste how my Great Aunt Betty smells.”

Matt normally wouldn’t have accepted your hint, but he was so done with the night already. Daredevil aside, he hadn’t been living a very exciting life the last few weeks. Maybe it was time he did something for himself. Something younger, funnier, and prettier than the woman he would normally find in New York on a Saturday night. 

“Are you even old enough to frequent establishments that sell alcohol?”

“Oh, you’re funny,” you huffed. “Old enough by just over two years, but I can assure you I’ve been drinking much longer than that.” 

Matt smiled. “Then I might know a place.”

–

All eyes were on you the second you stepped inside Josie’s Bar. Not for the same reason they’d been on you at the last event. 

Your outfit alone probably cost more than the yearly rent of this hole. It was a nice hole, though. Nicer than you’d expected. Even if the carpet was sticky on your heels and the air thick with tobacco. At least here you wouldn’t have to hide your own smoking habits. 

“What’s your poison?” Matt asked. He kept a hand on the small of your back, guiding you to the bar. Nice.  

You glanced at the bar, scanning the shelves for your choice of intoxication. 

“I’ll take a double dark rum and coke, please.” you replied - half to Matt, half to the woman behind the bar who you assumed to be Josie. 

“Diet coke?” she teased. 

“Not necessary- regular is fine,” you replied. “I assume you accept American Express platinum here? I’ll tip as well.”

Josie smiled. “Touche - and for you, Matthew?”

“I’ll take an IPA.”

You smiled, resting a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I kind of liked just calling you Murdock.”

“I don’t mind if you want to keep doing that,” he replied. “That little play with the AmEx card was cute.”

“Oh yeah?” you quirked an eyebrow. “I’m not gonna let her talk down to me just because I’m not…working class like everyone else in this bar.”

“How long did it take you to come up with a nice word for poor?” he teased. “Didn’t they teach you grammar in private school?”

You ran a hand down his arm, acrylic nails leaving a trail of goosebumps. “You like running your mouth, don’t you, Murdock?”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.”

Maybe this was unlike him. Actually, maybe it wasn’t unlike. In fact…it was more like him than the everyday Matt Murdock he liked to let in. It felt a little sacreligious that it was a pretty rich girl that brought it out of him - never mind that you were at least ten years younger - but hell, he’d take it. Life was short and he knew how fun the daughters of rich businessmen could be. Elektra Natchios was testament to that and was arguably much less of a good time that you were so far. 

You slid his drink towards him. “Better get drinking then, huh?”

–

You tried to outdrink Matt.

Matt tried to outdrink you. 

And that was the only explanation as to how you were still at Josie’s by final call. Neither of you were drunk - tipsy at a push - and somehow, you were both walking the line between giving the other your all and still playing hard to get. You’d learnt that Matt was a tease - no doubt a smooth talker in the courtroom - and he could easily keep up with your taunts and jabs. 

“I can’t believe we got kicked out!” 

You’d stumbled out the bar about two minutes before, arms linked with his to guide him down the street. Matt’s cane was tucked up neatly away now - he could have pretended to still use it, but the way you held onto him and led him down the street did far too much to his senses to deny himself of it. It was a mixture of expensive perfume and rum, and what felt like electricity every time your hand touched his wrist. 

“It’s called closing time,” Matt shot back. 

“In my world, that’s just a Green Day song,” you said. “You go a few blocks east of here and they’ll stay open as long as you keep paying.”

“We could go a few blocks east - or we could go one block south and go back to my place.”

You grinned. “Lead the way! Wait - oh my god. Was that really mean?”

He chuckled, grabbing your hand and leading you in the opposite direction.

Matt’s apartment was nice - high ceilings and big windows, though sparsely furnished and minimal at the same time. You followed him through to the kitchen, kicking off your heels and sliding into a bar stool beside him. He threw aside his glasses and cane, spinning around to face you.

“So, tell me,” you began. “How does a small-time lawyer like you afford a place like this?”

“I take men like your father to court,” Matt suavely replied - he reached across the counter and yanked over a bottle of scotch, popping off the lid. “Care for some?”

“Mm, Glen Mckenna,” you glanced at the label. “I’m not much of a scotch gal, Murdock. At least scotch that’s only thirty years old.”

“It’s older than you, sweetheart.”

“My age hasn’t been much of a problem the rest of the night,” you shot back. 

You unfolded your legs, ever so slightly pushing up your skirt as he did. You knew Matt couldn’t see, but some part of you knew even more that he was picking up on your signals. 

That suspicion became something of certainty when he practically threw aside everything on the kitchen counter, large hands grabbing your hips. Within a matter of seconds, as though something had snapped, he had you placed on top of the cool wood, fingers splayed into your sides and mouth just inches away from yours. 

“You’re really playing the age card, huh?” his voice was raspy; bare, green eyes dark with lust. “You know nothing.”

You gave him a grin. “So teach me.”

Matthew Murdock’s lips were on yours before you’d even finished your sentence. Not unlike his hands, they were thick and calloused, bringing a thousand senses over you at once. He was clearly an experienced kisser - and a giving one too. Worlds away from the immature frat boys you’d spent the last few years gallivanting about with. 

He was right -you did know nothing. 

But that was just it, right? Matt was older than you - ten years, fifteen at the most. You’d slept around here and there but hell, nothing had been like this. Two minutes into whatever the fuck you were about to do and Matt had you shaking, cocky demanour gone; hands tangled in his hair and cunt begging, craving for a man you’d never even had before. 

Matt’s teeth tugged on your lower lip and you knew then you’d completely lost your mind. The moan that escaped your mouth only lulled him on, hands squeezing your hips even harder and pulling you closer towards him. 

You felt it then, pressed against your lower stomach. He was hard as fuck. 

“Stop teasing,” you grumbled. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Matt hissed. 

Still, he obliged. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he pulled you off the counter, carrying you over to the sofa. He held you with only one arm, free hand tangled in your hair and holding your lips on his. 

You both fell onto the couch, clothes flying everywhere. It didn’t matter how expensive your stupid vintage Chanel was then- it looked much better on his floor than it had ever had done on you. Matt’s shirt and pants followed suit, landing before yours in a crumpled pile. 

“You in some kinda fight club or something?” you paused, tangling your hand in Matt’s hair and pulling him back. Your free one followed down his torso, fingers ghosting across the pink ridges on his abs. No complaints here. 

“Less talking, sweetheart,” he brushed aside your comment. “=

“Who put you in charge?”

“Me,” his words were muffled, barely audible as he attached his lips to your neck. “You gonna do as I say?”

“Or what?”

“It wasn’t a question.”

Matt’s lips were quickly replaced by a calloused hand on your throat. He gave it a light squeeze, a wicked smile spreading across his face when your wise demeanor was suddenly gone. He pressed another kiss to your neck, then another, following up to your ear. 

“If it gets too much, you say - okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” you replied. “I promise I can take it.”

Another kiss, this time on the lips. “Good girl.”

You let out a whimper, brain not entirely sure what to focus on as Matt’s hands went to work. He kept one on your throat, squeezing it just enough to earn a moan out of you, the other creeping up your thighs and gently slipping inside you. That caught you by surprise - how gentle he was, and yet completely the opposite at the same time. 

Matt pushed you down into the cushions, hand still gripping your throat. His fingers curled inside you - back and forth, back and forth. A steady beat that hit the right spot over and over and over. Ecstasy took over your body like a rush, senses consumed by nothing but him. 

“Matt,” you murmured. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me, darling,” his voice was still gruff, holding some type of contagious venom at you for distracting him. “I’m getting plenty from this.”

And he was. He was getting everything. The quickening pace of your heart, the smell of you, the tiny moans and whimpers that escaped your mouth every time he so much as moved. It was exultation for him as well - and almost completely sinful, the way it made him feel. Not that he gave a fuck about any religious figure in that moment. The man was willing to spend an eternity repenting his sins if it meant just one night with you. 

You came quicker than you ever had with anyone - better than you ever had with anyone. It rushed over your body like a fountain of cold water, ripping from your stomach and up to your already-dysfunctional brain like the sharp drop of a rollercoaster. Falling, falling, falling, until Matt’s hands grabbed you and grounded, softly caressing your face, holding your jaw as you cried out his name. 

“You want to stop?” he gently asked. 

“No,” you sharply sat up, scowling. “Didn’t I say that I would tell you-”

“- careful with your tone, sweetheart.”

Matt grabbed you by the hips again, pulling you down into the sofa. The next few moments were unbearable in the best way - a blur of teeth on your neck, chest, stomach and thighs, barely even registering what was going on until you felt his tongue swipe over your folds. A cry escaped your mouth, still overstimulated from your last orgasm. 

“If you want something,” Matt popped his head up, shit-eating grin across his stupidly gorgeous face, “you should just say.”

“Stop fucking teasing.”

He moved back up towards you, brushing his lips against yours. “You make it so easy.”

With that, Matt placed his hands on your ass and hoisted you into his lap. He gave it one final slap before grabbing his dick and maneuvering into inside you - you couldn’t help but let out a moan of relief, dropping your head into his shoulder and gently biting his skin. 

“Didn’t take you for a biter,” he chuckled. Running a hand up your back, he dusted across your shoulder, large fingers finding place on your jaw. “Move.”

And move you did. 

It was heaven the way he felt inside you - his fingers had been one thing but this was incomparable. You didn’t give a fuck about a stranger’s neighbours at the best of times, but you had absolutely no respect in that moment for anyone belove or below (in more than one sense). You were loud and Matt fucking loved it. He couldn’t see you - couldn’t see your glazed over eyes or freshly bruised and bitten skin - but hell, you filled his other senses enough to make up for that. 

You kind of knew the minute you met that he had a big dick. It was in the way he held himself: confident, but humble. Funny, but in an unassuming way. And it hit just the right spot, repeatedly edging the same spot that his fingers had tired out just moments before. 

It went on for a few more minutes; you were completely lost in one another, brains barely able to comprehend that you’d known each other less than twelve hours. 

You didn’t need to tell Matt that you were - he knew, and rather than slowing it down so that you could revel in the last few moments, he picked up the pace; hand tightening on your throat, other squeezing your ass in a way that was sure to leave a mark in the morning.

Your second orgasm was indescribable - you opened your mouth to let out a yell and yet, it was silent. Your acrylics clawed up and down Matt’s back, digging into him in an attempt to ground yourself. That only egged him on, the sting adding to his euphoria as he came undone inside you. 

Matt laid you back down on the couch, pressing kisses to your jaw as he did. You frowned when he began shuffling about - then he produced his shirt from the floor. He maneuvered your arms so that he could pull it over your head, before reaching for a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around your middle. 

“You’re amazing,” he murmured. “I’m gonna go get you a cloth. Don’t move.”

“I’m never moving,” you softly chuckled. 

He smiled. “Good.”