#matt murdock is the catholic of the year

[formerheroeswhoquittoolate]

hi do you think sam is normal about the fact that matt died (on what was supposed to be his watch. by the way) and then came back as a fucking catholic priest. like. this guy watched his community get torn apart by a religious leader. aforementioned religious leader told him to kill a guy, got really pissed when he didn't, and threw him and his mom and their entire community under the bus when the beast came to take back its stolen power. he doesn't trust religion. he definitely doesn't trust religious authorities.

and now, you know. his quasi-father died (very nearly by the sword sam was given. by the way.) and came back as a religious authority. he actively works in the catholic church. he's a priest. that has to be uniquely shitty for sam. your dad figure is back from the dead (that you probably should have been there to save him from in the first place) and he's not a lawyer anymore but a guy in the exact same position of authority as the one you became blindspot to work against. the one that tried to make you into a murderer. the one that got your mom killed. oh and he doesn't remember you. crazy.

[junsei-draws-rotasu]

When I finish watching Daredevil, I will totally a crack-treated serious fanfic of him having a religious crisis. Because every Catholic at least need one or multiple times in their life

[farfromstrange]

“What if the way you hold me is actually what’s holy?” | Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: SMUT! (18+), shower setting, oral f!receiving, masturbation, fantasizing, beard appreciation (kink?), dirty talk, mentioned unprotected p in v, slight Dom!Matt, DDBA!Matt, improper thoughts about a certain crucifix necklace, (kind of) religious symbolism, mentions of choking, praise kink, pet names, “good girl”, not perfectly edited (shocker)

Summary: Fantasies about your late-working boyfriend take over your much needed self-care shower—until he’s suddenly (and unexpectedly) right in front of you when you are about to take care of the problem yourself.

A/n: So, the Born Again trailer brought me back from the dead and made me so fucking needy for this man. I thought this would be the best opportunity to rewatch Daredevil and practice writing Matt again because I’ve been a bit out of practice lately. Let’s just say the experiment was successful, but I definitely owe it to my hormone levels. The gif below inspired this fic (as it probably has done to many writers in the fandom these past two days). Anyway. If you want to listen to the song I was listening to while writing, it’s “Guilty As Sin?” By Taylor Swift, hence the title. Other than they, enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated!

Read Me On AO3!

The warm water from the shower head above runs down your clammy skin, seeping into your pores and aching muscles. You have been dreaming about this ever since you got home from work. 

The apartment is quiet, save for the little noise you make in the bathroom. Matt called you earlier, telling you he would be late and that you shouldn’t wait up for him; you expected as much after he and Foggy caught a high-profile case a couple of weeks ago. 

When he isn’t busy at work, he tries to fulfill his duty to protect the city. You’re not mad; you knew what you were signing up for when you fell in love with him, but that doesn’t change the fact that you miss him sometimes. Or rather, all the time. It doesn’t matter if he’s at work or wandering around in red leather, searching for a fight—you always miss him. 

There’s not a day that goes by that you’re not worried he might not come back to you. You can only hold on to the thought of him coming home in the middle of the night, crawling into bed beside you because he’s too tired to shower, wrapping his arms around you as though you are the only thing anchoring him to reality. It makes you appreciate what you have in him. 

The thing about Matt is that he feels he has to do penance for every little thing he has ever done, whether his actions hurt people or not; he loathes himself for who he is, which is absurd to you but to him, it makes sense. Perhaps it’s the catholic in him, or all those years of losing soulmates, or maybe it’s both.

His shampoo smells faintly of sandalwood and the rainforest, but only if you focus closely. You like that it makes your skin soft, and when you wrap yourself in his silk sheets at night, it’s almost like he’s all over you before he physically can be. 

You close your eyes and you focus on the feel of him, imagining your hands are his. You imagine his calloused fingers trailing over your heated skin, exploring every dip and every curve, even though he already knows the wonderland of your body inside and out. His lips on yours, traveling down your neck to your shoulder to your chest… a shiver runs down your spine, pooling in your core. You’re on fire, and he isn’t even with you. 

He’s at the office, sleeves probably rolled up, the first two buttons of his dress shirt undone, loosening his tie with that strained look he gets when he’s stressed. Or maybe he’s on his way to Fogwell’s Gym so he won’t disturb you before he puts the suit on, fists raining down on a sandbag as sweat drips down his body, and he grunts whenever he lands a hit. 

You were just trying to have a nice shower, but Matt always manages to invade your every thought like a burglar on a mission. 

It’s just not fair how he always looks so sinful when he’s at his wit’s end. Oh, you love that look he gets when he’s feral. And you suddenly remember how long it has been since you got to touch each other. Since he let the devil out on you. Since he came home in the middle of the night and fucked you into the mattress because he was still so full of adrenaline. 

It has been so long since you two got to have a nice dinner together and you last rode him on his leather couch until you were both sticking to it, not even thinking about stopping; since he devoured you for hours and hours and hours until you were almost severely dehydrated and overstimulated from the orgasms he tore from you. 

You bite your lip so you won’t moan into the void of the bathroom. If you touch yourself now, he will know when he comes home. For a moment, you consider it. You slide your hand from your chest down your stomach. The water is slowly starting to grow cold. You just need to take the edge off.  Lower, lower, and lower, and—

“Don’t,” Matt’s voice reverberates in your ear. His hand slides over yours, calloused fingers on the back of your hand. 

The veil of fantasy burns to the ground. Your heart stops, then picks up the pace at a million miles an hour. In an instant, you turn around to face him, a gasp dying on your lips.

He’s right there, clothes discarded on the floor before the shower, no doubt. The golden crucifix around his neck offers a sinful contrast to his milky skin. You have always wondered if he was made out of marble rather than skin and bone. How can one person be this beautiful—this close to perfection and still be human? 

Matt is close enough for you to feel his heartbeat against your own. His hands slide to your forearms to make sure you don’t slip. You can see your wrecked reflection in his hazel irises. 

His unfocused gaze is right on you, boring through your skull into your soul. Only he can read you like an open book, listen to your body, and know exactly what you want, what you crave. He thinks of himself as the devil, but all you see is an angel. He’s the sun. To you, at least, he’s everything. The moon, the sun, the stars, and the entire fucking universe.

He caught you when you were about to touch yourself, and he’s naked. Really fucking naked. This is not how you imagined tonight to go. 

His chest heaves with a deep inhale of your scent, forehead coming to rest against yours. 

“You’re home,” you whisper. 

His lips curl into a smile—not a smirk but a genuine smile. “Yeah.”

“But you said you guys had that case, and then you were gonna go out…”

Matt cuts you off, “I missed you,” he says. “Couldn’t go out without seeing you.”

He chose you over the city. You never doubted Daredevil meant more to him than you, but hearing it out loud almost brings tears to your eyes.

“I missed you too,” you answer. So much. Days, weeks, seconds, all the fucking time. 

He’s so smug about it, too, when he tells you, “I know.”

The water keeps falling around you, drowning out the noise of the city and pearling off his necklace. He should have taken it off. If he wanted to shower with you, he should have taken it off because the need for him that makes your cunt pulse in desperation feeds off of the mere thought of taking the cold metal into your mouth while he pounds into you like a madman. 

He doesn’t look agitated, not at all, but there is a dark shadow falling over Matt’s bearded face. It’s a calculated shadow rooted in a need for control, and who are you to deny him the only thing he can control?  

“Hey,” he grabs your chin, “Tell me. What were you doing in there, hm?” 

You bite your lip. “Just… showering.”

“Just showering?” He brushes his nose against yours. “You know I can hear your heartbeat…”

You nod. Your lips brush, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. You can taste the remnants of his last coffee, the familiar warmth of his mouth on yours, but he refuses to give you the satisfaction. You crave him so much that fireworks have started erupting on your skin wherever his fingers dare to travel; it isn’t fair. He isn’t fair. 

Matt studied the science of driving you crazy, and now you are bordering on the edge of madness. Alone. 

“Mhm. So, I know you’re lying…” He moves to your cheek, his breath hot when he speaks, “And I know when you’re touching yourself. ‘Cause I can smell how fucking wet you are, sweetheart.” 

There he is. The relentless, feral animal you fantasized about before. The man driven by primal need and the sheer power of his senses rather than rational thought, and yet he knows exactly what he is doing. He’s a musician playing you like a delicate violin, pushing her to the breaking point but never fully destroying.

“Like I said,” you breathe, “I missed you.”

He presses his lips to your cheek, almost like a reward. “I know,” he says. “Probably been thinking about me, too, with your hand on your pussy…” 

You swallow a needy moan that would have been too embarrassing. It’s been a long few weeks. Neither of you will be able to resist for long, you know that, so you decide you have to be bold tonight. “And what’re you gonna do about it?” you ask.

Though stunned for a moment, the smirk on Matt’s face isn’t far out of reach. “That’s my girl.”

Your back hits the now warm tiles of the shower wall before you can string together another remark, and then, finally—fucking finally—his lips are on yours. Kissing you. Devouring you. Breathing air into your aching lungs. He tastes like paradise, the Garden of Eden, and the six circles of hell all at once. It’s all the same to you, anyway. 

As long as you’re with him, you don’t care where you end up. No amount of torture could take away the love you feel for him, and you know that with Matt, even weathering the stormy seas of hell would be worthwhile. It’s sick and twisted how far you would go for this man, but you can’t find a single bone in your body that cares.  

His tongue forces its way into your mouth, tasting you, and inhaling you like his sole source of life support. You don’t bother fighting for dominance; you’re all his. Your body is telling him to command you. Your mind is screaming for him to touch you in any way he pleases, so help him God, and the chain around his neck keeps sinfully dangling against his toned chest. You want to bite it. You’re going to bite it. But not yet. 

When it is time for you to swim to the surface for air, he pulls away. His lips move from yours to the corner of your mouth. He kisses there, taking his time to explore what he has explored many times before. But Matt Murdock is an addict, and you are his drug of choice, so why would he ever stop? 

He kisses your cheek, your eyes, and the bridge of your nose. That’s how he sees you. Either with his fingers or his mouth or both. Touching you. Listening to you. He wants to see you in his own way. In a way that is far more intimate than you admiring his objective beauty could ever be.

“So beautiful,” he whispers between kisses. When he says it, you know it has to be true, even when you don’t see yourself in the same light as him.

His beard is rough where he kisses you. He has grown it out quite a bit, not having the time to bother shaving. The specks of gray that have started appearing as he got older should be illegal, you think, staring at him through hazy eyes. It should be illegal to look this good.

You caress his face, palm covering the entirety of his cheek. So beautiful, you want to say, but you don’t have the words.

The confession of love tumbles against your skin, softly, breathlessly, and he dips his head into the crook of your neck. He seeks your pulse point to press his lips against the beat of your heart. Your head falls back against the tiles. He’s a fucking menace, but he’s gentle about it. So, so gentle.

The hands-on your hips pull you closer, as close as you can get. Your nipples brush his chest, and you can feel him growing hard against you. He’s hot, red, and flushed, and with his lips against your neck, sucking and biting and licking some more, the shower water isn’t the only thing running down your thighs. You’ve been wet just thinking about him; Matt is here now, and he has no intention of stopping until you’re screaming his name.

Your skin is raw from the way he’s moving his face against you, suctioning his lips right where he can feel your pulse reaching for him. Reacting to him.

“Matthew,” you moan, breathless. “Please.” 

He hums, fingers digging into your flesh to keep his composure. The sound of his name from your lips in such ecstasy makes his cock swell to the point all he wants is to sink into you and fuck you against the wet shower wall until you can’t walk anymore. He wants to wrap his hand around your throat, just holding you there as you take it like the good girl you are. God, he wants to do so many things to you. 

He wants to push all of your buttons and reward you for it. He wants to feel your nails running down his back until he’s bleeding. He wants to eat your pussy until you forget your name, and when he’s done with that, he wants to do even more because that is the kind of animal you turn him into. That is what you do to him. You consume him with your mere existence and your love you keep pouring into him like a glass about to overflow, a glass so full yet so fucking empty at the same time, and he has been neglecting you for far too long to hold back now—yes, the water bill be damned!

“I love it when you beg,” he growls, feeling his voice vibrate through your skin. Like he’s in your veins.

You whimper. Oh, that sound. That sweet, sweet sound. It seems to do him in. Matt sinks to his knees like he would in front of God in church—like Mary knelt in front of Jesus after he got crucified. But there are no stained windows, no crosses, and no confessional booth in sight; you’re his place of worship, and your body is the altar. You are the only constant in his world on fire. You always want him to set you on fire, too. 

Once on his knees in front of you, his cock straining high and mighty against his stomach, he grabs your thigh and places it over his shoulder. No rush. You can barely catch your breath. 

Burning along the inside of your thigh, Matt kisses his way toward where you need him most. Your core yearns for him. Your hand slips from his face, searching the tiles behind you for something to hold onto. 

He’s quick to bring your hands back to his hair. “Don’t let go,” he says. 

It’s almost embarrassing that the only sound you can make is a grunt, and when your brain finally catches up, it’s too late. He’s impatient. Desperate. And he places his lips in a gentle kiss against your clit. The sudden contact makes you jolt, but that is not nearly all of it. 

He tests the waters. Once, twice, even a third time, gently kissing along your slick folds. You instinctively tug at his hair, but that doesn’t deter him. Matt inhales your scent, tasting your essence on his tongue; he would bathe in it if he could. 

You cry out when he dives in. He parts your folds with his tongue, sucking and licking until his face is covered. The obscene noise of lips smacking against wet skin goes straight to your head. He can hear the wetness gushing out of you, every twitch of your muscles and hitch of your breath, and he sucks a little harder on your sensitive clit. You’re scared you might fall. 

“Fuck!” Your moans are as obscene as the sound of him eating you out. You grind against him, at first involuntarily, but then he moans against you, and you can’t help it; the vibrations he sends through you continue to pool in your cunt, tightening the coil that is waiting to snap. 

Matt prods your entrance with his tongue, the tip of his nose digging just right into that sensitive bundle of nerves he lost when your hips first jerked. He’s completely out of it, hooded eyes rolled back into his skull while you are almost splitting yours open on the dark tiles. The cross necklace is sticky with his saliva as he drinks from you like you are the spring fueling his ocean. He’s thrusting into his hand, pre-cum leaking from his cock, but his mouth never wavers. He has a job to do. 

Your walls clench around what little of his tongue is inside of you. There is nothing more arousing than the sight of him touching himself because the taste of you is bringing him to the brink of an inevitable orgasm. Because he wants to come with you. Because he’s desperate and he can only imagine being inside of you as he licks away at you. It’s a kind of dedication that makes you feral. No one has ever loved you quite like he has, and no one will ever eat your pussy as only he can. 

“Matt,” you choke out. “Fuck, I’m gonna—’m gonna come. Don’t stop. Don’t…”

As if he could. He flicks his tongue from left to right, painting shapes you have never felt before over every last of your nerve endings. You’re quivering. You’re shaking. You are turning the bathroom into a concert hall for the symphony of your pleasure. 

He doesn’t stop to tell you to come, that would be futile. You couldn’t possibly stop the wave headed for your shore. You can’t warn him. You can’t do anything other than let it happen. The coil snaps and your orgasm crashes into you at full force, shattering you into a million pieces. You grind against him until you’re sure he is branded into your skin forever. 

Matt holds you through it, working his tongue against you to prolong the electricity running through your veins. He gets lost in the echo of his name, stroking his cock harder and faster, and within seconds of you, he’s coming, too. He spurts into his hand and on your thigh, moaning deliciously into your pussy. For a moment, he’s stiff, though as you are starting to come back to him, he’s starting to come back to you. 

The aftermath of your orgasm is quiet. His lips slip from your swollen folds eventually, and he pulls away to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, the one resting over his shoulder. He’s still catching his breath, cock softening in his hands, but when you look down at him, he’s a wreck. For you. 

Slowly, he rises back to his feet. You look at him, unsteady now on both of your feet. He wraps his arms around you. “You okay?” he asks softly. 

You lean into his hand when he places it on your cheek. “Yeah,” you nod. “I’m…perfect.”

“You were so good for me. So good.” 

The distance between you dissipates, foreheads falling together in absolute exhaustion. He smells and tastes of you. You kiss him softer than you ever have. “I love you,” you whisper, and he smiles because he knows.

You don’t count the minutes you stay like that, kissing. It might have been an hour, not nearly enough. Matt reaches for the water when it starts getting cold, and he lifts you to wrap your legs around his waist. 

You frown. “Aren’t you going out tonight?” 

He shakes his head. “No, sweetheart,” he says, “I’m not done with you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Gotta make sure you know how much I missed you.”

The giddy smile on your face when you kiss him again is involuntary, but not unnecessary. He giggles, too, before you finally shut him up.

Hell’s Kitchen can live without him for one night, that much is for sure. And when he finally thrusts into you and you bite down on the golden metal of that godforsaken crucifix to stifle your scream as he fucks you to hell and back in a way that is gentle yet possessive, you know this is the only place Matt needs to be tonight—for both of you.

[chaithetics]

Hello!!! Hope ur doing well <3

I looooved the way u wrote Matt n I wanted to ask if u could do a nsfw alphabet about him? But I also noticed on ur masterlist u havent written one yet and if u dont want to thats fine :>

Matt Murdock NSFW Alphabet

Hello lovely Nonnie! Thank you for sending this through, this was a nice, quick and fun piece to do so thanks for sending it through. Happy to do nsfw nbcs, I just never have had a request for one before. It's obviously my first time, so I hope you enjoy! Do let me know what you think! :)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI!!!, smutty smut smut I guess? Not proof or beta read!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

This man lives for aftercare. Matt Murdock is without a doubt, absolutely obsessed with physical touch and indulging in it after the act as a form of aftercare, no matter the type of sex you just had, oral or penetrative. He’s obsessed with your body and how your skin feels against his and how your skin feels when he runs his fingertips over goosebumps, scars, moles, stretch marks, all of your curves and muscles. He likes to be clean but even if he’s sweaty he still likes to cuddle you, he needs to feel your skin against his, to press his head into your neck to tickle your sensitive skin and to deeply inhale your scent. He’s attentive to any needs you have, he smiles as he listens to your heart steadily beating and relaxing from that high, and he’s extremely affectionate. If you have hair he’ll be playing with it however he knows that you like and if not, he’ll be caressing your face gently as well while you cuddle. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favourite body part of a partner’s is their mouth/lips. He loves the way that his partner’s mouth feels against his, how soft it is to kiss, the shape of your lips and tracing them with his fingertips, how he can feel your lips move and it affects the rest of your face when you smile and laugh, how your mouth is where your gorgeous laugh comes from, your voice, and also the moans he loves to hear from you. 

His favourite body part of his, is his hands. He loves physical touch and his hands allow him to indulge in that sense by being affectionate and being able to touch your body all over. He can caress you with his hands, feel the goosebumps along your bare skin when you strip down, he can feel how you clench around his digits when he’s inside of you. His hands are the perfect way for him to indulge in you. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He’s a Catholic… He’d use the preferred protection methods of his partners but he has no issue with cum. I don’t know if this is a controversial take, but Matt Murdock is certainly into cumplay… 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He wants to explore his submissive side more, he likes the slight feeling of dominance with a partner who bites him, he likes his neck being bitten. He either hasn’t tried pegging but really wants to be pegged, or he’s been pegged and really loves it but it takes him a little while to work up to feeling comfortable communicating that. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Matt is extremely experienced. He has a playful charm that makes everyone in a five-block radius swoon. As Foggy has pointed out over and over again, he’s an absolute magnet for beautiful people of all shapes, sizes, and colours, and people absolutely fall for his handsome, tortured soul energy that he brings to everything. He certainly didn’t shy away from the attention in college he got for his looks and charm, one of the only ‘sins’ he didn’t feel the need to repent for in his college years. Foggy’s jokes have been longstanding in Matt’s life. He’s an experienced icon, he knows what he likes now and he knows how to please. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Matt’s favourite position is positions of cuddle and spooning sex. He loves the intimacy of becoming one and being as physically close to each other as possible, the position is sensual and intimate and he loves being able to press right up against you, your buddies wrap around each other and having his face pressed so closely to you. He can feel everything about you with all of his senses in the most overwhelming and amazing way. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Matt is a more serious lover, there’s gentle caresses and words spoken that are filled with love and need. Sometimes, in a slightly more cockier mood he may be a little less serious and have that devilish grin on his face and make a couple of more teasing comments and witty remarks to spice things up while he’s bringing you to release, but generally he’s more serious when you two are together during sex. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) 

Matt likes to be well-groomed in general and that applies to all of him including downstairs, he doesn’t necessarily like shaving down there but his preference is that he likes to keep things tidy and trimmed for himself. A view he’d never oppose on others and he’d never criticise or be put off by hair or a lack of.  

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

The intimacy is never lacking with Matt, he’s proud on his lovemaking abilities and he knows he’s an expert of the art of making partners swoon with his big brown eyes and charms. Matt is a passionate, sensual, lover who always makes sure you feels special and checks in on you in the sweetest, most genuine but also hot ways. He knows just how to romance you up and make the foreplay incredible with the goal of giving you as much pleasure as possible. He loves intimacy, there’s lots of affectionate touching, the sex often is in cuddling positions. His body moves in ways to reassure you of how much he yearns and worships you, his words are filled with love and passion during sex. He makes it intimate and filled with love. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn’t jack off very often. He prefers being intimate with others and he’s always had plenty of opportunities for mutual pleasure with others that he’s rarely felt the need to pleasure himself like that. He rarely does, and whenever he has he usually does it in the shower. He tries to focus on the feelings of pleasure and on the sound of the shower water running to drown out the rest of the overwhelming landscape of New York while he chases his high with swift strokes. But he prefers the feeling of someone else’s hands, fortunately, he has you now. And your hands are better than any feeling he could ever give himself. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Matt’s delved into and is pretty into bondage. He likes the feeling of the power dynamics, the gain and loss of power and control, how it feels on skin. He doesn’t mind who is who, he’s more than happy to be tied up for you and to surrender that type of control to you. He trusts you and wants to be used to give you as much pleasure as possible. But he’s also more than okay with being the one to tie you up and feel those materials against your skin and wear his signature smirk as he does. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Matt isn’t an exhibitionist and he’s not really into public or outdoors sex. He much prefers to keep sex in the privacy of his own home, the world is often overwhelming for him and there’s always a million things going on, in his little private corner that’s home, his partner can be just all his and it’s much easier for him to focus on and enjoy being with his partner. He loves the comfort and intimacy of keeping it in the bedroom, but Matt also loves the intimacy of spooning and cuddle sex on the couch. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Matt’s a giver, a pleaser, what gets him going is the mere idea of pleasuring you, he just wants to please you and give you the sweet, sweet, sweet release you deserve. It’s what turns him on and what gets him going, you always need to orgasm first, that’s his goal during intimacy and he tried to create an orgasm gap, one that’s in your favour. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He’s into bondage and we know that he has nothing against some light choking, but beyond that, he’s the type of man who still tries to be as good and respectful as possible. He wouldn’t be into more rough and violent sex or the more hardcore side of BDSM, he’d always be too scared to hurt his partners and the idea of inflicting intentional pain like that makes him very uncomfortable. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Matt is more than okay with receiving oral but there’s not doubt about it, he significantly prefers giving oral instead of receiving. As we’ve already clarified, he’s a giver. He wants to give you oral as much as you want him to, he’d happily spend his life buried in you, holding onto, gripping and caressing your thighs as he does. He’s obsessed with your taste, the way your body reacts as he’s pleasuring you and how he can sense everything going on with your hormones, pheromones, heartbeat, your breathing and then again as you orgasm. He loves to give oral and he’s absolutely skilled at it, he’s a king of it. He knows just how to use his mouth in the best possible way that makes you feel so good and gets you in your favourite places. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

His pace and style is always sensual when he’s with you. He’s done faster paced sex and sex that’s been more rough but he loves slow, sensual lovemaking while he cuddles and buries himself deep into you with a perfect pace that makes it last and is the definition of sensual. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) 

He likes to go all out with sex, for everyone involved to get their fair share of orgasms. Matt isn’t the biggest fan of his quickies but in angsty moments, he has been known to have a more angsty, potentially more rougher quickie than his usual slower and sensual lovemaking. It’s still filled with passion though. But he doesn’t do quickies often. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Matt’s definitely game to experiment and to communicate about it, listen to ideas with an open-mind and he’s curious in a charming way about things. He’s open to trying new positions, new toys, some different styles and dynamics. But he’s not into risks or experimentation that’s on the more moderate to extreme side of the spectrum. He’s not an exhibitionist type so he wouldn’t take those kind of risks with sexual activity and he wouldn’t be into risks in the world of bodily harm for example. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Matt lives off giving pleasure in the bedroom and is more than content with just going one round or having one orgasm if you’ve received everything you wanted and needed. He’s flexible and happy to please. But it also goes without saying that this man is the definition of sexual stamina, he can easily go multiple rounds and has no issue with lasting long. His rounds definitely aren’t short. He’s only interested in multiple rounds though if it’s what you crave. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Matt never owned toys and didn’t use them on himself, over time he started to experiment with toys and would happily use them on partners and had nothing against them really. He’d always smile while holding one in his hands, feeling it as a partner told him what it did and how it was used. This man has no security issues with toys, and views them as aids and fun, not competition.

 After dating you, there’s a drawer in the dresser that has a few different toys which he has no issue with. He’s definitely more experienced with them now, having tried things like vibrating strokers but he much prefers using toys on his partner. There’s an immediate smirk on his face as he turns them on, starts using them and hears your sweet noises and feels your body react. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He’s a pleaser and a giver, he’s not really into edging because he just wants to give you pleasure, as much of it as he can, as soon as possible. There are times where he can be a bit playful and tease you, but you don’t even really need to beg for him to stop teasing and give in. He’s just so eager to please and doesn’t want to waste time when he could be loving on your body and making you so happy. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Matt’s pretty vocal and he’s not ashamed of that. He lets out a lot of groans as his brow furrows during sex, it’s an automatic response from him, he naturally makes noises, he’s known to whimper when he’s feeling sensitive and overstimulated, he moans but its his groans that are his loudest, most often and sexiest noise. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

That he can become a really needy and clingy lover, especially if you’re coming to the end after a day of multiple rounds. He’s always got to have at least one hand of his on you, he smothers you in kisses. He has you laid on the bed and he’s just still lazily going down on you, slowly as if you’re a dessert that he needs to be savoured. You also happen to be the best dessert he’s ever been able to put in his mouth and enjoy. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Whatever you rock with! 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Generally, Matt Murdock has a longing in his bones that his eyes cannot hide and pierces you with a desperate yearning for touch and love, in that type of matter of the word. But his sex drive is moderate and flexible, he gets a lot of pleasure out of giving pleasure so he doesn’t have an issue being with partners with lower or higher sex drives. He’s someone though who would be happy to just give much more often than receive or have penetrative intercourse as well though. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It depends. He’s big on aftercare and physical affection, so he definitely prioritises that and wouldn’t fall asleep immediately as he’d want to spend time cuddling and talking. After a long ‘double-shift’ of his lawyer by day and vigilante by night lifestyle, there would be times after sex where he would cuddle you and after a bit of talk, he’d fall asleep cuddling you and listening to the drum of your heartbeat as it lulls him to sleep. But sometimes he just likes to cuddle and talk to a ridiculous hour in the morning, he’s definitely an insomniac.

[vigilxnte-shit]

i want your midnights || matt murdock x reader

summary: you sleep better when matt is around, but the last thing you want is to make him choose between you and the city.

word count: 1.4k

warnings: NOT EDITED NOT EDITED AT ALL SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY also mentions of anxiety

a/n: based on my own insomnia as of late and also the fact that there is not a single member of the tuna team with a normal sleep schedule

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

you didn’t know what time it was.

you knew it was dark, that it was raining, and that there was a slight, tugging tension in your arm where it rested under your pillow, bearing the weight of your head. you knew that the empty pillow next to yours felt smooth and empty and cold, that it faintly smelled of coffee and whiskey and, in a perfect world, would be cradling perfect chestnut waves and supporting the man you loved. 

but the world wasn’t perfect. it was dark, it was raining, and there was an intense, stifling lack of matthew murdock in your bed. 

you tossed and turned, shoved your head into the pile of pillows, snuggled with the sheets to get a whiff of his lingering cologne- nothing helped. he wasn’t the sheets or the pillows, he was actual warmth and the comfiest set of arms you’d ever been wrapped up in. he was real, he was yours, and he was out saving the world, just like he did every night.

you took some comfort in knowing that he was listening, that he was always leaving an ear open. he’d told you several times that on the more stressful nights, the evenings where the punches landed harder and the blood ran heavier, he’d look to you for respite. you liked to imagine it, exactly as he said- his gaze always veered up, in the direction of your apartment, seeking you out the same way he did god, zeroing in to listen to your heartbeat and your breath. to the one thing that brought him back to earth. you. the sounds of you living, not even conscious, just existing and waiting and his.

it was comforting to think about, but it wasn’t a substitute. you were still left matt-less, still alone. with an upset huff, you turned onto your back and stared at your dark void of a ceiling, your mind leading you to the morning. you wanted to bring this up with him. you wanted to talk it out, find a compromise and start spending your evenings in his arms, but that would leave out one very important detail that made matt, matt. that detail was this little thing called daredevil.

you knew it when you’d fallen in love, that daredevil came with matt murdock, and you knew you would never understand it. you’d had your experiences in double lives, one face with your parents and another with your friends, but you couldn’t even begin to fathom it on this level, the torment and anguish that the catholic felt for engaging the vigilante. you knew it was difficult, you knew it was important to him, and you knew that, whether you liked it or not, your heart belonged to the devil of hell’s kitchen just as much as it belonged to the lawyer fighting for justice- but that knowledge didn’t take away the anxiety, or the missing him, or the lonely nights. 

the emptiness of your ceiling made your mind envious as you went through the options. of course, you could call him- maybe it was a slower night, maybe he could call it early and come in from the rain to your arms. the longer you thought about it, though, the more that plan fell apart. you tried to save the burner he’d given you for emergencies; it had been used exactly once since you’d received it and only because he’d heard a fire alarm go off in your building. he probably wouldn’t appreciate the interruption, especially if it wasn’t a slower night. 

you could wait up for him, but that would upset him, too. he’d spent the past weeks begging you to try melatonin and offering to find you a therapist for the anxiety that plagued you, insisting that your rest was more important than him having someone waiting. him and his lawyer ways, of course, had tried to convince you that even falling asleep while waiting still counted, but you didn’t believe that. you knew if he climbed through that window bleeding and bruised only to find you sound asleep, he would never wake you up. he wouldn’t even consider it, and this was where the problem came to its head. 

you slept better with matt murdock next to you. that was a fact, plain and simple. no anxiety medications could replace that, no weighted blanket could make up for his arms. you slept your best when he was next to you, tangible and warm and smelling like the faintest hints of coffee and whiskey as he held you to his chest, and the nights that you got to experience that were paradise. and yet, you could never tell him that. you could never put that on him. he could choose between helping you sleep and protecting the city over your dead body, and you didn’t care how dramatic that sounded. you loved matt. you loved daredevil. you loved the devotion he held to his city, his ceaseless passion for keeping the streets as safe as he could, and you could never be cruel enough to ask him to choose between that and yourself. 

you forgot to blink with how you stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. you were stuck. you had no clue what to do, and you were only roused from your swirling brainstorm by the sound of the actual storm outside entering your window for the briefest of moments with its opening and immediate re-closing. 

“you should be asleep.” 

his voice was gruff, deep, just like always when he returned home- a bit hoarse from the tone he adopted, from the occasional yelled conversation. you could hear the rain dripping off of him, the way he lightened his steps in the boots he always wore so he didn’t seem like he was stomping. the little things, the details where your matty shone through the suit and armor. 

“can’t,” you answered. that was all you needed to say. you knew he could hear your heartbeat, pick up on your temperature and focus on your breathing. he was doing it now- the silence gave it away with the intense feeling of somehow being watched. 

“we’ve gotta get you in therapy, sweetheart,” he said softly. you heard his mask thud onto the bedside table, a gentle dropping sound accompanied with his softened footsteps before you felt his icy, rained-upon lips press your forehead. “i’m worried about how little you’re sleeping.” 

you answered with a low hum, finally turning onto your side. “are you at least coming to bed soon?” 

you loved how he looked, mask-less in his signature reds. he looked worn out and tired and accomplished for the night- that sparkle in his hazel eyes would fade in the shower as he pondered whether god was proud of him yet, but for now, you savored it. he smiled at you- a soft, affectionate little pull of his lips, followed by a nod. 

“let me go shower. i’ll be back in five.” 

he gave your hand a small squeeze. you returned it before nestling into your pillow. your eyes rested easier now, the pillow felt softer and the air felt warmer just from his presence. your eyelids became so heavy you had to close them, focusing on the sound of the running water and the slowing patter of the rain. 

matt was listening, too. he had been the whole night- it had been quieter, like you’d hoped, and he’d spent most of the night listening for you. he’d known you hadn’t slept, your heart rate spiking and sinking and back again, your breath too fast to be unconscious. 

that was why as he stood in the shower, hot water running down his back and rain still audible on the roof, he smiled. he had been monitoring you since his arrival home, listening with a feeling of pride as your heartbeat steadily decreased and your breathing became more even. 

you were nearly asleep when he came to join you, only roused slightly by the sudden feeling of his arms around you. you stretched and yawned, calling a soft “yeah?” as you adjusted. he just chuckled, squeezing you before kissing your cheek. 

“go to sleep. i’m right here.” 

your wordless response was to snuggle into his chest, that coffee cologne pushing it’s last, most faint notes to your nose with the warm backdrop of his embrace. you took less than a minute to fall to unconsciousness, your soft exhales brushing his chest and your forehead under his chin.

matt smiled to himself, his own eyes falling closed to the rhythmic melody of your heartbeat.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Lifeline

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: When Matt starts to shut down, your stubbornness saves him.

warnings: swearing, angst, panic attack description, pining buffoons, pre-relationship, Matt's mental illness and fear of abandonment

a/n: This is a short birthday fic for the wonderful @abucketofweird who wanted a fic similar to Renegade with Best Friends to Lovers. I hope you enjoy, my dear! 🥳🥰❤️

I know it's short and pre-relationship but there is plenty of angsty Matt! (Also, yes she calls him a million nicknames, but they're not ~explicitly~ together in this). Please let me know if y'all are tired of seeing me write crying!angsty!Matt because I know I write that a lot.

w/c: ~4k

Matt could still remember the day that the Devil had first emerged. It was before his accident, after witnessing a group of teens bully his elementary school classmate on her way home from school. Years of seeing his dad throw hits and his own unwavering moral compass had forged a new being within his own; his rage overtaking his consciousness, forming shaky fists and a flower across his face. 

At the time, he hadn’t known how to fight properly and had gotten his ass kicked. A few decades had passed and, though his ability had grown, his rage had stayed the same. 

Fury was a useful tool, most of the time. Allowing him to push through discomfort and injury until he’d taken down whatever evildoer he’d gone after that day. It was his wrath that kept him going, but it was also his biggest inhibition. 

The desire to beat powerful criminals bloody was overpowering. His gut boiled with anger anytime he heard someone crying for help, knowing that, more than likely, the only thing sparing them from that cruel fate was him—a blind Catholic with a chip on his shoulder and lacking self preservation skills. 

It was his rage that caused tunnel vision. Which in turn caused sleep deprivation, which led to more injuries. The cycle didn’t end there though, at least not recently. His tendency to prioritize his alter ego over his own health wasn’t something that could be solved by a simple nap these days. Not when he had people worrying about him, and when his efforts to meditate or find another outlet for his emotions remained futile. 

More injuries meant it was more difficult to hide them. A bullet wound in his stomach, a sprained ankle, these were more noticeable to his coworkers, to you. While you were eternally patient and understanding about his double life, his business partners were not. He tried his best to ignore Karen’s gasps and Foggy’s pointed stares every time he limped into the office or winced while pouring his coffee. Despite his efforts, it always aggravated him, fueling his rage and thus perpetuating the cycle further. 

This week, Foggy had snapped. Yelling at Matt for putting himself in danger, for jeopardizing their recent case—they’d had to postpone a meeting with the prosecution given the state of Matt’s face—and their firm. In return, Matt had lashed out. Screaming about the greater good and Foggy not trusting him. It quickly became an all out brawl, both men hurling insults at the other despite Karen warning them that they were going too far. But her intervention came too late. 

“You claim to be so worried about people leaving but I don’t see how that’s fucking possible when you try so hard to scare us off, Murdock. Guess what!? It’s working!” Foggy snapped, throwing his hands in the air with a huff. 

Logically, Matt knew Foggy didn’t mean that—at least not in the way Matt heard it—but his throat felt swollen anyway. His heart pounded, the argument sitting on his tongue dissolving as his mouth grew increasingly dry. Loosening his tie, Matt stalked to his office to gather his things. 

“You know what, I think I’ll work at home for a few days.” He spoke stiffly, throwing the strap of his bag over his shoulder. 

“Matt,” Karen took a step towards him but he refuses to acknowledge her placating tone. 

“I’ll see you in court next week. I’ll drop off my opening argument tomorrow night.” Without waiting for their responses, he retreated to his apartment. 

With every step along the damp Manhattan sidewalk, his irritation grew. His brain was flickering back and forth between despair and indignation, his hands itching to hit something. Tonight would be productive, that much was clear. 

Though he usually waited until the late hours of the evening to go out as Daredevil, his argument with Foggy had ignited an impatient buzzing beneath his skin—his muscles clenching and anger bubbling until he caved to the Devil. It was risky, dashing from roof to roof in his suit at dusk, but his patience had worn out hours ago. 

The night felt endless, yet it was over far too soon. He raced through the streets, taking down thug after thug, until a serrated blade caught him off guard. With a jagged rip across his thigh, he made for his apartment—planning to crudely stitch the wound before finishing what he’d started. 

As he approached his loft, his ears locked on to a familiar heartbeat, its pattering mulling about his place as he grew closer. Foggy had sent in reinforcements, he supposed, though he wasn’t thrilled about it. 

Opening the rooftop door, Matt stomped down the stairs, hurling pieces of his suit across the space as he ripped them from his overheated body. Pretending not to care about the spike in your heartbeat, courtesy of his pounding steps, he tore the mask from his face, setting it beside the sink before filling a glass with water. 

Fidgeting with your sleeve, you approached him slowly, saying nothing as he downed a glass of lukewarm water before jutting his chin at you. 

“Say what you’re going to say, then leave.” His voice was harsh and deep, the Devil still fully in control. 

You inhaled slowly, not scared of his current state, but clearly unhappy all the same. “What makes you think I have something to say?” 

Matt bit back a scoff. “Foggy sent you, which means you’re on his side and are here to tell me off.” 

“On his side…Christ, Murdock.” You were a few paces in front of him, just behind the counter, your clothes rustling as you crossed your arms in frustration. 

“Why else would you be here?” Matt stormed around you and into his bathroom, unbuckling the bottom half to sew himself up. If anyone else had been here, he might have been more worried about modesty, but you’d seen him in more compromising positions than this over the years. 

Gritting your teeth as you trudged after him, your arms remained folded against your chest. “Because I care about you, asshole. Karen told me what Foggy said. I was worried.” 

Your heart thumped steadily with your honest admission, eliciting a pang of guilt deep in Matt’s subconscious. He remained silent, rubbing a damp cloth over his wound to clean it up before he attempted suturing it. At his lack of response, you scoffed, “Don’t know why I was so worried. You’re clearly taking it very well.” 

Spinning to face you, his lips curled. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means exactly what you think it means, Matt.” You snapped back at him, regretting it when his jaw twitched in response. Sighing, your voice softened. “You are so strong, and I know that Foggy and Karen give you a hard time but they’re not entirely wrong. It’s ok to ask for help.” 

“I don’t need their help.” Matt muttered, leaning against the cold porcelain sink in the bathroom. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” 

“No one is saying that you’re not.” You tried to reason, but he refused to listen. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what Foggy was saying, actually. How would you even know? It’s not like you were there.” He bit out, resentment prickling through his words. 

Ouch. He was right. You weren’t there. Because you’d taken a new job across the city. And he clearly was still not ok with that fact. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” You spoke gravely, brushing away a smudge of dirt on his cheek with your thumb. He tensed under your touch, but didn’t flinch away. “But you know that I don’t agree with what Fog said, right? Regardless of whether he meant it, it was wrong for him to imply—“

Shoving your hand from his face, his lips formed a scowl once again. “What? That it’s my fault? That people leave because I make them? Maybe he’s right.” 

“Matt, that’s not true. You know—“

“Don’t tell me what I know!” He roared pressing into your personal space, eyes blazing with fury. 

Breathing evenly, you shifted your weight away from him. Not flinching out of fear, just a natural reaction to his behavior, yet the movement still stung. Retreating from you, he picked up the cloth and refocused on the gash across his thigh. 

“Go home,” He spoke your name coldly. This wasn’t a question, it was an order. 

“Matt—“ You started but he glared at you. 

“Go.”

You nodded, pacing back into the living room to grab your purse from the couch. “Call me if you need anything, Matty. I’ll be around.” You spoke softly, your soft footsteps fading as you left his loft. 

Biting back an irritated snarl, Matt tread into the kitchen to grab a bottle of whiskey. Taking a full swig, he pushed his guilt and pain aside and picked up a needle. 

Burying your face in the collar of your jacket, you scrunched your nose as a particularly fierce gust of wind smacked you. Soldiering forward, you sped down the street towards the dimly lit building you were aiming for. 

It might be a mistake to return to Matt’s loft, but you couldn’t leave him there alone when he was so distraught. At least, not in good conscience. 

You respected his request for space, absolutely—taking time to return to your own apartment and retrieve his worn Columbia sweater, which you’d stolen a few weeks ago and simply not given back. It was soft and oversized, for you at least, making it ridiculously comfortable. But it was clear Matt needed that comfort more than you did right now. 

After tucking the garment in your bag carefully, you headed back out into the blustery evening to pick up a large order of food from Matt’s favorite Italian place. 

If he still didn’t want you there upon your return, so be it. But the man wouldn’t go cold or hungry on your watch, dammit. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him to take care of himself, you just recognized that self-preservation wasn’t a priority for him when he was…like this. Brooding. Angry. 

In the decade and a half you’d known him, you had started to piece together Matt’s various moods and this was a common one. His heightened senses igniting something inside him that pulled him into fights all around the city. You couldn’t imagine the pain he felt hearing innocent civilians in trouble constantly. But eventually, he’d stop restraining himself. Sleep less. Eat less. Go to work, go out as Daredevil, and do it all again the next day—even when he was a jumble of exhaustion and bruises. 

In these moments, he was no longer your beloved Matthew Murdock. He was a candle, with a burning wick and a torch at his base. The wax slowly melting away, until his sanity was nothing but a distant memory. 

This was something you’d seen a handful of times when working with him and Foggy, even back when you three were just interns at Landman and Zack. It was the thing about Matt that you and Foggy argued about most these days. 

See, Foggy believed the solution to these episodes was to remove Daredevil from the equation altogether. You couldn’t necessarily blame the blond for thinking that, given how Matt’s vigilante antics impacted his work and his ability to be a good friend. 

Despite understanding Foggy’s concerns, your faith in Matt didn’t hinge on his nighttime activities. These periods of great stress were a sign that Matt needed support. Not an indication that he was no longer able to lead a double life. 

While the average person might snap or cry when they were overwhelmed, Matt would force himself to take more on. You assumed this was a symptom of the manipulation he’d endured during his youth. 

Matt hadn’t disclosed much about his childhood mentor, but you knew that he’d been encouraged to work through periods of distress, simply bottling up his feelings in order to ensure productivity. Given that he’d never had those beliefs challenged until well into adulthood, it was second nature for him to add more to his plate until he couldn’t anymore—whether that was because someone forced him to rest, or he was literally comatose. 

He’d confessed to you once—on another night like tonight when he was so tired of fighting everyone that he caved to your questioning—that rest wasn’t something that came easily to him. It was almost an enemy, in his mind, preventing him from helping as many people as he could. Resting meant he was a failure, and failing meant people would leave. 

This conversation lived in the back of your mind every time the dark haired man frustrated you. Every sleepless night spent pulling your hair out while you waited for him to text you that he was alive, every morning spent patching him up in the conference room because the walk to work had pulled his stitches out. Each and every time Matt’s other identity impacted your life, you reminded yourself that, in his mind, he didn’t have a choice. 

This time was no different. 

Though it probably didn’t help that Foggy had insinuated that he was thinking of leaving Matt. Not when Matt’s subconscious was desperately trying to pretend his life was balanced to keep everyone happy. Which is why you allowed yourself to be more stubborn than usual this dreadful evening, worming your way back into Matt’s home so he knew that he wasn’t in danger of being alone. 

Removing one ungloved hand from the safety of your fleece lined pocket, you yanked open the door to the restaurant, smiling softly at the hostess as her eyes met yours. 

“I have an order for pick up?” Giving her your name, you curled both hands back into your pockets, shifting your weight from foot to foot as you waited, somewhat impatiently, for your food. 

After what felt like an hour, the hostess handed you two bags stacked with containers, grimacing apologetically. “Sorry about the wait!”

“Not a problem!” You shrugged, grabbing the bags. “Thank you!!”

Dashing around the crowd forming behind you, your feet carried you the few remaining blocks to Matt’s building. Treading up the stairs slowly, you panted, taking a moment to breathe before making it to his door. 

Here goes nothing. 

You bypassed waiting for Matt to open the door, instead choosing to knock gingerly and use your spare key to unlock the door. 

“Matty?” You called softly, receiving no answer. 

Inhaling deeply, hoping you weren’t about to irreparably damage your relationship with Matt, you stepped over the threshold and into his space. Shuffling around the corner at the end of the hallway, you peeked into the loft, scanning it for any indication of your overworked friend—but there was no sign of him. No obvious one, at least. 

As you blocked out the muffled sounds of the city that had managed to penetrate the walls of the loft, your ears picked up a hushed sound from somewhere in the kitchen. A rapid whooshing—like panting, or choking. 

Rushing around the counter, your eyes widened in shock as you found Matt curled against the dark wooden cabinets. He was seated, but hunched over his knees, his hands tightly wrapped around his shins to keep his body in the position as he rocked back and forth. There was a jaggedly stitched line along his thigh, surrounded by mottled skin and goosebumps. Given his lack of clothing—he was only wearing his boxers—and the frigid temperature in the room, the poor man was shaking violently. A combination of his harsh breathing and his low body temperature, you assumed. 

As your presence became more noticeable, Matt tilted his head up, chin wobbling, eyes frantic and shining. Calling your name shakily, his weak plea almost made your own eyes well up. 

Crouching before him, you set the bags in your grasp aside, opening your palms to him. “It’s me, sweetheart. I’m right here. What happened?”

“D-don’t know. Can’t breathe.” Matt choked around the words, leaning towards you as you scrambled closer. 

“Can I touch—“ You asked, hesitant to take any major steps without explicit permission. 

“Yes. Please,” He sobbed, collapsing against your chest as your arms opened. 

“It’s ok. You’re ok, sweet boy.” You rubbed a hand over his back in a circular motion, using your free hand to guide one of his palms to your chest. “Feel my breathing?” 

Matt nodded against your chest, nails digging into your shoulder blade as he tried to get his breathing under control. 

“That’s my guy. Doing so good for me, handsome.” You praised softly, tracing your hand up his back and into his hair in the way you knew he loved. “That’s it, nice even breaths.” 

Unwinding your body from its squatted position, you sat on the cold floor, spreading your legs to allow Matt to fall into your lap. Perched across your thighs, Matt’s slowly stopped heaving. He was still covered in goosebumps and bruises, but his probable panic attack had been avoided for now. 

“There we go. Good job, honey. Feel a bit better?” You scratched diligently at Matt’s scalp, his skull knocking against your fingers with a nod. 

“Yes. Thank you.” He murmured, hot breath hitting your collar bone, a contrast to his icy skin. 

“Ok, sweets. Are you cold?” 

Another nod, making your lips twitch with a tiny smile. “Yah, stupid question. Here, put this on.” 

Pulling your bag over to you, you yanked out the sweater and handed it to him, mourning the loss of contact as he sat up to slip it on. After his chest was covered, his brow furrowed, a hand coming up to trace the text on the front of the hoodie. “My sweatshirt?” 

Cupping his stubbled cheek, you stroked a thumb over his jaw. “I brought it back. Thought you might need it tonight. C’mon honey, why don’t we go lay down, hm?” 

Allowing Matt to crawl off your lap, you drew him from the floor as you stood, laying your arm around his waist and holding him upright as he hobbled to his room. Tumbling onto the mattress, he haphazardly threw his sheets over his bare legs, curling into fetal position. His body was stiff, as if he was clenching every muscle to prevent writhing in pain. Sitting next to his waist, you fussed with the covers, drawing them more tightly around his rigid form. 

“There, that’s better. Just close your eyes and—“ you attempted to encourage the weary man to rest but his small voice interrupted. 

“You came back.” Matt spoke lowly, blinking back a new wave of tears. “You came back when I told you to leave.” 

“Do you need me to go? That’s fine, Matty, I’ll just—“ 

“No!” His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. “Please don’t.” 

“Ok, sweet boy. I’ll stay here. As long as you want me to.” 

Matt nodded once, tears trailing down his face again. “You came back.” No longer talking to you, it seemed that he was trying to make himself believe that he was no longer alone. 

Sliding down to face him, you ran a hand over his arm, letting him murmur silently to himself until he spoke to you again.

“I don’t think they’ll ever be happy.” 

“Who won’t be happy, handsome?” You asked quietly, propping yourself up on an elbow to study his face as he answered. 

“Foggy and Karen. Maybe you too, I’m not sure.” His voice cracked, tears pouring down his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Hey, hey,” You shushed, drawing him back into your chest. “Oh, Matty—“

“What am I supposed to do?” His hazel eyes reopened, revealing a hopelessness you were shocked to see. “I hear people screaming for help and I…I can’t just lay here doing nothing. I don’t know how. And I try to explain but no one understands. I don’t know what to do,” When he uttered your name this time, it was a desperate request—to confirm that you understood, that you wouldn’t hold his actions against him. 

“Oh, Matt, honey, I’m so sorry.” You rested your chin atop his head as he sobbed into your collarbone. “Sweetheart, you are so good at what you do. You’re a fucking hero. No one is mad about you choosing to use every ability you have to help people, we just worry about you, sweets, that’s all. And, I can’t speak for the others, but you shouldn’t have to worry about making me happy, ok? As long as you’re alive—“

“He’s going to leave me.” Ah. That’s where his mind was getting stuck. The words were broken, Matt’s voice strained beyond recognition as he voiced his fear. “He’s going to leave me like you did.”

A lump of emotion clogged your throat, tears wavering against your waterline. “Matt, you know I didn’t leave because of you, right?”

He shrugged against you, body still trembling as he cried. 

“Matty, I adore you. I loved working with you and seeing you every day, sweets. I just couldn’t live on pies and hand-knit gloves in one of the most expensive cities in the country. I needed income, not an escape. I’m still here. I’m still yours.” 

Heaving out a shaky breath, Matt nodded. Caressing his cheek, you asked. “What did my heartbeat tell you?”

“Truth.” He whispered. The two of you sat in silence, your hand absentmindedly running through his mussed hair as his body stopped shaking. Just when you thought the fear of abandonment had been swayed for the night, he piped up one last time. 

“What am I supposed to do?”

“About Foggy?” You clarified, biting your lip when Matt nodded. With a sigh, you brought your fingers to his silky hair once again. “Matt, I am not psychic, I don’t know what the future will look like for the two of you, but I know that Foggy loves you. So does Karen, and so do I. And you don’t leave the people you love. You talk it out, you forgive them for their mistakes.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Matt whimpered. 

“I don’t think you have to worry about that. But I’ll be right here with you through it all, ok?” Pressing your lips to his forehead, you brushed a few strands of hair away from his face. “I don’t want to scare you, sweet boy, but I have to go into your kitchen for a moment. I brought some food with me that I’m going to put in your fridge for later. I’ll get you some water too. Anything else you need?” 

“Aspirin.” He murmured, blank eyes glossy with tears. 

“Of course, sweets. I’ll be right back.” With another brush of fingers over his scalp, you wriggled out from under him and hurried to the kitchen—shoving the food into his bare fridge while grabbing water and pills. 

He took the medicine you handed him diligently, his expression uncharacteristically blank. Draining the glass of water, he handed the empty cup to you without a word. You could see him slipping away into the recesses of his mind, trying to shove everything down once again, to handle it all himself. 

Sliding under the covers next to him, you wrapped him in a tight embrace as he buried his damp face in your neck. 

“Talk to me, sweets. What do you need?” 

“Just you.” Matt choked out, fisting your shirt in his hands as if worried you were imaginary. “Please.” 

“I’m right here. Always.” Kissing his crown, you ran a hand along his spine, humming softly as his breathing evened out. 

He wasn’t through the rough patch yet, but that was ok. You were going to be here regardless. And you’d tell him that every day until he believed you.

[hellsburners]

scream his name

summary: forgive me for not being an actual priest pairing: matt murdock x male reader word count: 1.7k warnings: 18+ warning, sacrilege, sm/u/t, bjs and s3x a/n: i swear im writing for other characters i just had to put this out

masterlist | more matt murdock

He entered the confessional and rested his cane in the corner of the room. It was a small wooden box actually, a small crooked seat and a maroon curtain. It smelled like old wood and incense, Matt settled down and waited for the voice. 

On the other side of the booth a young seminarian was finishing up with wiping the wooden seats, making sure that the cubicle was nice and tidy. Before you could go out you heard someone enter the opposite booth. Your eyes widened, you weren't supposed to be administering confessions, those were reserved to ordained priests. 

“Father Cathal,” the voice said. It was a familiar voice, soft but deep, you always noted that he would enunciate every word perfectly. Father Cathal has been meeting with this man ever since Father Lantom passed a few years ago. They would often chat and administer confessions for the man. 

“I’m sorry Mr. Murdock but Father Cathal has been feeling ill lately, confessions are moved after mass this saturday,” you said, your voice shaking. You heard him mutter an oh. “And I’m afraid I’m not qualified to administer confessions, but if you want to I can offer some counsel. If anything worries you.” 

“You must be the seminarian Father Cathal is mentoring?” he said. 

“Yes, sorry if I was quick to call on your name it’s just that you frequent the church a lot.”

“I was raised catholic, the church has been my second home,” he uttered. His deep voice soothed you, any sense of panic was gone. You often wondered about him, how he worked as a defense attorney, and has been donating so much for the church. 

“So what bothers you Mr. Murdock?,” you felt your clerical collar tighten around your neck. 

“I’m a sinner.”

“I’m afraid we’re all sinners. From the beginning, man’s life has always been riddled with sin, just ask Adam,” you laughed. “That's why we are able to repent from our sins through this sacrament,” he laughs as well. 

At the other side of the booth Matt Murdock had loosened his tie, the top button already undone. He could hear his heart pounding. The reason why he frequents the church was not because of Father Cathal, or the sisters, not even the youth group he often helps around. He comes by the church everyday because of you. 

A smile would show in his face every time he heard your sweet voice. Calm and collected, soft and inviting. You were always near Father Cathal, Matt would notice the smell of your perfume mixed with church incense. He loved hearing you talk, offering service to the nuns and the other church staff. 

“Does God punish us by letting us meet people we aren't meant to meet?” he said. 

You loosened your collar. “What do you mean by that Mr. Murdock?”

“Matt, just call me Matt.”

“Matt,” you corrected. He heard your heartbeat quicken, your body temperature rising. 

“God gave me someone, to—to like. But I don’t think I’m meant to feel this way about them.”

“By feel do you mean love?” you said. Your palms were wet at this point. You wondered how anyone could refuse attention from him. He was a kind and attractive man. 

“Love, lust, adoration,” his voice hitched. “I am too deep in this, I want to worship them.”

“Worship is a strong word Matt, God compels us to only worship him. To worship someone like a false god is against His word.”

“Pardon my language, but I yearn for them,” he said. “My body—it aches for him. I need your help brother.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. Sweat drips down your nape, you could hear the guilt shouting at your head, but heat rises through your body, an ache forms in between your legs. You clutched your clerical collar, the mere sign of your covenant with God. 

“How can I help?” you uttered. 

“Kneel.”

Your eyes widened. What? You could hear shuffling from the other booth. The rings that held the curtain slinked to the side. “Just kneel, please,” there was something in his voice now, it was lower and more seductive. Does God punish us by letting us meet people we aren't meant to meet? His voice echoed in your head.

Could the Lord have sent me the devil himself? 

You made the sign of the cross. Your thumb caressing your forehead, your stomach, your chest. The promise you made was wheying in, like a scale ready to fall on one side. You closed your eyes and knelt. 

You heard the booth door open. A looming shadow covering you. He had entered, his hand caressing your hair. His warm hand went to the side of your face down to your chin. He lifts your face up, your eyes open. The dim lights of the booth made his face blurry. A dark shadow over his eyes but his red lips glistening, like forbidden fruit. 

He bends down to your face, his lips meeting yours. Your cheeks were so warm, almost feverish. His hands went to your neck, gripping lightly. His tongue entered your mouth, you let your tongue meet his into union. A sacrilegious moan left your mouth. 

He was wearing a worn out blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the buttons undone. You take the buckle of his belt and unclasped it, opening the button of his trousers after. As if opening a present on christmas day you pulled on the silver zipper. A bulge forming on his black boxers. 

You pulled on the soft fabric, your knuckles hitting his bare skin. You brought your lips to the base pulling on the garter to unsheathe his hardness. You presented your mouth as if receiving the sacrament of the eucharist. Mouth open, tongue out, your eyes half lidded directly looking at him. 

The hardness grew to a decent length, cut and the head pink already wet with pleasure. He takes the tip to your tongue, you engulf the head  with your lips. He lets out a groan, his hand goes to your nape, pushing you into his cock. 

The head hits the back of your throat, coating it with your saliva. You cough as he pulls his cock out. He caresses your face. He gestures for you to stand. As you stand he pulls you back to a kiss, his wet hardness hitting your trousers. You pulled off your clerical collar and left it on the seat. 

He takes your waist and rotates you around. You looked at the black wooden wall. He was leaving wet kisses in your ear as he unbuttoned your shirt. His other hand was palming your erection already hard and aching. 

You help him pull down your pants as well as your underwear. Your bare ass, cold against the night air. He caressed your ass and gave it a slap. You moaned, you swore people could have heard it. He kneels on the wooden floor, practically looking up to your body. He takes his tongue against your rear. The wet muscles played around your hole, preparing it for his cock. He places wet fingers inside you to stretch you out, he curls them, pleasure striking your whole body, your knees buckle. 

Your moans filled the small booth, the sounds made louder from the room’s size. He stands up and takes a condom out of his wallet. He puts it on his cock. He takes the wrapper and makes you bite on it. “God knows I want to hear you moan for me, but you need to stay quiet. If this falls from your mouth I’m leaving you like this,” his hand snaking across your ass. 

He places the tip to the rim of your rear. He pressed on the muscle, somewhat rejecting the tightness. He perseveres, the hardness sheathes into your body. You were now united, like a soul to a body. Your eyes roll back from the pleasure, your jaw shaking from the pleasure. You could feel the condom wrapper slip. 

He thrusts into you, a hand to your neck. You moan through the wrapper, all muffled and croaking. His cock filled you so well tears started to form from your eyes. Before the seminary you had never been with a man. You always looked sinfully but never acted on it. But now, the devil in the form of a handsome man, devoured you in his flames. 

You recounted Dante’s version of the second circle, men and women devoured in strong tempest, blown around in circles. You could feel it now from his hips hitting into you. Like your body was in his control, swaying forward and back. Your hands gripped onto the wooden ledge on the booth, practically scratching. 

He grunts into your ear each thrust. Your teeth clench on the foil wrapper even harder, saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth. His hands went under your shirt, toying with your nipples. Your hand went to your cock stroking it, it’s been so long since you’ve done it. You felt pleasure like never before. 

Fifteen minutes of continuous fucking ensued. Your jaw started to sore from the clenching, the same with your lower back and your knees. Matt’s lips were dripping with saliva and guttural moans, his cock on the brink of climax. 

He pulls out the wrapper from your mouth. He knew you were also near climax. “Let me hear it sweetheart, please let me hear it,” he groans to your ear. He twirls you around to carry you. Your arms and legs wrapped around his body. He pushed you into the wall, his cock continuosly fucking into you. Your lips met in a fevered kiss. 

He fucks a few more times into you until he cums, the two of your moaning into the kiss. Both your shirts were wet from your cum. Matt carries you as he sits down on the stool, your legs still straddling him. The two of you kiss even more, riding your high. 

“It’s you,” he said, as the two of you got dressed. “The person I was afraid to be with.” 

“I’ve committed a grave sin tonight,” you looked down to your feet. “But I’ve always felt like the mission was never truly meant to be,” he sat next to you, his hand caressing your back. “I actually planned on sending my letter of withdrawal tomorrow, so no harm done I guess.”

“Can I still ask you out?” the two of you chuckle, Matt pulling you in for a kiss.

interactions are greatly appreciated btw if u liked this fic and want more send me a prompt and i'd gladly make something from it :>

[bewitchedme-body-and-soul]

all sides of you

a/n: this came to me late at night and i had to write it; shout out to @humanalien01 for helping me and supporting my simping. idk how i feel abt the ending tbh :/

summary: a night at josies bar leads to you admitting your thoughts about the devil of hell's kitchen, and a few months later your words come back to haunt you.

word count:2427

warnings: swearing, canon typical violence, reader is victim in an attempted mugging & fights back, cursing, reader is called a bitch

Standing around the pool table at Josie's bar with the Nelson and Murdock team, playful banter spewn between the four of you. Each of you taking turns shooting while also trying to make the others mess up. The laughter coming from the four of you carrying throughout the bar, the three deserved this after a hard case, and you being Matt's partner were happily invited. Foggy happily uses you as a means to try to embarrass Matt with silly stories from their college years. You and Karen, doubling over in laughter as Foggy finishes his current story, Matt's cheeks tinted pink. Upon noticing you move closer to him, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek, then resting your head against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your middle. 

It's not until Foggy scoffs begrudgingly that your attention and Matts is pulled away to look at what Foggy's upset about. On one of the Tvs hanging around the bar you notice a news story about The Devil Of Hell's Kitchen. Foggy going on a rant about how he thought the man was bad news while you stared at the grainy footage someone caught of the man decked out in all black, as he beat up a group of gang members. You slowly zoned out as you watched how the man in the mask’s body contorted as he flipped and took the bad men out.

“Y/n!” Foggy's voice pulled you out of your daydream, your head snapping to look in his direction, giving him a hum in acknowledgement. “What do you think? What's your opinion on the masked man?” he asks, you know he's hoping you'll take his side.

Your cheeks tint a slight pink at the question, aware of the two pairs of eyes locked on you and Matt's head tilting, obviously also looking forward to your answer.  “Um, i don't really have one” you lie, moving to lean over the pool table and shoot one of the balls. Karen's giggle goes in tandem with the clack of the cue ball hitting one of the stripped balls.

“You're lying!” Foggy calls out pointing an accusatory finger at you, “did you know lying is a sin? I can't believe you would do such a thing while dating our good Catholic Matt Murdock” he gasps a hand over his heart like you wounded him deeply with your tiny fib. The smile on Matt’s face tells you he did not care and he finds Foggy's dramatics hilarious.

“Oh no, however will you forgive me, my love?” you gasp dramatically leaning against Matt. “But seriously my opinion on the man in the mask isn't that important.” you say trying to move on.

Karen laughs before speaking “oh, trust me, too foggy it is very important, and honestly now I’m interested cause it's been just me vs foggy about this since Matt tries to stay out of these conversations” after she's done speaking the attention turns back to you. You sigh as Matt moves to take his turn, now seeing you have no way out of this conversation.

“I don't know, I don't think he has bad intentions or anything” you shrug before continuing “He’s also kinda hot” you say the second part quieter. The other three members of your party all have varying reactions, Karen laughing, Matt giving an awkward chuckle, and Foggy with his over the top dramatics acting as if you’ve insulted his mother. You watch Matt out of the corner of your eye worrying you may have upset him, you’d only been dating a month and a half, the relationship still new, you're still learning things about the other. What if you hurt him?

Foggy's voice pulls you out of your anxiety fueled downward spiral. “I can't believe you would do this to me” he speaks with a voice obviously trying to make you feel bad for not agreeing with him. He puts his head in his hand as he begins to fake cry. You and Karen look at each other before you both double over laughing, Matt joining in as Foggy's fake cries ramp up at your laughing.

You spend another few hours at Josies before you all decide to part ways, you going home with Matt after deciding to spend the night. Once you're in his apartment your anxiety returns from the prior conversation. You both make your way to his bedroom and change into clothes you can sleep in. It's only when you're both in bed, your head on his chest as he rubs your back, that you decide to broach the subject. “Hey Matty, can I ask you a question?” he hums in response. “Earlier at Josies, did I upset you?” you question, heart rate picking up slightly.

Matt feels your heart rate pick up so he quickly leans forward to kiss your forehead before he smiles at you with a soft chuckle, “no, not at all, I trust you, it’s no different than the people who have a crush on the avengers.” you sigh at his words. Anxiety subsiding, you know Matt well enough he wouldn’t lie to you about something like this. You nestle closer to him before grabbing his other hand and kissing his knuckles, ignoring the cracks and healed over abrasions. “Besides, I know I’m your favorite” he says and you don't need to look at him to know he's wearing that cocky grin of his. 

You roll your eyes at him “i suppose” You tease him, no matter who came to you and professed their love, you knew you’d always choose Matt. You feel his chest vibrate under your cheek as he laughs. Eventually the two of you fall asleep in eachothers arms.

~~~

A month passes and you forget the aforementioned conversation ever happened. So many things happening that small moments get buried and forgotten about so easily. It's not till you're walking home one night that the conversation gets catapulted back to the forefront of your mind.

On your way home from a girl date with Karen you get yanked into an alley and thrown against one of the brick walls of a building. The bricks sharp and your head immediately begins to throb as your head smacks against it. A hand goes over your mouth and fight or flight takes over as you feel your heart rate pick up and the rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins. You struggle before biting down with all your might on the hand, the taste of copper coats your tongue. The man who grabbed you yanks his hand back and you spit the blood out onto his face before screaming, hoping you’d be lucky enough for someone to be close enough to hear you. You knew basic self defense but you’d rather be safe and hope someone would at least call emergency services. 

“You bitch” the man yells before slapping you across the face. You bring your knee up in an attempt to connect it with his groin. His hand shoots down, your knee still connects but not with as much force as you hoped. As you attempt to shove him off you hear a thud to the side of you and you can only hope that it’s some good samaritan here to save you. It's only a few seconds later your attacker is yanked off of you and thrown to the ground.

You watch with bated breath as the man in the mask repeatedly punches the guy in the face and head. Once he finishes he makes his way over to you, you can hear him speaking to you, asking if you're alright, but you're distracted by the shape of his jaw and the way his lips move. A sense of familiarity washes over you and you're unsure as to why.

“I’m fine, thank you, I just need to get home.” You quickly rush out before speed walking away. Wanting to be in the safety of yours and Matt's home as quickly as possible, and wanting to scrub your mouth to rid it of the copper taste. A part of you hoping Matt is home so you can just crash into his arms and sleep.

You arrive home to an empty apartment, the billboard on the building across the alley lighting up the living room. You drop your jacket and bag on the counter before moving to the bathroom and brushing your teeth for far longer than the usual two minutes. Afterwards moving to your shared bedroom and changing into the clothes you'd be sleeping in. 

As you're changing you spot a picture of you and Matt on top of your dresser. You pause, taking a moment to admire your partner, that's when it hits you. The sense of familiarity, why the bottom half of the devil of hell's kitchen face looked so familiar. You'd kissed those lips hundreds of times, it's no wonder your body recognized them. Everything begins falling into place in your head, like placing the last puzzle pieces in a puzzle and seeing the finale picture.

Matt's injuries always lined up with when you'd see the man in the mask on the new fighting bad guys. How a part of you always believed there was more to the story than him just falling or whatever excuse he’d give you. He was always so careful, far too careful to just take a tumble as often as he’d tell everyone. You never called him out cause even if a part of you believed he was lying you trusted him enough that you never questioned. Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door opening and Matt's voice calling out for you. 

“In the bedroom!” you call back, wondering if he’ll tell you or if you'd have to call him out and question him. You hear him approach and turn to look at him, he looks relatively unharmed, ‘that's good’ you think. “Hey baby.” you can't help the small smile that graces your features, he moves closer to where your voice came from, reaching a hand out towards you. Once he reaches you he wraps his arms around you pressing a kiss against the top of your head. You hear and feel him take a deep breath, you wouldn't be surprised if he was also a little shaken up, he’d just saved his partner from being mugged, you wouldn’t blame him if he was. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes before you decide you can't take it anymore.

“Baby?” you begin, he hums in response. You take a deep breath before you continue, turning in his arms and wrapping your arms around his neck. “When were you gonna tell me?”  you question, you figure it's best to just rip the bandaid off.

“Tell you what sweetheart?” he questions tilting his head, eyebrows furrowing. He looked like a puppy, confused by the trick its owner is trying to teach it. You understand why he’d try and play this off but you also wish he’d just be honest. Your face morphs into a deadpan expression.

“Matty, seriously, you know what I’m talking about.” You cross your arms over your chest. “When were you going to tell me youre daredevil?” you question. He huffs out a small laugh.

“What? Honey what are you talking about? I’m not the daredevil.” he lies through his teeth.

“I know you can’t see my face but just know it's a look of disappointment cause you should really be better at lying if you're gonna be a vigilante.” you speak before moving just out of matts reach. Deciding he could touch you again when he confessed. A defeated sigh leaves him, you assume he's come to the conclusion that there’s no way of getting out of this without being honest. 

“I don't know, honestly.” he begins “I always wanted to tell you, I hated lying to you, especially after seeing how worried you’d get.” he takes his glasses off sitting them on your dresser. “I was waiting for the right moment I guess. I was worried how you’d react, I didn’t want to lose you.” he finishes looking in your direction. He looks like a puppy that just got scolded and was trying to look cute to get out of punishment.

“First of all, low blow, you know your puppy eyes work way too well on me” you speak trying not to giggle. “Second, Matt I’m literally so in love with you, it’d take a lot more than you running around at night in a mask beating up criminals to lose me.” Now the laugh escapes you, a smile making its way to his face as well at your laugh. He moves closer to you again, hands landing on your waist, before he leans in to kiss you.

“You handled this a lot better than Foggy did,” he laughs. “Also, if you were wondering, yes, i am actually blind” 

“I wasn’t, but good to know.” you laugh “and to be fair, foggy did hate your alter ego.” you lean up to kiss his cheek, “lets go to bed baby” you whisper before crawling into your shared bed as he moves to change into pajamas. Once he joins you in the bed you snuggle into his arms, resting your head over his heart. Thinking over everything as you trace shapes against his chest, it’s then you sit up quickly realizing something. “You little shit!” you yell with a laugh as you playfully hit him in the chest. 

“What? What’d I do?” he asks shock and confusion taking his features

“A few months ago, at Josies with Foggy and Karen” you begin, you can tell by the look his face morphs to that he's beginning to understand. His cocky smile finding his face again. “I confessed that I thought the daredevil was hot and you just let me?” you ask incredulously “no wonder you were so unphased by it” you playfully shove his shoulder

“Would it help if I said I found it very flattering that you did?” he laughed “but seriously, that was when I started seriously thinking about telling you. It made me feel a little bit better about it.” he speaks, moving his hand to rub against your knee.

“Maybe, it does a little,” you confess. “You're still a little shit though.” you laugh moving to kiss him. “My little shit though” you whisper. The rest of the night is spent full of soft touches and laughter as the two of you bask in your love of the other.

[loveroftoomanyfandoms]

Ok so they say never meet your heroes...

...unless that hero is Charlie Cox, because he was SO SO LOVELY!!!!!

I decided to go ahead and get my autos done Saturday rather than Sunday, so I got up to him and he gave me a fist bump and asked my name then said it was nice to meet me and thanks for coming, so I told him I flew in from out of town and he said that he's been to my town, that a friend of his was filming a movie not too terribly far from there so they went. Then he was looking at my Kin Bluray sleeve and said he looked so old on it and that they must've added lines to his face, so I was like, "well you WERE in prison for 8 years", which he laughed at and said "well that's true".

Then I said "Okay so I have 2 things to tell you and then I have a question if you can answer it." So I told him about my day job (which has to do with working with people with visual impairments) and thanked him for the care and respect he puts into the role of Matt Murdock, (to which he said "oh wow, that's an awesome job and thank you, that means a lot") then I was like "Okay so I'm part of a Discord group chat called the Traumatized Irish Catholic Boys". He started laughing and said "I love that!"

And I said "it's named after our 3 favorite characters of yours, Owen Sleater, Matt Murdock and Michael Kinsella." He nodded and said "that's so cool."

So then I pointed to my Kin sleeve and said "We would like to know why Michael reads so much Steinbeck?" (If you look closely, every time he's reading it's a Steinbeck novel.)

And the answer is....

It was all him!!! He decided that Michael developed a love of reading while he was in prison and so he told the set designer or whoever to be sure to have plenty of books on hand and the Steinbecks were the only one that he felt that Michael would read.

Also, he said he loved my question and my observation (but no fucking way was I going to tell him that I figured it out for fanfic writing research, lol.)

Oh and he called me darling at one point during the conversation. 🥰🫠

Tomorrow is my photo op with him, so I'll get a chance to chat with him again!

[literalite]

character/story influences tag

rules: write up a blurb or make a visual collage of the people or characters (from books, TV shows, movies, etc.) that inspired your story and/or OC, either visually, personality wise, or just a general vibe

thanks for the tag @tricoufamily :DD i am tagging @gunthermunch @lucidicer @itsmariejanel @orphyd @goldenwaves this is FUN u should do it. thank u

medias/characters meet me in the woods: man in the dark (paul auster), orlando (virginia woolf), lord huron's entire discography, specifically meet me in the woods and the ghost on the shore, the godfather 1972 (barely), age of adaline 2015, the old guard 2020, this specific cc cross, and reading homer's the iliad in my final year of high school. somehow don't go where i can't follow: the raven cycle (maggie stiefvater), his dark materials (philip pullman), adventure time 2010-2018, mitski’s bury me at makeout creek album, next of kin by alvvays, bite the hand by boygenius, matilda (roald dahl) (jokingly), horrible no good homoerotic teenage friendships, the chosen one trope, and this post by tumblr user @/louisegluckpdf. also my life which explains why the aesthetic is completely disjointed RIP violent affairs (with @lucidicer): nbc hannibal, bones and all 2022, arachnids, ethel cain’s preacher's daughter, sir chloe’s i am the dog album, mine and olli's deranged combined mental energies mutually focusing on t4t cannibalism  vinny reign: matt murdock (netflix daredevil), joel miller (tlou), the fallen angel painting by alexandre cabanel, caravaggio paintings, catholic guilt, arsonist’s lullabye by hozier caleb vatore: those italian twinks that renaissance artists kept referencing to paint religious figures, dorian gray, orlando, timothee chalamet (LMAO), the reveal that the noo don’t kill yourself you’re so sexy guy is a twink [redacted] morrow: gojo satoru, howl pendragon (studio ghibli), jay gatsby, kageyama shigeo and also a bit of reigen arataka (mp100), ronan lynch and gansey (the raven cycle), eden's entire discography, birdcage by novo amor, mercy by sir chloe, myself ophelia griffin: ophelia painting by john everett millais, blue sargent (the raven cycle), clairo, phoebe bridger's discography, strawberry blonde and your best american girl by mitski, clairo’s immunity album, the first crush i ever had manny pluto: yotasuke takahashi (blue period), tbh a lot of blue period in general, alhaitham (genshin impact), adam parrish (the raven cycle), a hint of geto suguru, working for the knife by mitski nayef al karim: spiders, abel AND cain, julian slowik (the menu 2022), hannibal lecter (yes obvious i know but moreso the focus on fine dining as opposed to the psychology), stewy hosseini (succession), inbred by ethel cain

[importantgalaxyrunaway]

Better than the devil. (Matt Murdock x reader) part 2

read part one here (tPLEASE COMMENT AND REBLOG I WORKED REALLY HARD IN THIS ONE)

warnings: a little spicy at the end, very much implied smut at the end. Lots of angst. SO MUCH CATHOLIC GUILT. Guilt in general. Negative self talk. I tried my best wrote a lot more than normal. LOTS OF FLUFF TOO!!!, such cute interactions with the child.

note 📝: italics are Matt’s thoughts Might do a part 3 but I’ll do some one shots before hand. Have lots of ideas will post a poll. Let me know if ya wanna be tagged in Matt Murdock fics

@schneeflocky

Matt finally stirs with his wife in his arms. Maybe it was the fact it was now morning or perhaps indulgence on sounds the city was emitting this morning. The chaos, the carnage he could hear it all. The “blip” had blown everything apart and now society was scrambling to put itself back together the night after they returned. But then he feels her weight on him, like an anchor to the real world and his senses. Her soft sleeping heartbeat flutters and her skin…her skin was like honey. Her scent was intoxicatingly good. He breathed in her lavender smell. His fingers skate over her silk nightgown. He smiles to himself remembering how he had bought it for her. It was his favorite fabric, he loved feeling and loving her in it. She used to tease him by wearing it when she wanted his attention begging for his touch. Trying not to wake her, he shifts her body slightly off of his own and stands up walking to their bedroom. There he changes from his work suit to causal clothes (in the gif)

he walks back to her and stokes his hair. And a sudden pang of guilt washes over him, he could still smell her salty tears from the last night. Right now there was nothing stopping him from being engulfed in an ocean of catholic guilt.

he had left her. He had knocked her up and left her like some deadbeat. It was like he had used her for her body. No one deserves that let alone the woman he married. The woman he loved. Who had been through so much pain with him on his account. All the nights were she’d patched him up from practically the brink of death. Were her scent and touch were some of the only things grounding him from a volume of guilt and dispear. From overwhelming all the sounds and sense. Her delicate kiss and featherlight fingers keep him sane in those dark days where he almost lost sight of everything. This was the woman he said he would never leave. Vowed it to god on their wedding. No, She deserves much better than him. Better than the devil.

Now even Matt knew that the blip wasn’t his fault, there was nothing stopping the inevitable, but its catholic guilt and there no stopping it. Besides, he also left the city and the danguorus streets. God knows what Fisk did while he was gone. He clenched his fist and the mere thought. The devil clawing to get out of him. He needed to get back on the streets tonight. But then….he heard it a small body the pads of her feet halting to a stopped when she saw him. Her small but mighty heartbeat pounding.

“who are you? Get away from my mommy!” He was surprised at the fearlessness and authority in her squeaky voice. But mostly he was stunned. He tried to speak but it was as if his mouth dried up. He couldn’t believe it…he was a father? He had made her? She was so big he had missed so much. Another pang of guilt racked his body. God, she had to grow up without a father for the first years of her life.

“why are you staring at me like that?” She questioned. Of course he wasn’t Staring but he was facing her general direction and his thousand yard stare seemed to be unsettling. Sensing her slight discomfort he quickly grabbed his red glasses and put them on as not to scare her. Finally his body felt as if it was not cemented. And finally y/n woke up, stretched and yawned and her eyes fell upon the sight in front of her.

“angel it’s okay, i know him. He’s not here to hurt us” She says quickly and it puts her at ease. Matt can sense her shoulder untenseing and her heartbeat returning to normal. Y/n sighs “what are you doing up?” She kisses Matt’s still numb with shock body on the cheek. walking towards the kitchen that’s near the living room area so they can still talk.

her hands make a motion and cover her ears. She makes a face of discomfort. “City’s- loud today. More than normal, it hurts.”

his wife made a sympathetic nod as if this is not the first time she’s heard something like this.

“ok, I’m going to make all of us some banana pancakes and I promise angel I will explain everything” she says makeing the batter “oh and Mathew dear, you don’t have to wear those glasses this is your own home and she should get used to it”

suddenly realization struck Matt like a harpoon. And he find his voice. He snaps his fingers to make himself wake up out of this trance. He takes of his glasses tentivily.

“wait…you can hear the city?” He crouched down next to angel. “Does she have my sense?”

“she does. I…haven’t explained it to her fully yet but she knows she different than other kids”

a wave of emotions washed over him like tidal wave in a storm. He could barely even believe he was a father and now this. Concern, hope, protectiveness, guilt. But what beamed the most inside of him was pride. Intense pride. And he beams. She was like him, she could hear the city, feel the things he felt. From every heels on the pavement to every whiff of purfume that would hit him like a brick wall rather than a ‘pleasant smell’. He worried of course about it. But wasn’t this more than he could possibly have hoped for? He wasn’t alone. He puts her hand on his chest and his on hers.

“can you hear my heartbeat?” He says shakily. You can tell he’s fighting back tears

“mhm. It’s strong!”

“I-i can hear yours too. It’s small but it’s powerful.”

they sit the for a while , him crouching to meet her level hand on each others hearts in unison. His strong steady and hearty. The heart of a fighter. Hers quick and small, like a butterfly beating its wings. Listening to their heartbeats in chorus. As father and daughter. The moment is so beautiful he doesn’t want to break it but eventually withdrawals his hand and stands up. The girl looked at him quizzically and then ran to her room to play with her toys till breakfast is ready.

“you never told me” he walks towards where she is frying at the stove and hugs her from behind. She squeals slightly as he does this surprised. He wraps his arms tightly around her waist. “I’m sorry I left you ” he purrs into her ear. Nuzzling and nipping at her neck then pressing featherlight kisses all down her collarbone. Stopping for a moment to inhale her lavender scent. She flips the final pancake off the stove and turns it off. She turns around to face him and put her arms around his neck. Her livly met his unseeing ones and she wished for just about the millionth time he could see, just so he could stare into his eyes and for once have them meet hers back. His hazel eyes were so damn pretty and it always pissed her off that he hid them from the world. Not that he didn’t look good in his signature red glasses, oh no he was beautiful but to her it was sad he had to hide. His fluffy hair looked magnificent and she couldn’t help admire him. He ruffles his hair and goes to the table were she calls for angel and serves them all a healthy stack of pancakes. As they sit down eating their pancakes angel finally breaks the silence.

“so……who is he”

she takes a deep breath ready to plunge into the conversation “he’s your father”

“I thought you said dad was gone?”

“yes well, I thought that too. They are calling it a blip. Half of the universe seems to have mysteriously disappeared and then reappeared five years later. Your dad was one of them”

“oh” is all the little girl manages trying to wrap her head around the idea

“it’s confusing but the important part is he’s back and we’re going to be a family”

the little girl beams at her new found father. I hold Mathew’s hand and pat it reassuringly. The atmosphere feels like it’s ten pounds lighter and calmer.

“also, angel” matt starts as if testing saying her name “im not exactly normal. And neither are you . that’s a good thing. When I was a kid a truck with chemicals hit me in my eyes. And that’s why I can’t make eye contact with you. I’m blind sweetie.”

“you can’t see me?” Her eyes widening as if she’s never thought of the mere idea of blindness. Her tone astonished.

“no but you see, just like you i can hear everything in the city. Actually i can hear and feel and smell much more than you can. Even though i lost my sight my other senses were heightened. I can “see” in my own way”

“you aren’t blind but you still have some of your father’s abilities” y/n added

she nods taking in all the information. They realized it was a lot for a little girl but they didn’t want to talk down to her. She was smart and they knew that. There he had told her everything….well not everything.

——————/————/—————-/.——

As long as he could he would never tell her about the devil in him. The fact that he was balancing daredevil and being a father terrified him, all Fisk would see was a potential weakness. The day still haunted him to this day when he had kidnapped his wife and hurt her just to prove a point to him. He still felt guilty when his hands slid over her ridges, scars and burns from where he had hurt her. Everytime the guilt hurt him more than a gunshot. As he leaped across buildings listening for screams and cries he thought about this. A lot more crime had come after the blip, people who were devastated for losing their family’s or desperate because their jobs. He had been more busy in these days than he had ever before as daredevil. He had already stopped, an armed robbery, a kidnapping of a little girl, and prevented a woman about to be attacked by a man with a knife and done many others. He had sustained more cuts than bargained for, including a long gash across his side. Maybe it was the fact that it had been five years. The world had moved on without him. Crime was rampant in Hell’s Kitchen more than ever before. He couldnt continue not with dried blood caked all over his suit. Not with multiple gashes and cuts and bruises across his body. He made his way across the rooftops jumping back to his house. He slide in through the window. He listened to their hearts. Angels was slow and steady she was clearly fast asleep he could also tell by her little breathe. She was having a good dream. But y/n’s was up pacing the room her heartbeat quick, he could tell she was worried for him. She spot him on the windowsill instead and pulls him into her arms.

“oh! Matt” her voice gasps full of love and concern but mainly sorrow. she pulls him in for a tight hug in his weak form. “Look at you” she steps back to fully take in his appearance. He was caked in blood from head to toe. Weither it was his or someone else’s she didn’t know. He was exuasted, hair disheveled taking off his mask. She silently prayed that it was someone else’s blood on him. Glancing over at the clock, it was 3:30 am.

”sweetheart I’m sorry I-“ but he stumbles forward and you catch him barely before he hits the ground. “Ugh” he groans.

you practically drag him to the shower. She peels off his suit, stripping him down naked and turn on the shower. The lukewarm water is soothing on his skin as he sits down on the bench in the shower. A blush across his cheeks now that you decided to strip him down completely. My body heats up seeing him naked, even beat up he somehow manages to look like a Greek god. Or maybe a handsome devil would be more fitting.

“We’ve been married for 6 years and I can still make you blush, that’s says something” she jokes as she scrubs the caked blood off of him. It going down the drain in a stream of red. He is clearly out of it. Overstimulated, overwhelmed. Hes just sits there in a trance as she cleans him up.

“it’s worse than I thought” he whispers

“it’s Hell’s Kitchen of course it’s bad”

“no the blip created a power vacuum they’re back, all of them.”

he groans and leans his head back. She gently washes his hair and analyses his cuts. The water cascading across his heavenly body. His expression is pained.

I can hear them, all of them, the people I couldn’t. they’re screaming in my ears and I can’t drown it out. I’ve failed them. I’ve failed them all. I can’t do it all, I’m only one person there are dozens of them crying. Crying out for me. I’ll never be able to stop them it’ll never be enough to stop them. I’m a failure, I don’t deserve happiness. I especially don’t deserve her and angel. She could do so much better than the devil. I’m a f—

his thought loop round and round like a carousel at fair. The only thing that grounded him was her touch in his hair. A soft gentle anchor to life.

“Matt” she said sweetly her voice dripping in that honey tone that made his knees weak though he’d never admit it. And tone seems to shift in the room. “My Love, your clean now. Are you alright?”

I love her so much. I want to feel her every inch of her. I want her grounding me to earth. Her body on mine. I can tell her heartbeat picking up and her body temperature rising. She feels the same. I could listen to her voice all day. God, i love her.

there are still more days than often when he wonder ‘what did he ever do to deserve her’ and though he doesn’t know it she thinks the same.

he pulls her in for a kiss by her wrist. The kiss is hungry and desperate, full of lust and passion. But there is the signature taste of gentleness in there. When you finally break up from the long kiss, he pulls you onto his lap and and trails soft but rough kisses down her neck.

“I’m going to take you up on your offer from kitchen” he pants out with that signature devilish smirk that he always has before he takes you to bed.

“I’m all yours matty” you smile with a glint a mischief in your eyes. You know how much that nickname affects him especially when you said it in that sugary voice that you did now. He swallowed back a deep groan and kisses you eagerly to silence it.

there was no dening it, the road would be hard ahead but the two of you would go into it together. You would get through this together.

[itwasthereaminuteago]

|| From Out of Nowhere ||

Part 1

Masterlist

Tags/warnings: Matt is about 10 years younger than Frank (early twenties), he's a bit of a dick, he might get better..., references to sex, Frank's level of patience is mind-blowing, very slow burn Fratt.

Notes: appreciate your thoughts (prayers?) on this, got some sort of idea on where I'd like it to go (enemies to lovers anyone?), please reblog if you liked it, thank you!

‘Got a job for you, Frankie. Hands down the easiest money you'll ever make, my friend!’ Billy had promised. The job itself was watching over some delinquent kid to make sure he didn't leave the building he lived in and do anything stupid. Oh, and said kid was blind.

Simple.

Easy.

Right?

Frank's first and middle fingers were twitching against his thigh as he sat in position on the chair just outside the bedroom. His mind intently focused on how he could get back at Bill for suckering him into such a ball ache of a post. He could swear he had never experienced such frustration in his life before now, this fucking kid was driving him to his wits end.

Matthew Michael Murdock. An orphan. And yeah, a blind orphan at that. But don't you dare start feeling sorry for that little shit, don't you fucking dare. Yeah, he was brought up by nuns and priests, a proper Catholic boy through and through, had been left a fair whack of money after his father's death which had put him through college, and he was eager to learn and smart, but no, don't let that fool you.

Frank had expected some sass out of him knowing he was a law school student, but goddamn… he could never have been prepared for the actual levels of bullshit this boy would pull on his watch. Like right now, for example, Frank was trying his best to block out the rather loud sounds of fucking that were emanating from the room right behind his head. Whoever the girl was this time she was clearly enjoying herself (they were usually always enjoying themselves), maybe a little much he thought, her increasingly loud cries of his charge's name almost reaching dog whistle levels in his ears. He couldn't help hear the repeated slam of the headboard against the wall, the honeyed phrases of ‘such a good girl’ and ‘do you like that, sweetheart?’, and of course, the overtly pornographic groan Matt would make when he presumably finished.

The rules set out by his guardian, Father Lantom, were clear and strict: Matthew wasn't to leave the building under any circumstance, he was the walking definition of a liability, always getting into some sort of trouble or fight. He couldn't be trusted out on his own.

But of course much to Frank's annoyance noone had said anything about sneaking things and people in, and Matt was using his slippery interpretation of the rules to his full advantage. He was definitely doing it on purpose, he absolutely knew it would antagonise his ‘babysitter’ for the past few weeks, and yeah, Frank was pissed, but he was still here.

He checked his gun again, only raising his gaze when the door opened and a breathless looking woman with the bedsheets wrapped around her emerged. She was obviously surprised to see him sitting there as she made her way to the bathroom.

“Um… hi.” She mumbled in an embarrassed, giggly way as she passed Frank, who only replied with a semi-polite “ma'am” through his slightly gritted teeth.

The cocky little fucker appeared a few moments later in nothing but those signature red tinted glasses and a low slung towel that he was still tucking around his slim hips. Obvious love bites peppered his athletic body, a couple on the side of his neck, some trailing across his pecs, and one on the V line half obscured by the edge of the towel. Raised pink lines marked his shoulders and back like a tic tac toe board.

Jesus Christ.

Frank rolled his eyes and Matt smirked as he stretched his arms up and cracked his spine with a satisfied sigh right in front of him. He didn't know how the hell he did it but somehow he could always tell on Frank's exact mood. Although maybe it wasn't too difficult given the current circumstances. He now knew why Father Lantom wasn't dealing with this directly, he could see him spending all his days repeating hail Mary's or some shit because he had ran out of patience. Not that Frank had any more patience than an actual priest…

“Morning, Castle!” Matt chirped. “how was your night?”

“Quiet.” Frank growled back at him, watching as Matt raked his long fingers through his bedhead trying to tame it.

The kid laughed. “You jealous?”

“You're pushing it.”

Matt grinned wide, nearly all his pearly teeth on show. “Oh you really should get out more Francis, get yourself a hobby.”

Frank almost laughs at his audacity. “Who needs a hobby when they've got you, Red? I'm always comin’ up with new ways to hate you.”

“Ooh, you'll need to share sometime, but uh… as you can probably tell I'm a little busy right now, can't keep a lady waiting.”

Frank scoffed. “No, you can't.”

Matt sauntered away into the bathroom where the thunder of the shower thankfully masks most of the ridiculous squealing and moaning this time.

Frank opened his thermos of coffee and took a long draw from it. “Asshole.”

~

Later that day, Frank was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich when Matt appeared, hopping up in the bench nearby.

“You always know when I'm making food, don’t ya? Frank grumbles.

“You always have lunch at the same time, Mr Predictable.”

Frank carries on assembling his sourdough, ignoring the remark. “Suppose you want some?”

Matt shakes his head with a scrunch of his nose. “No, don't like pickles.”

“Ain’t you such the fucking princess." Frank cuts the sandwich in half cleanly with the bread knife. "How d’you know it's got pickles in it anyhow?”

“I can smell them. Just like I can smell that you haven't washed in two days.

Frank barks out a laugh as he grabs a plate and starts cleaning up the worktop. “That’s real funny, Red. Did you ever think that's maybe that's because I can't leave you alone for two minutes to grab a shower?” He’s sarcastic in his reply, although the kid’s actually right…

He watches Matt feel around in a cupboard for something and then head towards the door, noticing that he's wearing a jacket, has his cane in hand, and his satchel slung over his shoulder.

“Where the hell d’you think you're going?”

“Out.”

“Try again.”

“I'm going out. I'm meeting Foggy to study."

Frank leans up against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. “S’that so?”

Matt stands his ground, “We've got an exam coming up next week, it might surprise you but I actually want to do well in it."

“Alright. I'm coming with ya.”

Now it was Matt's turn to roll his eyes. “I'm going to the library, what could I possibly do there that would be so bad?”

Frank quickly wraps his sandwich to go, he's not going to take the risk of messing up his job, regardless of the fact that Matt is an insufferable pain in the ass.

“I'm sure you'll think of somethin’.”

[farfromstrange]

Interview With The Vampire | Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader

-> Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader (she/her)

Summary: You are the first journalist to interview Hell’s Kitchen’s resident vampire vigilante after he requested you personally to tell his story. He’s offering you a way out of your miserable job—to make your voice be heard. You’re desperate and curious, so you decide to take the risk. Most people only know him as Daredevil, but you are about to learn who’s really behind the mask. How hard can it possibly be? As it turns out, interviewing a vampire is a lot more complex than you expected it to be, and Matthew Michael Murdock has set his mind on ruining you for any other man to come.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), alternative universe, blood play, marking, scent kink, slight Dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, oral f!receiving, biting, vampirism, angst, religious imagery & symbolism, Catholic guilt, mentions of violence, allusions to suicidal thoughts, lots of plot, age gap

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

Other Characters: Vampire!Elektra (mentioned), Ben Urich (mentioned)

A/n: I finally got this one edited. This is a beast, y’all! I drew inspiration from Anne Rice’s Interview With The Vampire, but particularly the 2022 AMC series (I fell in love with it then and there), but it’s not based on it, so I just played around with the idea and this came out. It’s a lot, but it wasn’t enough for a full-blown series, so you’re getting a big ass One Shot instead. I used my usual Smut tag list, but since this is slightly Dead Dove Do Not Eat, heed the warnings and proceed with care! Don't read it if you don't want to. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Read Me On AO3!

The sun has long set over the Big Apple. Artificial neon, cars, and ceiling lights burning in the highrises along the riverfront cancel out the darkness that has befallen the country’s east. Noise melts into a flood that rolls over people’s senses, but most in New York City have grown numb to the city that never sleeps. 

Sirens follow cacophonies of screams. Teenagers get into clubs with their fake IDs, adults get drunk in bars or go to work the night shift at their underpaid jobs, and the other half cry themselves to sleep, knowing they will have to get up in the morning and go through the same hell all over again. 

Life has become a miserable existence, and it leaves human beings wondering, ‘How much longer do we have to endure this before we all finally drop dead?’

The system fails them. The law fails to protect them. All they can do is lie down and wait to die. And they will die sooner or later. That’s inevitable. 

In Hell’s Kitchen, in a penthouse with a view of the Hudson through colored windows that gloss over during the day and show the city throughout the night, resides someone who most of the city only knows by an alias—Daredevil. 

If anyone crosses him, he will suck them dry. It’s not a metaphor, I’m afraid; his reputation precedes him. Criminals fear the red eyes that come with fists and a sharp set of teeth that will surely run them into the ground. The rest of the city feels a little safer with him, but so far, no one has dared to question his nature. 

Fear is known to work as a paralytic. And this man living in the penthouse by the Hudson is the personification of what one might consider fear-inducing. Without the fear of others, he would not be thriving. 

An apex predator like him lives for the thrill of the kill. When the adrenaline spikes, it makes the prey start running and the blood taste so much sweeter. It is to a creature of his kind what a good glass of century-old red wine would be to a human being; he savors every last drop of it.

Two years out of your Master’s degree at Columbia University, you have become one of those hard-working adults who fall into bed later than they should, and you lie awake at night, wondering how much longer you have to exist before you can live.

You interned at the Bulletin; you ran the true crime and mystery column for over a year before the newspaper shut down. A billionaire from downtown Manhattan bought it to start his own magazine, and you were the only employee he didn’t fire. Instead of relying on your top-tier education and experience though, he has banned you to the lifestyle and beauty column. He’s a beast if you have ever seen one. 

On a Monday in June then, after the sun has risen and is now falling again, you find an envelope on your desk. You glide your fingers over the fancy paper. The letters are written in handwriting that resembles the old letters from the 18th century you had the pleasure of using as research material for your Bachelor’s thesis.

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

Over two decades ago, scientists published papers on the existence of blood-sucking creatures after years of valuable research, and now governments around the world have set out to burn the inhuman species out before they can cause any more damage. Vampirism though is older than humanity itself and unless law enforcement has evidence of homicide, vampires have the right to exist amongst humans. 

They are excellent at hiding their true nature, that much is true. The lore that has been passed down since the beginning of time is only partly true. They know how to adapt and rise from the ashes like elegant phoenixes. The misconceptions surrounding their existence stem from fiction, horror, and fear, but they persist. 

And a rule has been established in society ever since the truth was revealed: don’t talk about vampires! 

Don’t talk about them unless it’s in a fictional context. Don’t put your research out there. Don’t fraternize with them. Don’t risk becoming prey. Don’t be fascinated by them, and God forbid, don’t you dare write articles about them for the public records. If you want to know about vampires, you have to dig, and you have to do so quietly or society will deem you crazy and a freak. 

The worst thing to be is not a flying android or a super soldier with a shield; the worst thing you can be, in this day and age, is a vampire. 

You were a curious child who turned into an even more curious adult. At times even a bitter one because she couldn’t get the answers she yearned for and had to do it herself. So, of course, the We Don’t Talk About Vampires rule came across as rather absurd, learning about it back when you were merely a teen. 

You started researching, and you found out more than you thought you would—more than you thought you could. You wanted to cover the issue in the Bulletin back when you still worked there, but since humans were raised to fear the very mention of vampires in the real world, no longer romanticizing the concept but rather running from it, the truth shall remain hidden. Again, that seemed absurd, but you had to accept it to get ahead. 

You kept researching to the point you convinced yourself you could be one of them if you tried. You felt like you understood them, but nothing could ever fully answer all of your questions to the point it felt truthful. Honest. Real. 

Growing up, everyone told you dead things aren’t supposed to walk. They aren’t supposed to breathe and exist among the living. They are cruel, and vampires are killers that leave trails of bodies the government is hiding from us. Greediness exceeds common sense. The human mind tends to get sick and twisted, and those who don’t fit in hardly ever stand a chance.

Hell’s Kitchen is particularly quiet on the issue. Rumor has it that the vigilante chasing criminals at night and leaving the worst of them dry at the shore of the Hudson while, at the same time, surrendering those he deems worthy of rehabilitation to the authorities, is one of those vampires. 

They call him Daredevil; the savior of innocents and the downfall of the vile. Only a handful of people know who he is. The truth is caught in a spider web of lies, unable to come out unless someone were to tell his story for the world to hear.��

That Monday in June when you open the mysterious envelope on your desk, everything changes. 

He addressed you personally. Your name resembles a masterpiece, the letters swirling at the edges. 

You don’t know me, but I know you.

It’s strange to read your name out of the mouth of a stranger.

I must admit, Miss, I’m a big fan of your writing. And I’m not talking about the lifestyle and beauty column Mr. Doherty of the ‘Silver Lining’ has confined you to.

No, I am a big fan of the work you used to do for the New York Bulletin. I remember your name headlining many articles on crime here in Hell’s Kitchen—a column my late friend Ben Urich used to call his home.  

It’s a shame that the paper was shut down. I tried to prevent it, but the disappearance of half of humanity and Wilson Fisk’s irreparable damage to the city’s foundation tied my hands. 

The token female journalist reporting on unsolicited beauty advice and lifestyle choices no one is going to follow in the days of social media and fake marketing. It must be frustrating, right? Not having a story to tell. Not getting recognized for your impeccable talent. The Bulletin gave you a platform, but Mr. Doherty and his goons took that away from you.

What I’m asking myself is, are you satisfied? You were probably imagining a different future for yourself. A woman of your caliber must want to be more than a mere object used to make a bottomless magazine look better on the market. 

Excuse my overstepping. I read one of your essays on the magical and the mythic—lore versus reality—the other day, and it inspired me. My life has been taking quite a few turns lately, so I required some new… let’s call it insight. 

You don’t know me, but I am one of those creatures you are fascinated by. I’m the kind of creature people have been telling you not to write about because the weak minds of the public would not receive it well. The Catholics, the church, the fragile and fearful human beings that can’t imagine anything in fiction being real and want to remain the superior species—trust me, I know what it feels like to be backed into a corner. To be abandoned. To be underestimated. Not quite like you, I admit, but I have a few years of experience in and with this world to show for myself. 

I imagine you’re tired of your position. I imagine you’re dissatisfied with human idiocy. You crave answers to your questions. Questions you have been asking yourself ever since college failed to answer them. My kind is being censored—partly for good reason—but that doesn’t sit right with you, does it? To live life in a monotone line with no clear way out of this boring rhythm you have had to fall into? 

I can offer you a different path. A story. Answers to your questions. And the unfiltered truth of a 242-year-old man. 

You are going to find a card with my address attached to this letter. I can assure you, sweetheart, we both want the same thing. I will wash your hands if you wash mine. Think about it, and come find me when you have made your decision. Preferably after the sun has set. 

Yours sincerely,

M.

The paper crumbles in your hands, but only at the corners. Your eyes are glued to the lost drops of ink, the blue blood of an old fountain pen caving under too much pressure. 

He chose his words carefully. Every paragraph circles around your head. You breathe in, and it suddenly feels as though the whiff of the unknown is an inhalable drug, twisting your brain inside out. 

The pull threatens to submerge you in a stormy ocean. You’re flailing your arms around helplessly, but there is nothing for you to hold onto. All buoys have drifted into oblivion, leaving a sea of utter emptiness behind, and in the midst of it, there you are, drowning.

In a moment of clarity, you fold the letter back down on the desk. It lands with a thud, and you look around frantically, checking if anyone is watching you. They aren’t. 

M. That’s all he’s giving you. And the fact he is over two hundred years old proves the rumors to be true. He’s standing by it, but only to you. He wants to reveal himself to you, show you his true face for a story, but he’s a vampire. 

You’re alone. You can wash his hands, but is just showing up enough for him? You don’t even know him. 

You’re in trouble. This time though, you didn’t even do anything. You did your job, and he caught an interest in you. How does that work? 

Your heart skips another beat. It should not, but it does. The danger is exciting. It shouldn't be exciting. You hate what your body is doing, but how can you make it stop? You can’t. You can’t do anything but take it.

This stranger has got you in a chokehold, but in his hands, you might as well surrender to your certain demise. You don’t consider vampires inherently evil, but there is a reason people warn you not to walk alone at night in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s dangerous, no matter his nature, and he is not supposed to lure you in the way he does.

But you’re a curious kitten, and he is offering you the holy grail of answers to questions you have been grappling with for years. He hit the nail right on the head. And it doesn’t even scare you how well he knows you. 

This is a gold mine. Realistically speaking, telling a vampire’s story could make or break your career as a journalist. If you do it for the magazine, you’re done before you can even bring your words to print, but if you do it individually and you do it well, people will certainly eat it up. The question is just, are you going to play your entire life safe, conforming to your boss’s view of you until you get the freedom you crave, or are you going to take the risk and fly? 

The answer is as clear as day, but it takes you a moment to process. It’s as though someone is in your head, steering you in the direction of whoever this M is. Daredevil. This vampire who wants you to interview him, and for what? That’s still an open question you don’t have the answer to. But you do know what to do.

You scramble for your laptop, your notepad, and the letter in the envelope. The clock strikes four. You have another two hours on the clock, but you can’t be bothered to stay. 

Upon hearing the sound of your shoes hurriedly scraping against the linoleum floors, one of your colleagues turns in her chair. “Where are you going?” she asks.

“I, uh, have somewhere to be,” you tell her as you brush past her.

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

You stop on your way out, looking back over your shoulder. “If everything works out,” you say, glancing through the window to his office at the other end of the hall, “He’ll have my letter of resignation by the end of the week.”

She gasps softly. “You’re quitting?” her voice is barely above a whisper.

Almost sinisterly, you chuckle. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

“But—”

“Tell your daughter Happy Birthday from me. I gotta go.”

Your steps echo for minutes still, but you are long gone with the wind.

Silver linings are considered an advantage that comes from an unpleasant situation. The name has proven to be entirely unfit for the magazine that replaced a big piece of Hell’s Kitchen’s history. The Bulletin had cultural value as much as it was laden with decades of the city’s stories told to the average person. 

Wilson Fisk was the dynamite that sent New York alight. The Bulletin’s destruction was mere collateral damage in the fight to get the city back on track. You have had so many reasons to leave presented to you, yet you never took them. If you had, maybe you wouldn’t be here, making bad decisions on what started as just another Monday in June. 

The fact is though, you didn’t leave, and you are here now. Facts are what matter. They count. Your hypothetical past, present, and future have no place in this reality because you can’t travel back or forward in time. Vampires may exist, and the Avengers time-traveled to save the world, but things aren’t quite as easy once you look at the bigger picture. You are not a superhero, you’re just a journalist chasing the kind of story that will finally make her voice be heard. 

You know that Ben Urich, at least, would be proud of you.

His address weighs heavy on the small card you pulled out of the envelope earlier that evening. You passed it on to the cab driver, and he began to navigate the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The luxury condominiums in this part of the city can be counted on one hand. You know exactly when you’re there. 

The sun has once again set over New York City. You’re wide awake, not quite sure though if you’re ready to face what you are walking blindly into. Even your driver refuses to take you past a certain point, and that is how you know that you’re not dreaming. This is real, and it’s supposed to be terrifying. 

How come you’re not scared then?

You slip twenty dollars to the cab driver, then climb out of the backseat. The salty air from the Hudson River a few blocks down wafts around your sensitive nose. In the distance, you can hear waves crashing into the docks as the wind picks up in speed. The boats must be moving wildly by now, swaying from side to side and possibly even making the fish in the depths of the water seasick. You would be if you were them. 

With every step, you grow closer to your target. On second thought, maybe you should have brought more than just a pathetic bottle of pepper spray and your precious laptop. You could have brought your grandfather’s cassette recorder, at least that would leave a mark if you hit someone over the head with it. 

Do vampires get concussions? That is another question you can add to the seemingly endless list in your mind. It’s a confusing place as of late, and the weird sense that someone is playing with the controls won’t leave you alone. Either you are overthinking, or you are worse off than you originally thought. 

The apartment complex the card directs you to stretches high above you. You look up, seeing not a single light on. That’s odd, you think, but then again, you are meeting with the city’s most notorious man. If he is who everyone says he is, and if the rumors are even true, that is. 

As you are about to approach the entrance, your fingertips start to burn. A gasp escapes past your lips. Staring down, the cubical piece of paper goes up in flames. You are mere feet from the door, nowhere near close to an open source of fire, and the card starts to burn like a wildfire. 

You pull back, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The ashes fall to the ground, but before they can hit the asphalt, they vanish.

“What the–” before you can finish, the doors before you swing open toward the inside. The lights turn on. Someone even has called the elevator for you. 

Another step forward, and a voice stops you. “Fourth floor, down the hallway, first door to your right,” the voice says through the speaker. Only then do you notice the lack of a doorbell. 

Everything in you is screaming for you to run, but you are rooted in the spot. He dragged you here with a mere letter, and you were more than ready to jump. Desperation was the only thing that drove you here. Your brain seems incapable of rational thought.

What if that is what he wanted all along? To get you complicit by playing on what you so desperately need, which is a story and a way out of this boring everyday life that is threatening to slowly kill you.

He’s like a siren, luring you into his deadly trap, but even knowing all of this, you still can’t find it in yourself to run. 

The second you enter the building, the door shuts behind you, and your only way out is officially locked. You made the decision; you have dug your own grave, possibly quite literally, and now you have to lie in it. It’s better to die chasing a good story than dying at a desk in an office that doesn’t respect you.

You are a disgrace, you can hear your father’s voice in the back of your mind. He always warned you not to be too reckless or your bad decisions will eventually catch up with you. He always taught you not to trust strangers, and to stay the hell away from those who disgrace God, but you have never cared much about being a good girl. 

Your thoughts are as morbid as your obsession with the walking undead. It is time you embrace what people are already saying about you.

The elevator ride feels like an eternity. It goes up and up and up until it finally stops on the fourth floor. The walls smell like nothing but a faint hint of bleach. It’s clean, parquette not carpet, and the walls are kept in a shade resembling a mixture between crimson and maroon, and it is blending into a sort of marble.

The metal doors slide open. Again, you hesitate. A sweet whisper echoes in your ear, dragging you toward the edge. You breach the border between the elevator and the hallway that waits behind it. The voice is distant, and it doesn’t sound human—it reminds you of a siren’s song, calling for you. He is calling for you, and a fog settles over your mind. You’re not in control anymore, he is. 

You imagine him to be an old man, possibly middle-aged. Vampires stop aging when they’re turned. Their mind doesn’t. You’ve read the research plenty. They are wise beings, more intelligent than human beings could ever fathom. That makes them dangerous. 

Their venom rivals the intoxicating feeling of heroin, you’ve heard, and it heightens your senses to the point all you can feel is the one who bit you. Research suggests it’s a million times stronger than an orgasm, for both the vampire and the human being. 

Part of you has always wanted to try it. Part of you wants to know what it feels like to be sucked dry. You want to know what it feels like to be carried into a new dimension by someone who knows how to play the human body like a fucking piano, eliciting the sweetest melody through your very essence and the symphony of your moans.  

This M—Daredevil—is inherently dangerous. He’s as mysterious as they come; a man in a mask lurking in the dark corners of Hell’s Kitchen every night, turning the fight for justice into his hunting ground. 

It’s as though he curled his fingers, and you followed. 

You walk the dark hallway down to the door on the right. Paintings litter the walls. Masterpieces, blotches of white, red, and color. You recognize the red marble as a decorative theme on the wallpaper. Tracing your fingers over it, the rough drywall scratches at your skin. 

You reach out a shaky hand toward the golden knob. Before you can turn it though, the door already flings open. It must be witchcraft. 

Red appears to be his favorite color. At least judging from the hallway, that is true. When you step into the room with a pounding heart and blood pooling in your cheeks though, the inside of the room is a lot more… human. You wouldn’t have guessed it from the gloominess surrounding you on your way there.

A leather couch and armchairs stand in the middle, facing toward the window front. Colored windows, as you have gathered from the rumors. They are see-through now though, showing the city skyline and the moon up high. The chandelier on the ceiling is the only piece of furniture you would consider old. Browns meet hues of blue and dark green, a forest at midnight, and you suck in a sharp breath. The apartment is beautiful. 

You look to your left and see a bookshelf stretching the length of the wall. You can’t help but run your hand over the backs. You would have expected original editions from the 18th or 19th century, but when your fingers trace over the bindings, you are met with the bulging of Braille underneath the elegant golden writing of the titles. None of them seem to have collected dust. It surprises you to only find a mere handful of classics that haven’t been transcribed in Braille and a realization you did not expect starts to crawl its way forward.

“I stole that one from a library in Paris.”

Your racing heart stops beating. The book you’ve been holding falls to the ground, its worn-out leather cracking further around the spine. The thud is deafening. You gasp, turning around. Your shoulders fly up as the tension ripples through every last muscle in your bone. Your bones ache just from how stiff you’re standing, but you can’t move.

The man before you moves as quietly as a mouse. You didn’t hear him coming. The moonlight reflects off his dark brown hair, making it appear almost ginger. He’s wearing a simple suit without a tie, and the white of his shirt is as pristine and clean as the cut of his beard. You can see chest hair poking out from underneath the two open buttons, as dark as the locks on his head. His jawline is irresistibly sharp, leading up to a pair of plump lips he is wrapping around the brim of a crystal glass filled with rum.

Your heart remains frozen. Not a single drop of blood pumps through your veins, yet your cheeks burn brighter than a bonfire on a pitch-black night. 

But his flawless appearance is not what catches your attention the most. Looking up into his eyes, wanting to know whether they are as red as those set into the devil’s mask, you find nothing but your terrified reflection staring back at you. It’s as blurry as the picture of your face in a still ocean’s water, your wide eyes staring back at yourself. 

The red glasses are all you can see. Round with a black rim. Silver would have looked better on him, or maybe even gold. The black reminds you of an endless pit, a sinister embrace of vampire stereotypes, but you can’t look away from the maroon that won’t allow you even a glimpse into his eyes. They are shielding him from the world, and his eyes from curious, stupid humans like you.

He nods toward the ground. “You gonna pick that up?” he asks. His voice reminds you of rumbling gravel. 

He looks like a man. He talks like a man. If you didn’t know better, you would say he is human. There seems to be blood in his cheeks and air in his lungs. 

You have to pull yourself together. Clearing your throat, you bend down and pick the book back up.

“Thank you,” he utters your name. “It’s been a while since I’ve received visitors that don’t work for me.”

You put the book back on the shelf. Your lips are sewn shut; you can’t find the words. Every time you open your mouth like a fish on dry land, you close it again, and it is embarrassing to be standing in front of him with your guard down. 

“Welcome to my home,” he says. You wish you could see his eyes to know if he’s mocking you. “Do you want a drink, or do you need another minute to process?”

He is mocking you. His tone is gentle, as is his voice, but he smirks like a smug motherfucker, and your anger boils to a tipping point. The candle is about to burn out. 

“I–” you stammer. Internally, you curse yourself for being such a fool. 

“Another minute it is then.”

You don’t need a minute though. “You’re blind,” you blurt out. 

The beautiful—deadly—stranger nods. “Yeah.“

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

“But you’re…” you leave the missing part of that sentence hanging in the air like a noose. 

“Say it,” he murmurs. You want to say it sounds like a growl, but you’re not sure. He isn’t asserting dominance or trying to force you into submission by scaring you away, but he is toying with you regardless. 

You take a deep breath. The word, the truth, numbers your tongue and your lips with its weight. “A vampire,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, matching his. 

His smirk broadens. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, then releases it as it darts out to wet his bottom lip. “I’m a blind vampire, yes,” he answers. “We’re rare, but we do exist.”

Blind vampires. In all of your years of fascination, that has never crossed your mind. You used to believe that they had healing abilities that far exceeded your own. You were wrong. He lost his eyesight before he got turned into a vampire. He lived as a blind human being and didn’t regain his most crucial sense when he died. 

He came back to life, but he died. It is surreal to stand across from him. He’s not just letters on a piece of paper, he is very much real. And he’s blind. 

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

That elicits a soft chuckle from him. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he says. 

“I was considering not to.” 

He sees right through you with those empty glasses. “That’s a lie.”

“How would you know?” you counter. 

“I can hear your heartbeat. The blood pumping in your veins…” His head tilts ever so slightly in your direction. You take a step back. It’s an instinct. “Your pulse picks up when you lie, or when you’re nervous, or both,” he states. “When you first saw me, your heart skipped a beat. It did again when you lied to me.”

Your eyes trail down to his thick thighs perfectly fitted in his tailored trousers. His thick digits pat the rhythm with his fingers on the fabric. Thud-thudthudthud-thud. You place a hand on your chest. He wasn’t wrong; your heart is racing. 

His smirk turns into a smile, but only briefly again. It’s a glimpse of humanity he doesn’t want you to see. “I like that sound,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you smell good? Sweet, sour, and a little salty. Natural. You don’t use a lot of artificial perfume, but you like cherry chapstick.”

You swallow, taking a whiff of your arm. Besides your deodorant masking the scent of your nervous sweat, you smell nothing. How good must his nose be? His hearing? His sense of taste? 

“Right now, sweat is dripping down your back, and your muscles are tense enough to strain against your bones every time you breathe. Your heart just skipped a beat again. You find it weird,” he muses. “I can’t turn it off, but I get it must be strange for you.” 

“You–” The blood has collected in your head, pushing the temperature in the room to an all-time high. “Get out of my body!” you snap. 

He laughs. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.”

“And I never thought you would ask for an audience with me, but here we are.”

“Here you are.” 

You want nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face. He looks so smug, standing there with his drink, wearing a suit too fancy for his own home. He’s fully in his element. It’s scary how alluring he is, too. You don’t want to think that way, but as soon as your eyes gaze upon him again, your chest contracts, and you forget how to breathe. 

He’s a wolf, and you’re a lonely little sheep that doesn’t know any better. That lonely little sheep just wants to be a part of something bigger, even if that means surrendering herself to the big bad wolf. He wants a taste of her, and the sheep would give him that in a heartbeat if he just asked. 

You blink. There is a voice in your head, and it isn’t your own. Far from it. You don’t want to be associated with this stranger. She thinks she knows you. She thinks she knows what you want—the sheep in the eyes of her natural enemy. This voice is the most irrational you could be, and you need to stop letting her win.

And yet you—not just the voice of the lonely sheep you appear to be—would follow this man anywhere, even to hell if he asked you to. 

Your eyes drill knives into his skull, but they are also full of curiosity. Can he hear your thoughts? Your heart beats in your throat. You can taste it on your tongue. If you bit your lip, you would bleed, and he would probably fall into a frenzy. Still, your teeth dig into your bottom lip. What if he can hear your thoughts—hear how fucking needy you are? You’re pathetic. What he must think of you, standing across from him, smaller than human life itself. 

You want to read him, but he is far from an open book. He’s not Braille you can run your fingers over, and even if he was, you don’t know how to read it. He’s an enigma. His face is set in stone; an iron mask you can’t penetrate. 

His chest heaves with another chuckle. He sets the crystal glass down on the coffee table, taking a step forward. “No, I can’t read your mind,” he says. 

You flinch. “What?”

“Your breathing pattern. The way you look at me. I can sense that you’re thinking about something.” He adjusts his glasses. “It’s just… Most humans ask me if I can read their minds, you know. I can’t. Some vampires can, but my senses are the only heightened ability I have.” This time, when he chuckles, a hint of bitterness dances in his voice. 

“At least you’re not in my head then,” you say. 

“No.”

“Good.”

A pregnant pause follows. You clutch your bag to your chest, your fingers digging into the frame of your hidden laptop. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, pointing to his empty glass.

You wave him off. That’s the last thing on your mind. “No, thank you.”

Sometimes at night, you fantasize about diving into the abyss of darkness. It looks and sounds a terrifying lot like him. You want to know him. You need to know him. When it comes to him and this—whatever this is—the lines between want and need are blurring into an unidentifiable mess. It’s an ocean of emotions with no land in sight. A total eclipse of the heart, if you will. You’re losing your mind.

“What you can do–” You straighten your shoulder, hoping it will add height to your beaten confidence. “You can tell me your name. Sir,” you say. 

He nods. “I suppose it would only be fair, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Matthew. My name’s Matthew.” The softness of his features as his lips move to the rhythm of his words takes you back anew. His eyebrows raise slightly, and you catch a glimpse of a pair of beautiful, unfocused hazel eyes that steal your breath away. 

Matthew. It is a name that easily rolls off the tongue. It suits him.

You repeat his name aloud. “That’s an odd name for a 200-something-year-old man,” you point out. 

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

You hit a sore spot. His head dips, fingers running over his nails and tongue tracing his teeth. “Not anymore,” he says.

God died for him a long time ago, and all churches burned down.

Your grip on your bag loosens. “Then why Daredevil?” you ask. 

His lips part. “I, uh, have the Bulletin to thank for that one. After centuries of existing in this world, and being despised for no matter what I do, I’ve decided to embrace it. I am Daredevil, not even God can stop that now.”

Matt grabs his glass, turning away from you. He doesn’t use a cane to navigate from the couch to the mini bar on the other end of the room. You carefully follow his movements. One of his hands remains at his side, snapping his fingers as he navigates the familiar terrain of his home. 

He uncaps a half-empty bottle of Whiskey to pour himself another glass. 

“You know, Matthew,” you prompt, daring to step forward an inch, “as big as your reputation is in this part of the city, Silver Lining is not the kind of magazine that would cover your story.”

“You still came,” he says. 

“I could lose my job if anyone knew I came here.”

“And yet you’re here and not where you should be.” He turns his head over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t risk losing your job if it wasn’t important to you, would you?”

You stammer, “I–” He’s got you. You’re a fish with a hook in her mouth. 

“If Silver Lining Magazine won’t cover my story, why are you here?” Matt turns back to you, leaning back against the shiny Mahagoni of his minibar. It offers a beautiful contrast to his strong physique and the slight paleness of his skin. “Could it be because you’re fascinated by the mythic?” he asks, teasing. “By werewolves and witches and vampires?”

It’s your turn to scoff. “I won’t confirm or deny. My boss wouldn’t let me write a vampire vigilante exposé even if I begged him to.”

“And that’s why Mr. Doherty doesn’t deserve you.” Your body visibly recoils when he pushes forward, moving just an inch toward you. “Your curiosity is a virtue,” he purrs. The moonlight sets your reflection in his glasses alight. 

“Is that why you lured me here?” you ask him. “Because my curiosity is a virtue and you consider yourself better than the people in my life?”

“I didn’t lure you here, and I think you know that. That’s not what this is.” The distance between you starts to shrink, backing you into a corner. “I believe you came here because the thought of interviewing a vampire and sharing your findings with the world on your account excites you,” he says. “You want to be heard. You want to be taken seriously as a journalist, and you want to make people happy.”

The only way for you to come out of this with your pride and dignity still intact is to put up walls before the already existent labyrinth of walls keeping your heart guarded and your soul safe. “Again,” you ask, “why me?”

“Why not you? As I stated in my letter, I’m a fan of your work.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, about that. How did you write that if you’re blind?”

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

“Of course.” Of course, he has a secretary. “I… I just don’t get it,” you say. “You’ve been hiding for so long–” 

Matt cuts you off with an urgency you didn’t expect, “Things have changed. Circumstances…” he trails off. 

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

His answer is silence. You let out an exasperated sigh. “If you want me to interview you, you have to be honest with me.”

“I’m not on the record yet.”

“Right. Maybe you can answer this though—off the record, of course—how can you be certain I didn’t call the cops or the FBI before I came here?”

His eyes crinkle. “I’m not stupid, sweetheart,” he says. 

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

He’s spreading you open, holding up a mirror for you to look into. It’s your miserable self in all its glory, and he knows you better than you know yourself. 

You ignore the sharp pain in your left ribcage as you pull the arrow out of your heart. “Unless someone holds up a sign that they are pro-vampirism, how would you even know I’d listen to you and not just refer you to the Journal of Psychiatry?” 

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in vampires?” Matt quips.

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

The sound of your heartbeat must sound almost like the rapid firing of a machine gun, that’s how fast your pulse is racing. Your veins threaten to burst with the excess blood. It’s a heat like no other. You’re a witch at the stake, and Matt is holding the torch to your gasoline-doused body. 

He clears his throat. Your face falls at the words that tumble out of his parted lips, and the rapid firing turns into a deafening silence and a monotone line on a heart monitor. 

“After what I’ve learned from reading Dr. Rice’s research on the phenomena of vampirism, I can confidently say this species is no different than an animal like the great white shark or the Homo sapiens sapiens—our kind,” he recites. “Vampires are a medium of fiction and propaganda to induce fear, but they are also a widely misunderstood species that is being silenced rather than heard. Our species, the human species, likes to consider themselves superior, even when we’re in a position of being someone’s natural food source. Dr. Rice’s research is based on a comprehensible set of facts, and isn’t that what we have been relying on ever since the beginning? Our psychology makes it possible for us to change the narrative in our favor, and more often than not, we ignore the very facts deemed by humans as an intellectual importance to spread the message of an entirely different agenda. Dr. Rice’s research only proves that egotism and humans themselves will be humankind's certain downfall.”

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

Your heart restarts with a rush of adrenaline. “How… how do you know all of this?”

“I may be blind,” Matt says, “but I know how to read between the lines.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The alcohol in his drink seems to have little effect on him. “I know you have questions, and I’m willing to answer them if you promise to publish a detailed report somewhere other than Silver Lining Magazine.”

You look down at your bag, then back at him. “Ben Urich could have told your story in a way that would’ve made people listen,” you murmur. “I don’t have an impressive career like him.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “but you could have easily written ‘Attack on NYC’. Ben was a good man, an even better journalist, but he could not have written your college essay. And he could never have been you.” 

Your name rolls off his tongue—not a pretentious nickname that makes you want to vomit but your name, and it flicks a switch within you. 

You glance around the spacious living, pulling your laptop out of its confines, and you bridge the distance between you, finally. You notice he smells of sandalwood cologne and scentless soap. “Okay,” you cave. “Where do you want me to set up?”

Session 1.

The spacebar clicks underneath the tip of your index finger. The white of your screen fills with a series of red sequences as the microphone takes in every little sound around you. Except for the two of you and the fading footsteps of one of Matthew’s assistants though, the world has fallen silent in the dead of the night. He’s sitting across from you, legs crossed, head tilted; your life is about to change.

“So, Mister Murdock,” you begin, “tell me. How long have you been dead?” 

His mouth opens in a wide grin. “242 years,” he answers. 

“And what happened the year you died?”

“Well, it was 1782. I was a good few years out of law school. I was a good lawyer, but I wasn’t successful. That year, I met a beautiful woman at a banquet. I wasn’t rich—trust me, I was beyond penniless—but she had been adopted into a wealthy family, and that made her one of the richest women in the room. Everyone wanted her, but when I sensed her across the hall, she only had eyes for me. And she was the first woman to not see me just because I was blind.” He chuckles sadly. “I thought she was the woman of my dreams, the love of my life, but a few weeks later, after letting her into my life, I realized that she didn’t look at me that night because she was interested. She was hunting me. El— Miss Elektra Natchios…”

The year 1782 becomes apparent before your inner eye. As he tells you about the night he met her, you can see the dark-haired beauty making her way across the ballroom. Red lips and a gown to die for. Her dark eyes were full of mischief, but the passion in them could have knocked a grown man off of his feet. And that is just what she did to poor Matthew. 

“I was going to marry her,” he tells you.

He went to church regularly. His knees were bloody from praying, his senses already heightened before he died. God’s soldier, that is how he puts it. He was told that the accident that left him blind happened for a reason, and he had to fight a war that went beyond the country’s fight for independence. 

That summer, Elektra drained him. He didn’t know what she was. She fooled him. He was obsessed with her. Her dark eyes he couldn’t see lured her in, and it was the venom in her blood that became his downfall after she dug her teeth into him.

Matt tried to beg his priest for forgiveness, but he didn’t even make it past the marble stairs before the doors locked. He knelt in a pool of blood—both his and that of the first human he ever sucked dry to survive as a newborn vampire—offering an eternal sacrifice to Catholicism, but God abandoned him on his doorstep. 

The church walls would have been set on fire if he had touched them from the inside. 

You look up from your notepad to find him now standing at the window. He’s not looking out, of course, but he seems so deep in thought, the memories that aren’t your own but his start to dissipate, and you’re brought back to the here and now.

Matt poured his heart out to you. You expected answers, but not this kind, and certainly not of this magnitude. You see him in an entirely different light. He’s vulnerable, fragile, and human. He has endured trauma that killed him, but he couldn’t die because the woman he loved made him immortal. It’s a bigger curse than growing up with the belief that an accident made you God’s soldier. 

He lost everything. For centuries, he has had to live with that. It’s killing you, feeling his pain, the pure agony that radiates off him. 

Your voice is quiet when you ask him, “What was it like?” You don’t have to say it out loud for him to know what you are referencing.

Matt chuckles, the sound a mere breath in the atmosphere. “Like she took my soul from my body, setting fire to my belief system and already heightened senses,” he says. 

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

“It was. Is. My heart stopped, but when that happened, something else awoke inside me. The hunger… the hunger was the worst part. It’s insatiable. One hour passes, and you feel like you’ve been starving for weeks.”

“Like you’ve been possessed by a demon?”

“Like I am the demon.”

“But you’re not.” You should stop the recording. You’re not on track; you’re incorporating your feelings into Matt’s story, but you can’t help it. The words tumble out of your mouth without a second thought, a train that cannot be stopped. 

He raises his eyebrows, you can see it in his reflection in the windows. “Are you religious?” he asks.

You shake your head. “This isn’t about me.”

“Are you?”

The veins on the back of his hands bulge as he balls them to fists at his sides. Your throat is a desert, and your heartbeat resembles a storm that burns right through it, sending the sand flying in all directions of the horizon.

You adjust in your seat, crossing one leg over the other. He takes a whiff. He’s smelling you, and that doesn’t help the speed of your pulse to calm down. 

Tapping your pen on your notepad, you watch the red sequences fill the white space of the recording program. It moves with the sound of your voice when you finally dare to answer. “It’s a complicated question because there is a difference between believing in God and believing in the church,” you say.

“Do you believe in God then?” Matt asks. It’s as though he’s trying not to seethe at the mere mention of someone he used to worship. You make a note of that.

“There is so much bad in this world. So much cruelty. I can’t…” You take a deep breath. “I don’t know how to believe in a God that would let the things humans do to each other happen. If God existed—if he was as merciful as Christians like to claim, he wouldn’t let this happen. And I’m so sick and tired of people using their faith, and their beliefs in God and the church as justification to be disrespectful. I don’t understand it. How can anyone? Why is someone who has to drink blood to stay alive—someone who didn’t even choose this life—worth less and the devil’s breed when humans do worse things to each other? Why would God allow us to start wars that kill innocent people? Children? It’s just not fair that we treat ourselves and others as though we are already in hell, and we’re just supposed to accept that God doesn’t care—” You stop yourself, the tears burning behind your eyes. 

Matt turns back around. You can’t look away. “When I was still human,” he murmurs, “I used to believe everything that happened to me was God’s will. The accident, God’s will. Me going blind, God’s will. I went to confession, prayed until my knees were bloody and bruised. I tried convincing myself that every scream I heard from down the block, every person who lost their life or their innocence was my responsibility. God made me this way for a reason, right?” The scoff is as bitter as the liquor in his glass. “I fell apart, you know. I was a kid, so I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand what was happening to me,” he tells you. 

You hold your breath. The glasses slip from his eyes as he takes them off with shaky fingers. You are met with the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes. Emotions dance a heated tango in a tornado. If you look closer, the green specks bring life to his eyes. It’s human nature in the purest sense of the word. 

Your reflection stands in his irises, his unmoving pupils, and the tears glisten in his eyes. They’re as red as blood, watered-down crimson essence. You want to reach out and stroke his cheek, but that would be crossing a very big line that you can’t bring yourself up to touch. 

“I studied law because I thought it would change something,” he continues. You listen. It’s the only thing you can do—listen. “It wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever did felt like it was enough. I lost my father. Jack. I didn’t know my mother until it was too late. Maggie. I had no one. No money, no prospects, just me and those voices in my head, telling me I was supposed to be God’s soldier.”

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

He shakes his head. “I prayed; I crawled up the stairs of the church, and I spent hours repenting for my sins. I bled myself dry for Him. I sacrificed myself. I sacrificed my youth, my heart, and my soul, and I got nothing back. I begged for help until my voice was sore, but nothing… God, nothing was ever good enough. Until Elektra came around,” he says. 

“She changed everything for you. It makes sense. She turned you into a vampire, but she also loved you.”

“She did love me, in her own twisted way.”

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

He isn’t yours, but the pang you feel in your chest is treacherous. Your heart cracks like a porcelain vase, jealousy creeping in like a parasite of toxic waste.

In response, Matt only chuckles bitterly. “She made me believe again, then took my soul and crushed it in her hand.” The correction makes your shoulders slump. “Instead of feeling like my world ended though, I felt at peace when she sucked the blood out of my veins and fed me her venom,” he says. “It’s sick, I know. I was aware I died that night, that she turned me into a devil who could only survive if he drank the blood of others. The Catholic in me struggled to accept it, but I had no choice but to embrace what she made me.”

“And where is she now?” you ask.

“Gone.” The light in his eyes has fully disappeared now. “I stayed with her for a while until she died in my arms. She showed me what love is, and she showed me heartbreak. She made me hungry for blood, awakening the devil I’ve been trying to tame. She taught me how to feed, how to hunt, and how to chase. But she also cursed me,” he says. “I only exist for myself now. I only bleed for myself. No God, no church, and no more religion. I’m not Jesus, I’m Judas, and I retired the cross the day I was crucified.”

You have run out of questions to ask. Too overwhelming is the sight of his walls crumbling down, this stranger you now know better than any living being seems to. You no longer see money in this, or a story to chase, you only see Matthew, and the halo above his head he still believes is a pair of horns. The world broke him. His faith in God broke him. It crushed him, and he lost everything. How broken he must be. 

“Not such a pretty story when I say it out loud, huh?” He scoffs.

The spacebar clicks again. The recording comes to a sudden halt. One hour and fifty-eight minutes, the first session of your interview with the vampire. You need to put a halt to it now because what you are about to say or do as you reach your hand out to brush his cold, dead skin is not something that should be found on a record. And you won’t ever tell.

Matt pulls away when your warm fingertips brush his. You’re standing across from him now, so close he can smell, hear, and feel all of you at once.

Your touch is the holy water that burns his skin, but the fire sustains him and shoots straight to his core the same way the blood rushes to yours.

“It’s not a pretty story, no,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “but it did tell me what I already knew.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“That you’re not evil. You’re not the Devil. You’re misunderstood. You’ve been beaten; you’ve been abandoned, hurt, and broken. That doesn’t make you a monster. Trying to make this city a better place does not make you a monster.”

“If you only knew the things I’ve done…”

“I know the rumors suggest that you were the one who fought Wilson Fisk and got this city back where it needed to be. You’ve saved countless women from the worst of fates. You are the reason the innocent people of Hell’s Kitchen feel safe. By picking up that mask, you became a hero, not a villain, and that is the story I want to tell.”

In lightspeed, he has moved you from the window to the other end of the room. Your back hits the wall. 

Matt towers over you in all of his intimidating glory. His eyes spark red, but you hold his unfocused gaze. He has such beautiful eyes. This pull between you is far from human; it’s unhealthy, and it is exactly where he wanted to get you. You’re trapped, pinned underneath him like a deer caught in headlights. 

Exhaling, your breath strokes his cheeks. He closes his eyes, savoring the taste of you. Every particle in the air, he inhales. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Oh, what you wouldn’t do to suck that tongue into your mouth. 

Your pheromones play his head like a puppeteer pulling the strings of his marionette. He growls. “Do you have any idea how dangerous I am?” 

The moonlight catches his sparkling white teeth. This time though, you come face to face with the sharp edges of his previously concealed fangs. Your jaw drops open. He’s ethereal. 

“I could snap your neck—” Matt places his hand on your neck, “I could make that heart stop beating, take the air from your lungs. I could eat you…” He traces the vein in your throat from your jaw to your collarbone. “I could bite you and suck your blood until you’re empty. I could kill you, sweetheart. My kind is your natural enemy. You shouldn’t be here.”

You shudder. His nose brushes the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s so close you can smell him. On inhale, and his scent consumes your senses. He is all you can feel now. You reach out to hold onto his arms, his muscles tensing under your teeth. He’s big and strong, and those hands have a mind of their own as they begin to wander but never where you need him most. 

You shouldn’t be here, yet you came. He asked you to him, and you complied. Is this your fate now? Chasing after your big bad wolf like the helpless sheep that you are?

Your walls clench around an agonizing emptiness, your swollen clit brushing against your soaked underwear. Whatever he is doing to you, it’s the cruelest form of torture. 

A strangled noise breaks out of the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest. “You have no idea how badly I want to taste you,” he breathes. 

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

Your tone shatters him. When he kisses you, finally, fireworks explode in the universe around you. All the stars seem to finally align. Your heart opens, and it sucks him right into you. Your soul yearns for him. He’s so close yet so far away. 

The moon stands between you, but you cross even that ocean as you push against him, forcing your tongue into his mouth. He takes like heaven and hell; he’s the apple Eve bit into and cursed her for all eternity. But he’s also the snake, the one who compelled you to take this journey of bad decisions and jump right off the cliff’s edge. You melt into him like a broken candle. 

He pulls away. Those fangs are alluring, as sharp as a knife’s tip. You want to know what it would feel like gracing your skin, digging into your as he thrusts his cock into your tight cunt. The thought alone sends your mind into a spiral.

Your lips are swollen, but he has yet to draw blood. Matt looks as though he wouldn’t dare, his eyes darting around in a darkened conflict he feels might cost him more than your dignity. You are begging for it, as is your body, but he’s holding himself back. He’s the one who tied himself to an invisible pillar, keeping his hands locked behind his back. But that is not the Matt you want. 

You lean your head to the side, exposing the length of his neck. All control has slipped from your fingers. It’s in his hands now—you are. He cups your head gently. A mere few inches lie between your fountain and his lips.

You press a kiss to his calloused palm—a desperate and needy kiss, tracing your tongue over the lines that tell his life’s story in a way no interview can retell—and it is then he is forever done for. He’s doomed, and you are the second woman to pull him under the pits of hell. 

Saliva drips from his fangs. You hold your breath. He hisses, a weak admission of surrender; the words die miserably on your tongue when his lips close around your pulse point with all his might, and his teeth drive home. 

You moan aloud. Your fingers tangle in his hair, forcing him deeper as he sucks the dark red essence out of your vein. The sensation is more than you bargained for. It’s a drug that wrecks your system. The synapses in your brain backfire with all their might, and what follows the initial explosion of pleasure shooting white hot through your being is complete and utter silence as this God of a man feeds on you. 

The invisible string between you glows a bright crimson. It slings around you, tying you together like the roots of a tree. It’s an eternal sacrifice. You are giving your all to him, the very core of your existence that is now flowing into his mouth. You swear you can hear his thoughts mingle with yours. Yes, more, please. You taste so good. Your knees buckle, but you remain standing strong. He makes sure you don’t fall. Don’t slip away from me. I need you. 

A tear rolls down your cheek. You could sob. It feels so good—too good to be true. In that moment, you become one. There is no telling where one begins and the other ends. The coil in your stomach tightens, and the only pain you feel is the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you. He’s taking everything as you give him everything, but it is not enough. It has never been enough. 

When your body struggles to catch up with the lack of blood, he pulls away. His fangs drag out of your neck agonizingly slowly. You whimper at the sudden loss.

Matt catches you as you stumble into his arms. “You okay?” He cradles your face, brushing the hair out of your face. Your blood stains his lips. Blinking up at him, the force of your metaphysical connection slaps you awake. 

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

He pokes the tip of his index finger with the sharp edge of one tooth, sliding it over the two holes that are pulsating with the work of your heartbeat.

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

“No,” you say. “You did exactly what you should have.”

“I couldn’t stop.”

“But you did.” You wipe the blood from his mouth. “And I felt you. I only felt you.”

The living room passes by you. Before you know it, your back lands on something much softer than a concrete wall. He’s not a monster, that one, but he surely is an animal. 

You taste your blood on Matt’s luscious lips as he devours your tongue. It tastes of copper and a little bitter, but that is what makes him moan. That sound is the last thing you could ever grow tired of. 

His palm rests on your chest. Your heart pounds against his palm. “You’re so alive,” he says.

You cradle his face in your hands. “And you’re more human than you think.”

If he wanted to pull your heart out and hold it, you would let him in a heartbeat. 

He leans you back. He strips you bare. He kisses down your body like you are a fucking masterpiece for him to explore. That is how he sees you. 

Your head falls back. The kisses wander from your hips to the inside of your thighs. Every kiss brings his breath closer to your center. Matt pulls them apart. He opens you up to him. Your scent clouds his senses, and he groans, but he doesn’t touch. 

His fangs graze your skin. “Mine,” he growls. 

You gasp. He bites into the sensitive flesh. Hard, passionately. Your legs wrap around his head, trapping him there. He sucks, and he sucks, and he drinks, and the wetness pools out of your cunt in an obscene amount. This is foreplay to him. It drives you toward the edge leading to an abyss you are afraid you might never be able to crawl back out of. There is no bottom, it is just a pit, and he’s pushing you closer and closer, and—

Your back arches, but he pulls away before the coil can snap into a million butterflies. He pries your legs away from his head, spreading them further on the mattress, as far apart as they will go. 

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner have been served on a silver platter. He breathes in. The scent of your soaked pussy sticks to the hairs in his nose. It isn’t enough. He breathes in again, your arousal sweeter than fiction. You’re everything and more. He wants to taste that part of you more than anything, suck up the slick that is soaking the sheets—and you didn’t even think that was possible—but he waits because he needs to savor it. He doesn’t want it to be over too soon. neither for him nor for you. 

The blood is still dripping from his tongue and his fangs, and the raw inside of your thigh. He runs his finger through it. The sting runs from the wound to your folds, then back down. Still, he doesn’t touch. He plays with the blood, sucking on his fingers until they’re clean, and then he dives back in for a taste. He doesn’t bite, he kisses and sucks, but he doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t hurt you. 

You’re his saving grace; he has to worship you. Pain only has a place in pleasure. 

“Matthew,” you moan. 

He chuckles, kissing where his fangs left deep indentations. “No one will ever touch you again,” he purrs. “I’ll make sure of that.” 

You try to protest, but the words die on your tongue when he leans in, capturing your clit with his hungry mouth. The wound on your thigh closes. The blood from his lips mixes with your juices, and you cry out at the intensity of it all. 

He eats you with the ferocity of a man starved for weeks. He eats your pussy like he ate your blood, savoring every drop but still feasting for the taste to spread out in his mouth like wildfire. Sour, sweet, and copper. He sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth. His tongue drags through your folds, up and down, and then the tip slides inside, tasting your walls. He grows bolder as your moans accelerate. 

Matt cradles your thighs. He forces your hips back down to the mattress, stronger than the average human man. You have to endure his beard scratching and burning, and the pace he has set.

The orgasm creeps up on you. Before you know it, he has plunged his tongue into you, and your body convulses around him. You scream into a pillow as you come. 

You are each other’s forbidden fruit. No prayer in the world could keep you apart. 

Faintly, you can hear him say, “Good girl.” Your legs quiver. He pulls away, then comes right back like a boomerang. 

He’s warm now. He was cold before, but when he kisses you this time, he’s warm. He’s hot. You run your hands over his bare chest, the scars that lie under the dark strands of hair. You tug at it, and he moans. You can tell he is a little insecure, but by pressing your lips to one of the cuts on his shoulder, he relaxes. 

What he must have endured, what he must have lived through before he died and was resurrected in the same breath, just without a beating heart—you don’t want to think about it or you will break, but you can still feel him through the crimson tie that holds you together, and you know that he has suffered enough for more than two lifetimes. You wish you could take it all away from him. You wish you could have saved him before it was too late, loved him more than the woman who turned him, but turning back time is an impossibility. You are both acutely aware of that. 

“Hey.” Matt tilts your head toward him. “Where did you just go?” he asks. 

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

You. His salvation. He kisses you, softly this time. He pours gratitude into his lips and bleeds them out in poetry as they slide into your mouth, and you swallow every last drop. 

If someone had told you a week ago where you would see yourself on that particular Monday, you would have laughed at them. And if someone had told you a week ago that you would be making love to the devil, you would have called them crazy. But it’s happening. 

He thrusts into you without a warning. His thick cock fills you like nothing and no one ever has before. Your cunt has been molded to fit him, you’re sure. You take him in, and you moan at the stretch. It’s a pain so delicious you could fall apart right then and there just from the feel of him inside you. 

Every thrust drags the tip of his cock along your sweet spot. Every added sensation drives you closer to your death. 

Your body tingles. He explores your face with his lips rather than his fingers, moving to your neck again. You cling to him, oh-so-desperate for him. He likes you like that, and you like him like that. 

“You’re fucking with my head,” he tells you. “Offering your pussy to a vampire. Letting me drink your blood. Begging me to fuck you. You’re in my head, baby. Can’t get you out of my system. Fuck.”

You are his downfall, his salvation, but he is all of those things to you as well—all of those things and more. If he could read your mind, you would tell him that. Words can’t do justice to how you feel. Not right now, maybe not ever. 

“Bite me again,” you beg.

His thrusts falter. He searches your body for any sign of regret. His fangs come out, and he buries them deep in your jugular vein. The floodgates open wide. Your walls clench around his cock, your clit pulsates, and the wave crashes into you. 

You come as he devours your neck and your blood. You transcend into another dimension, far away from everything and everyone but never him. Never Matthew.

The sensation of you wraps around him like a weighted blanket. His balls tighten, your blood unfolding its taste on his tongue. You are all over him, inside of him, everywhere at once. He falls head-first, dragging you down with him. 

He comes with a shout that is only muffled through his teeth buried in your flesh, his cum spurting into you and filling your cunt to the brim. Your eyes roll back. You’re flying and falling all at once. 

Oh, how good it feels to be consumed by him. To be fucked and sucked dry. You would have never expected this to come out of your week, let alone your life, but now that it has happened, you are floating on cloud nine. 

Dizziness threatens to take over, but before you can pass out, he forces himself away, allowing your heart to catch up with the lack of blood in your system. He collapses on top of you. His cock softens, but he stays inside. You need him there. You want him there. And that is the only place he wants to rest tonight. 

He heals the wounds on your neck. “You have a mark,” Matt rasps, tracing your skin with his finger. 

You choke out, “Yours.”

“Yes, you are.” He kisses you there. Once, twice, even a third time. “Mine,” he says.

You’re his. He’s yours. It doesn’t get any better than this. 

The minutes tick away on the obnoxious clock on the wall. Matt pulls out eventually, wrapping you up in a blanket. He coaxes you to drink, but you’re barely lucid. Only when he begins to stroke your hair you start coming back to yourself. You thought you might regret it, but as you look at him, his almost guilty eyes staring back at you, all you can do is reach out for him. 

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

He chuckles and retorts, “Have I not scared you away?” There is some truth to it though.

He’s covered in your blood. It sticks to his lips, his hands, and his chest. It’s sickeningly intimate, in a way.

You shake your head in response. “You could not possibly.”

He listens to your heartbeat. You’re as honest as they come. 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Session two tomorrow then.”

That night, you fell in love with the Devil, but he also fell in love with you, his angel in the form of a reckless journalist, and the only blood he ever wants to taste again until the end of his miserable, cursed days. 

Matt Murdock (Smut) Tag List: @shouldbestudying41 @theradioactivespidergwen @cheshirecat484 @1988-fiend @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-girl-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife

[ardentprose]

the day matt murdock became devout

Type: angst, no relationships, young!matt murdock

Length: 1.5k~ | 6 min

Warnings: grief; mourning; mention of bullying; religious subjects; mention of blood and injuries; depression

Feel free to message me if a necessary warning isn’t mentioned.

Summary: A short scene exploring the time shortly after nine-year-old Matt Murdock loses his father.

Read on AO3

A/N: (I am still figuring out how to format these...) So this one was written after a downward spiral of emotion. I wrote it in one sitting and lightly edited it, but it's not beta read. I'm not Catholic, so forgive me if anything is amiss. However, I was raised in a religious background and this draws inspiration from that.

This is the song that inspired the work and which I kept on repeat while writing, if any are interested.

__________

Nine years old is too young to know the taste of blood.

It smells like acrid dust that burns the throat.

It smells of rain and rotting wood and moth balls.

It smells of claustrophobic velvet.

Matt doesn’t know where he is. All he knows is he ran with hands outstretched, stumbling into walls and corners until he found a closet deep in the recesses of the church.

It’s dark. It’s quiet. It’s safe. For now.

Sobbing until he chokes on the blood running into his mouth and spewing from his lips. Salt and iron.

Dust. Cobwebs. He knows there are spiders in the corner above his head. He doesn’t know why but he knows they are there, on webs that thrum like pricked violin strings.

Loneliness, like a dagger, tears with every inhale. It deepens the black gash of loss that has bled into the cavity of his chest for weeks now. His ribcage thunders against his heartbeat. His veins strain with agony.

Matt falls to his knees in scuffed jeans. He swallows, grasping at oxygen before the next round of grief wracks his body.

He’s scared.

He’s alone.

Alone.

So very al-

May we sing.

Together.

Always.

Matt huffs, trying to stop the momentum of soft cries tumbling from his lips. His panic stops only because his curiosity outweighs it. He tilts his head, his ears ringing with voices.

May our voice be soft.

Soprano. Alto. Tenor. Bass.

A choir.

Angels.

May our singing be music for others

And may it keep others aloft.

Matt sucks in a sharp breath, determined to stop crying so loud so he could hear. It wasn’t that the choir was distant, it was that his body was too close. He could hear everything, from his heart, to his blood, to his organs convulsing and squelching and it was scary. He was so scared.

He wanted a hug. But his father was gone.

He has no mother.

He has no one.

A wail tempers at his mouth, threatening to spill, but he bites his lip until it stings. Matt bows his head, screwing his eyes shut and holding his breath so he could hear better.

Sing,

Sing gently,

Always.

Sing,

Sing as one.

He releases his breath slowly. His body shudders.

May we stand together,

Always.

May our voice be strong.

The voices blend together as they carry to the ceilings of the cathedral and echo throughout the church. Matt can picture it. He can sense it. His eyes flit back and forth, chasing fiery impressions behind his eyelids as they continually morph into different shapes.

He rests his forehead on his crossed forearms, bowed into a shivering ball on the ground. His cries become ragged whispers.

The voices rise once more and caress his senses. They lull him into a state of temporary stability. Nowhere near alright, but just enough to be fascinated.

To be transfixed. To have a shred of comfort.

Guilt flashes across Matt’s chest. Maybe he shouldn’t be eavesdropping. He shouldn’t be here, hiding from Sister Maggie and the other nuns. He’s going to get in so much trouble if he doesn’t show up for dinner.

But he can’t bear to leave the four walls he’s cowered in, listening to the choral melodies reverberate around him. It feels like a cocoon. Like a safe haven.

May we hear the singing and

May we always sing along.

Fresh, hot tears pour from Matt’s obscured eyes. Peace, or at least a semblance of it, takes the tension from his shoulders. He presses into the floor, now sobbing for a completely different reason.

Now he cries for the beautiful music soothing his heart. He cries for the comfort he’s longed for since everything changed for the worst. He cries for the choir with their sacred voices singing for a divine love towards heaven and one another.

How badly he wants to be apart of it all. To not be alone anymore.

He hugs himself tighter and tries to remember his father’s scarred hands on his stomach and back.

No one hugs here. Not law enforcement, social services, or reporters. He’s too old for the nuns to give him more than a reluctant pat on the back, pushing him towards his next activity on the itinerary.

For one sacred second, here in this closet, Matt Murdock feels comforted, held, and loved. Through their voices alone, Matt feels the presence of God wrapped around him.

If the church was the bride of Christ, then maybe it could be his mother as well. Embrace him with the maternal affection he will never experience in the flesh.

_____

Matt jolts awake, startled at first.

Why is it so dark? Where is he? Where did the voices go? Did he fall asleep and for how long because it’s so dark and- oh.

Right.

His heartbeat settles as he remembers everything. Then his brow crumbles, threatening to repeat the entire process of the previous moment.

A firm hand squeezes his shoulder.

“Matthew? Matthew Murdock?”

A low, soft voice. Father Lantom. He recognizes that quiet authority from mass.

Matt is half asleep, eyes swollen and aggravated. His temples pulse with the start of a migraine. His lips are puffy from being chewed on, drool and spit and blood crusting on his round cheeks. He flushes with embarrassment at how he must look in front of the priest.

“Son, what are you doing in here?” He’s in huge trouble now.

How can he explain to the priest that he wasn’t trying to disobey? He just needed to-

He only wanted to…

Hide.

He doesn’t remember how it started. Only that the other boys made fun of his father for losing a match and that he must not have been that good. Jack Murdock was probably so embarrassed he killed himself and then, Matt’s hands were flying out in wild directions until they struck someone. Then he was shoved. Kicked. And a fist flew into his nose.

The sound of his cartilage crunching and the blood bursting from between his skin cells terrified him more than the pain of being beat up by three other boys. Somehow he crawled far enough away to scramble to his feet.

Their laughter and feet were loud and so he ran. He ran, collecting more bruises on his knees, face and feet as he kept slamming into things, unaware of his surroundings and too terrified to orient himself.

Then he found the closet. The choir. God’s divine bride cradling him in heavenly voices.

“I…” Matt shuffles into a sitting position, still half-coherent. He felt drunk on the music and now that it had stopped, he felt the stark emptiness that was quickly taking over his whole life and becoming a constant companion.

Father Lantom hums and Matt can feel he’s being stared at.

“Never mind it. You’ve made quite the mess. Let’s get you outta here and cleaned up. We’ll have you back to the nuns before anyone’s the wiser.”

“Sir? I-I mean Father…” Matt is confused by the lack of punishment. He’s trying to sort through why he can hear Father Lantom’s skin stretch into a smile and further away, hear the sound of churchgoers arriving in the sanctuary. Footsteps and coats and soft greetings.

“Unless you have something to confess?”

“What?” Now, Matt’s truly confused. Did the boys lie to the nuns? Well, Matt did instigate it…but it was in self-defense so technically speaking-

“Matthew, you’re sitting on the floor of the confessional and by the look of that guilty face, something awful is weighing on your conscience. It’s enough that you’ve made quite the mess in here and those blood stains won’t come out that carpet for a good while. Now, either tell me what’s on your mind or let’s clean you up.”

“Oh…sorry.” Matt sniffs. He runs the back of his arm across his face, unbeknownst to him, smearing the snot and blood garishly across his young face.

Father Lantom sighs. He stands up, then offers his hand. “Up you go, Matthew.”

Matt accepts the hand that pulls him to his feet as if he weighs nothing.

Father Lantom clamps down on Matt’s shoulder and Matt expects him to turn his small body in the direction of the nearest bathroom to clean up.

Matt nearly twists his ankle as Father Lantom pulls Matt into his chest instead. Matt finds his face buried in the priest’s shirt, buttons pressing into his cheek. The priest hunches slightly to wrap both arms around the young boy.   

Hugging him.

Matt’s lips tremble, but he couldn’t face anyone if he cried again. Besides, he was too exhausted. Everything hurt.

Father Lantom pulls back, keeping his arm across the young boy’s shoulders. Matt turns his face up at him, waiting for some explanation.

“You just looked like you could use it.” Father Lantom smiles. Then, satisfied with his appraisal, Father Lantom turns Matt’s stance the opposite direction and begins to walk with him towards the back exit, towards the orphanage.

“Now, we’ll keep this a secret between us. Priestly confidentiality and all that. I’ll tell Sister Susan a wild rat got into the booth and I had to do what I had to do.”

Matt snorts. Pain flares up his nose, across his face and to his temples.

But he keeps smiling. Bloody face and all.

[bellaxgiornata]

Falling For the Devil [Part twenty-four: "The Devil and the Baker"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: You, Karen, and Marci go Halloween costume shopping. Days later, the three of you meet Matt and Foggy at the bar for Halloween.

Or

Matt uses his hands to figure out what your costume is–-or an excuse to feel you up. Then you both spend a very sexually tense evening at the bar in a dangerous game of secret public foreplay.

[Series of one-shots about Reader meeting, falling for, and dating Matt Murdock.]

Warnings: 18+ for this series; contains humor, fluff, romance, angst, smut (like...a lot of it later in the series), language, some violence

Word Count: 4.7k

a/n: This installment actually has a naughty part two smupdate called "The Leather Couch" to look forward to afterwards. But there's lots of Spicy Matty in this one! You can find all of the installments for this series on tumblr here.

“What did you say you and Foggy were going as?” Karen asked Marci.

Your eyes scanned the rows of women’s Halloween costumes the three of you were standing before, spotting everything from witches and clowns to sexy maids and cats. You still weren’t entirely sure what you were going to dress up as and Matt had been adamant about not sharing his costume with you. The plethora of choices surrounding you wasn’t helping, either.

"Sexy cop and criminal," Marci answered, standing in front of the handful of various sexy cop costume variations. "I entirely plan to handcuff him to our bed in that little orange jumpsuit and have my way with him later."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from you," you muttered, eyes still scanning the rows of costumes. "What're you thinking of dressing as, Karen? I'm entirely lost here."

Karen sighed beside you, her shoulders sagging with the exhale. "I don't know," she replied. "I was already a skeleton last year. I just don't really feel like putting much thought into a costume when I'm only going to get drunk at a bar, you know?" Her hand reached out, grabbing onto one of the packages before the pair of you. "I don't know, maybe a pirate?" 

“Yeah, you need something a little fiery,” Marci said, apparently finally deciding on one of the many cop costumes before her and pulling it off the rack. 

You paused in front of a costume, a large smile stretching across your face. Grabbing it, you turned and held it out to Karen. “Sexy viking,” you told her. “Totally you.”

Marci’s face lit up as she stepped over, throwing an arm on Karen’s shoulder excitedly. “Yes! It’s badass and totally hot.”

A small grin was on Karen’s face as she accepted the package from your hand, scanning the image on the front of it. “You two sure I can pull this off?” she asked hesitantly.

“With your legs in that little skirt?” Marci asked her. “Uh, yeah. Most definitely.”

Karen shot you a questioning look, one brow raised. You nodded instantly at her.

“That faux suede bralette thing is screaming your name,” you told her.

“Alright, alright, you’ve both convinced me,” she relented. “I’ll be a sexy viking this year.”

Marci’s mischievous gaze landed on you next, a devious smile on her mouth. “We need to find you something sexy for a certain Mr. Murdock,” she purred.

“Oh,” you said hesitantly, “I don’t know if I was going to necessarily go for sexy…”

“Oh come on, live a little!” Marci cried out. “I’m sure Matt would love touching all of that exposed skin all night.”

Karen held up the package with the viking costume, flashing you the image of the skimpily clad woman on it. “If I’m being something sexy, so are you,” she pressed.

With a sigh you gave in. “Fine,” you conceded, quickly holding up a finger and adding, “but nothing too revealing, okay?” 

Marci grinned, turning and grabbing a costume off of the rack and showing it to you. Your eyes went wide before you immediately shook your head.

“Absolutely not!” you declined as Karen giggled.

“What? You don’t want to see just how much of a good Catholic boy he is?” Marci teased, waving the sexy nun costume at you.

“Uh, his mom’s a nun? Kinda weird right there,” you told her, entirely vetoing the idea.

“Ohh, how about a sexy nurse?” Karen suggested, grabbing the costume and showing it to you, waggling her eyebrows meaningfully. “Maybe he needs you to patch him up later?”

You blushed, the idea sounding a little tempting. He would find it amusing and you were sure he’d make some sexual comment to you later–that alone made the idea even more tempting.

“Maybe,” you whispered. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Oh!” Marci exclaimed, grabbing a costume off the rack and holding it out to you. “Sexy judge! You could do some real fun roleplaying with that later, if you know what I mean,” she said, shooting you a sly wink.

And like hell if that also didn’t sound like fun.

“ No ,” Karen breathed out, her hand flying up and grabbing a package from further down the rack, whirling around to you with a knowing smile on her face. “This one.”

You bit your lip, fighting back the smile that was growing on your face as you eyed it. Marci gasped, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“Now that is one way to find out just how good of a Catholic boy he is,” Marci teased. "And you'd look hot as hell in it."

You grabbed the sexy devil costume from Karen; it was certainly not something you’d have normally picked for yourself. It was a short red pleather corset-style dress where the bottom flared out and wasn’t so form fitting that you'd feel too self-conscious all night. Though it looked like it would just barely cover your ass. There was a devil’s tail attached to the back of the dress and a headband with some devil horns. But the sexiest part of it was probably the thigh-high red fishnet garter socks. And like hell if you weren’t getting some ideas about Halloween night with Matt after the bar just looking at this costume.

And on top of that, it felt a little like openly claiming The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen as yours. He was always your Devil, but for Halloween night you could be his devil. And you were sure he’d appreciate that sentiment.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing up at Karen with a grin. “This is definitely my costume.”

_________

Sliding out of the backseat of the taxi behind Karen, you tried hard to not flash anything underneath your costume. The pleather skirt truly did only just cover your ass, which would be dangerous if you had any reason to bend over tonight. Or if you fell in the three inch heels Marci and Karen had somehow convinced you to wear despite the fact that you'd be drinking tonight. 

"You said they were already here waiting for us?" Karen asked over her shoulder.

You adjusted your dress and the devil horn headband on your head as Marci slid out of the taxi after you.

"Yeah," she answered. "Fog said they were waiting for us outside. Just look for the bright orange jumpsuit."

You and Karen scanned the groups of costume-clad individuals along the sidewalk outside of the bar. Marci was beside you, openly readjusting her tits in the skin tight jumpsuit she had unzipped quite low. Karen started laughing beside you and you glanced at her with a questioning brow.

"They're over there," Karen choked out between laughs, shaking her head as she pointed. "I'm sorry but Matt looks ridiculous."

Your gaze followed where Karen’s finger was pointing. The orange jumpsuit Foggy was wearing caught your eye first until your attention slid to Matt beside him. A hand flew up to your mouth as you laughed. Even from this distance you saw Matt grin beside Foggy, apparently hearing your reaction. 

The three of you made your way over to the pair of them, weaving past the groups of people on the sidewalk. You lost it all over again as you finally reached them. Karen was right, he did look ridiculous, but in an incredibly sexy way.

There was a little white chef's hat on his head and what looked like a few smears of flour on his face underneath his dark glasses. The costume he had on was a pair of tight fitting dress pants and a white and brown pinstriped shirt, the sleeves of which landed just before his forearms and left them exposed to your great delight. There was a brown vest over the top of the shirt, and topping all of that off was a dark apron complete with more flour smears. But what was really killing you was what was written on the apron. It read 'Making them buns' and you snorted loudly upon reading it, completely losing it all over again. 

"What are you supposed to be, a chef?" Marci asked him.

"I'm clearly a baker," Matt told her, gesturing at his apron. "Obviously, if I'm making them buns."

"My idea," Foggy cut in. "With how often I've had to hear him tell me about all the cake jokes about his ass recently."

You were biting your lip, fighting back another round of laughs. That's when Foggy realized what you were wearing and he shook his head, grinning.

"Should have figured you'd dress up as a–"

"Shh!" Marci swatted at her husband, cutting Foggy off. "Matt can use his hands to figure out her costume."

You saw the mischievous smirk immediately draw over Matt's mouth and the way one of his brows rose in extreme interest at Marci’s words. The sight caused your pulse to race a little. The three of you had discussed this in the taxi as you rode over and it had sounded like a good idea at the time, but now you were getting nervous at the prospect of Matt openly roving his hands all over your body. 

"Oh?" Matt curiously asked you. "You mean I have an excuse to feel you up right here and now?" 

Yeah, you were definitely rethinking this idea now with that coy look on his face. This man was purposely going to give you a heart attack.

“Uh, I suppose so,” you answered nervously, feeling shy with your friends standing nearby.

When you didn’t move, Karen nudged you forward into Matt, shooting you a pointed look. You turned to her, about to protest, but she was already focused on Marci and Foggy.

“Hey, why don’t we jump in line and give them a minute,” Karen suggested.

“Yeah, good idea,” Marci agreed, grabbing Foggy’s hand. She shot you a sly look as she added, “But I’m pretty sure Matt is going to need more than a minute.”

The three of them wandered off to join the queue for the bar and your attention returned to Matt before you. That coy smirk was still spread over his lips, his gaze never having left you.

“So now that we’re alone,” he said after a moment, his tone provocative and full of meaning as he paused and licked his lips. “Can I try to guess your costume?”

Your eyes were focused on his mouth, those plump, pink lips now glistening slightly from where his tongue had just wet them. Heart rate spiking a little more, you nodded slowly. 

“Here,” he said, hands rising to your waist, but the moment his hands made contact with the plastic-y pleather of your dress he abruptly stopped, a wicked expression forming on his face. “Oh? Was not expecting that,” he mused, both of his thumbs lightly rubbing along the material of the dress.

A smile spread across his face as he turned, trading places with you so that you were standing against the brick wall of the bar and Matt was standing in front of you. To block everyone else’s view, you quickly realized. Your heart thudded a little harder in your chest at that knowledge.

“You’re awfully quiet, are you alright with this?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you breathed out.

Upon your consent, his hands slowly slid their way up your hips, climbing higher as the smirk grew on his face. Gradually they snaked their way up over your rib cage until both of his large palms paused at your breasts. The contrast between the heat of his hands with the cold of your skin in the late October evening had goosebumps dappling every inch of your bare skin. Matt squeezed your breasts roughly over the material of your dress and you gasped out, thighs tightening together.

“I have no idea what you are,” he whispered, tone low and sultry, “but I am quite enjoying finding out.”

“You uh, might have more luck with feeling the back of it,” you told him, voice wavering a little.

A playful noise vibrated in his throat before he gave your breasts one last squeeze, and then his hands were quickly sliding down your body, making their way to the back of the dress. Eventually he found the little devil’s tail and you saw his brows furrow as his hands felt along the length of it.

“Well, clearly a tail,” he thought aloud. “Are you a cat? Even though–” his head tilted to the side as his eyes narrowed behind his lenses, hands still touching the tail, “–this doesn’t quite feel like a cat’s tail.”

You shook your head along the brick wall you were pressed up against, smiling a little. “No, not a cat,” you told him.

“Hmm,” he hummed out, his smile returning. "What color is the dress?"

"Red," you answered quickly.

His hands dropped lower, gliding down over the curve of your ass. Feeling his fingers splay wide over each cheek beneath the fabric, he abruptly gave your ass a firm squeeze next. You bit your lip, fighting the growing heat between your thighs. You both were, after all, still in public.

“Well isn’t this short?” he murmured when the tips of his fingers grazed your actual ass under the dress, the fabric having ridden up while he’d been roughly kneading your ass. “Oh, sweetheart,” he almost purred, both hands having fully slipped under the back of the dress to grab at your bare ass. “Are you not wearing anything under this?” he whispered into your ear, the tip of his nose nuzzling into your cheek.

“Just–just a thong,” you answered, brain feeling like it was turning to mush in your skull with the way his calloused hands were openly playing with your ass. “Wasn’t feeling quite that daring tonight.”

Matt stepped closer to you and you could feel the slight bulge forming in his pants and pressing into your leg. His forehead dropped down to your shoulder, resting there as his nails lightly dug into the flesh beneath his hands. You fought back a moan, trapping it in your throat.

“I don’t even care about the bar at this point,” he said slowly, head still buried along your bare shoulder. “I just want to fuck you.”

A wave of pure want and arousal washed its way down your body and your eyes briefly closed, trying hard to control yourself. “We should–should probably stay for just a bit, at least,” you stammered out. Though your own desire to have his cock buried in you was making you want to grab a taxi and leave, too.

He sighed against your skin, his hands loosening their grasp on your ass and sliding down the back of your legs, but then he abruptly stiffened against the front of you. One of his fingers tugged at the fishnet thigh-high stockings you had on and you couldn’t resist the smile. Both of his hands began feeling around your thighs as a little whine came from his throat.

“Sweetie, are you wearing fishnet stockings and a garter?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

He inhaled sharply, a faint groan coming from him next. “Fuck,” he throatily ground out. “You want to torture me tonight, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting this reaction,” you admitted.

Matt lifted his head, gently nipping at your shoulder. A shudder ran down your spine when he lightly kissed the spot afterwards.

“So what are you?” he asked curiously.

Tentatively you reached down, grabbing one of his hands from your thigh. He allowed you to raise his hand, drawing it all the way up to the headband on your head. You watched as his head canted to the side a bit, eyes narrowing behind his dark lenses as his fingers felt up the headband.

“Ears?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Horns,” you whispered.

A slow, sinful smile snuck its way along his lips. His hips bucked forward into you, pinning you further into the wall behind you. Both of his hands came to land on either side of your neck, thumbs lightly brushing along your throat. You were sure he could feel your pulse jumping under your skin right now.

“You’re a devil?” he guessed.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding your head. “ Your devil tonight.”

His bottom lip rolled between his teeth, a soft hiss emitting from him as his head turned to the side. You could see his eyes clamp shut behind his glasses before he swallowed hard a few times.

“Do you have any idea,” he said after a moment, voice low, “how hot that is?”

Reaching out, your hands finally landed on Matt, resting them on his hips. Gently you pulled him closer to yourself, grinning up at him.

“I was hoping you’d like it,” you told him, fingers toying with the strap of his apron. 

His gaze finally landed back on you, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscles in his cheeks twitching. Your hands tightened along his hips at the sight.

“I’ve got a few ideas of what I want to do to you in this tonight,” he murmured. “So I hope you’re prepared for it.”

“Well,” you teased lightly, feeling a little bold with how turned on Matt already was, “we have a couple of hours here first. I’m pretty sure we can both find ways to…prepare for it.”

His tongue darted out along his lips again, your eyes following its movement. He smirked a moment later, one of his hands leaving your throat, dragging the backs of his fingers over your body as he gradually lowered it between your breasts, down your ribcage, past your stomach, and then finally up under your dress. Without hesitation his index finger slipped past your thong and swiped along your clit ever so faintly. Your body jolted, a strangled moan falling from your lips before you could stop it. Your eyes widened as a thrill shot through you, your mouth clamping shut.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Pretty sure I can get you nice and prepared , sweetheart.”

_________

Your arms were wrapped around Matt’s neck, the front of you flush to the front of him as your bodies’ grinded against each other slowly and sensually to the pop music playing in the bar Marci had picked out. You’d had just enough to drink tonight that the part of your brain programmed to overthink was muted, allowing the pair of you to join the plethora of other costumed bar patrons grinding against each other.

Matt’s hands were low on your back, pressing his palms hard into you to keep you close to his body. Gazing up at him, you smiled at the smears of flour along his cheeks and chin. He’d told you the flour was Foggy’s idea along with the costume–all thanks to Katy and her constant ass comments that Matt had apparently divulged to Foggy.

As if he sensed you looking at him, he glanced down at you, a little smile drawing over his lips under the dark red lenses. Warmth filled your chest, the feeling having nothing to do with the alcohol in your system or the amount of people packed in the bar.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” Matt asked. 

You shook your head lightly, a grin on your own lips as you slid one of your hands out from behind his neck. Reaching up, your fingers traced the line of his stubbled jaw, his head leaning into the touch as he always did. 

“Nothing,” you answered, just loud enough that you knew he could hear you. And without your mind overthinking, you blurted, “I love you.”

His smile somehow grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling just at the edges of his glasses. “I love you, too, sweetheart,” he said.

Closing the distance between your mouths, his nose lightly bumping against yours as he did, Matt kissed you. Your eyes closed instantly, head tilting up further towards him as your hand held his cheek. He tasted faintly of the beer he’d drank as his soft, plush lips greedily kissed your own. The hand you had still behind his neck snuck its way up, just far enough for you to gently tug on his hair. The responding shudder from him had you unconsciously grind your hips into his a little too sensually.

Matt’s mouth broke away, his forehead coming to rest against yours. He groaned low and you felt one of his hands snake its way down over your ass and up underneath your dress. Your hips jerked into his, fighting down a wave of arousal as his palm felt around the curve of your ass for a moment. Before you even blinked, his fingers slipped over your covered mound, rubbing teasingly along your clit.

“Matt,” you chided quickly, though his name came out half moan, half reprimand.

His hand slid back to your ass, a sly smirk on his mouth as he gazed back down at you. “What?” he asked innocently. “I’m just checking out this delicious cake I’ve got here. I mean I am a baker after all.”

Rolling your eyes, you laughed lightly and stepped a bit back from Matt. “I think I need a drink if you’re going to keep being this handsy,” you informed him.

He continued to flash that sly smirk at you as he said, “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

A few minutes later you were leaning against the bar counter, drinking back your mixed drink and taking a short breather from dancing with Matt. You’d lost Foggy and Marci a little while ago and Karen had found a cute guy shortly after you’d all done a round of shots when you’d first gotten into the bar. After that, the entire night had been nothing but secret foreplay between you and Matt and right now you'd needed a few minutes to catch your breath. 

Matt was now firmly pressed to the back of you, his partially hard dick wedged between your ass. Bending forward, you wrapped your lips around the straw in your glass and took a drink, intentionally shifting your hips against Matt behind you. His right hand on your hip tightened and you grinned around the straw. 

"Careful sweetheart," he whispered, mouth suddenly beside your ear.

Slightly inebriated, you dropped the straw from between your lips, pushing your ass more firmly into him. He grunted, the sound loud with him so close to your ear, and you felt more dampness beginning to pool between your thighs.

"Keep it up," he growled low in your ear, "and I'll be fucking you with my fingers right here until you're cumming on them and calling me baby over this very bar counter." 

He lightly kissed your cheek and your body trembled at the mental image his words elicited. The hand on your hip slid downward and just underneath your short dress, one finger just barely ghosting your damp mound. You flinched at the delicious touch. 

"Don't think I won't," he warned.

Hands fidgeting with the glass in front of you, your cunt throbbed almost painfully at this point as he removed his hand from under your dress. You were beyond sexually frustrated with whatever this game was the two of you had been playing for the past hour and a half. It was torture and you were almost tempted to see if you pushed him enough if he would actually follow through with his threat just so you could get some relief.

Gritting your teeth, you tried to focus on anything besides the feel of him pressed up behind you. As you were trying to take a calm, relaxing deep breath in, you felt Matt tense behind you, an angry growl rumbling in your ear. You frowned, turning over your shoulder to ask him what was wrong, but you quickly caught sight of a brunette barely dressed at all and wearing bunny ears. Your eyes narrowed instantly. 

"You clearly make some nice buns," she slurred out to Matt, biting her lip coyly. 

Eyes darting down, you saw she had her hand on Matt's ass. As he turned around, her hand fell back to her side and a burning rage began coursing through you.

"Excuse me?" Matt shot out, an edge to his voice as his brows furrowed behind his lenses.

"Oh come on," she said, waving a dismissive hand at Matt, entirely disregarding how upset he was. "You can't have an ass in pants that tight, walking around wearing an apron advertising how great of an ass you do have and expect no one to touch it."

Matt opened his mouth to respond, but the anger rippling through you cut him off before he even began.

"Are you really trying to say he was asking for it?" you hissed at her, pushing off the bar and coming to stand in front of Matt. "Because of how he was dressed ?"

"Well, I mean–"

"You don’t just grab at people," you continued, venom in your voice and alcohol dulling your nerves. "You like it when strange men grab at you? Tell you that you were asking for it when they do? That if you didn't want that kind of attention you shouldn't dress a certain way?"

"Well, no–"

"Apologize to my boyfriend," you ordered, eyes narrowed at the young woman.

Startled, she blinked a few times before pink tinged her cheeks. "I uh, I'm sorry," she muttered to Matt. 

"Just because he's a man doesn't mean he doesn't deserve the same respect as women deserve," you told her. "Remember that."

She nodded quickly before ducking her head and disappearing. You stared after her, teeth grinding against each other. Matt slowly slipped a hand around your waist, drawing you gradually into his side. 

"Not that I couldn't have handled that," he said, burying his face into your hair, "but thank you.” His lips gently kissed your temple which was a stark contrast to how he was quickly tightening his hold on you. “That was also incredibly sexy of you,” he said, “defending my honor and all.”

You unclenched your jaw and focused back on Matt, trying to release the anger that had abruptly overtaken you at the young woman brazenly grabbing Matt’s ass. He was grinning down at you, though there was definitely something more behind that grin. Exhaling a sharp breath, you ran a hand across your forehead.

“Sorry,” you grumbled. “Double standards like that piss me off. And besides–” you began, glancing back up at Matt as a grin formed on your own lips; feeling emboldened by the alcohol in your system, your hand darted out behind Matt and firmly grabbed his ass, “–that’s my ass.”

His hand drew you firmly into him before his mouth descended onto yours. Pulling your hand from his ass, both of yours wound their way around his neck, holding him flush against yourself yet again. Matt’s mouth kissed yours with a growing intensity, but you could certainly feel the restraint he was practicing. You, on the other hand, were already nibbling on that soft, perfect bottom lip of his and needily whimpering against his mouth. Matt was the one who had to break the kiss in an attempt to keep you from tearing his costume off in the middle of the bar when one of your hands began tugging at the collar of his shirt.

“I just want you to know,” he told you, breathing hard as he lowered his face so that his lips were brushing your ear as he spoke, “that I’m going to take you back to my place when you finish that drink and I’m going to fuck you absolutely senseless in that devil costume.”

You swallowed hard as he straightened up beside you, a hungry look on his face as he sightlessly gazed down at you. With a shiver running down your body, you returned to your drink at the bar, quickly wrapping your lips around the straw and drinking the alcohol down. Matt returned to his place behind you, pushing you into the counter with his hips as one of his hands slid beneath your dress, his fingers lightly gliding along your cunt through your underwear. For the briefest of moments your eyelids closed, your eyes rolling back as the straw dropped out of your mouth, fighting back a throaty groan.

[beyondspaceandstars]

new year's eve with matt

A/N - i’m sitting around waiting for midnight and just had some little thoughts about what it would be like to celebrate new years eve with boyfriend!matt murdock <3 this is a really short, quick, unedited thing i thought would be fun to do so i hope y'all enjoy! i am also a little tipsy writing this so hope it makes sense

I feel like new years with Matt would be small but so meaningful

at first, you two would be like "we're staying in" because, well, new york seems hectic on new years eve no matter where you are

but then by like 8pm, maybe even 9pm, Foggy and Karen come knocking on the door wondering where you guys are and what you're doing

then you two have no choice but to give in and next thing you know you're squeezing into the crowded bar, sipping beers and taking shots every now and then

as the drinks and minutes flow, i think Matt would become more and more loving, physically

something about him screams that he's a happy, touchy drunk. a couple of heavy drinks in him and he's headed straight for you to caress your waist or draw patterns on the back of your hand

he does this relentlessly as you try to kick ass in pool no matter how many times you playfully reprimand him for his wandering hands

overall, going out is nice. you get to catch up with everyone, have some drinks, and get ready to bring in the new year

right before the new year rings in, though, you and Matt would slip away from the crowd

it'd be Matt who would initiate this little sneaking away but you happily went along with it

"it's a little stuffy in here isn't it?" Matt would ask, his words saying so much yet so little. you couldn't help but giggle. "it is, honey."

Matt would eagerly grab your hand and avoid all questions or looks as he'd drag you out into the cool, fresh winter new york night. there were a few other bustling around but mostly, it was strangely calm for the city during the holidays. but you'd take it over anything else any day

you two would scurry along to some alleyway and Matt would hand you a beer he had swiped from the bar before stepping out. it was adorable and hilarious.

"you're stealing now, Murdock? that's not what good, catholic boys do." "actually, I believe the words you're looking for are 'thank you.'"

you'd lean against the brick wall of some building as you'd open your beers. the minutes ticked down slowly to midnight. Matt would probably be very aware of how close it was to the new year just from hearing the chanting countdown across the city. but he wouldn't say anything to you.

"how long until midnight?" he'd ask you in a very husky whisper as he leaned into you. you'd check your phone and say, "under a minute, I think." but you couldn't pay much attention. you were so caught up in the buzz from the alcohol and the high from your boyfriend.

this wasn't your first new year together but something about it felt different and right. this was gonna be a good year. you sensed it with every bone in your body.

your relationship was at its best and you were beyond thankful to get to spend another year with him. it was almost unbelievable how perfect life had become.

Matt would soon tune back into the countdown and begin whispering it in your ear, following along as the entire city seemed to scream out numbers in synchronous chanting

"five... four... three..."

but before he could even get to one, you'd pull him in for a kiss - a very passionate new years kiss. and Matt certainly wouldn't protest.

yells, cheers, and fireworks popped off all around you two but none of it mattered at all. you didn't hear any of it as you were completely engulfed in your boyfriend.

you'd literally end one year and begin the next wrapped in Matt's hold, completely loved by him, and what could be better than that?

finally, after an intense minute or so, you'd force yourself to pull away for quick air. "happy new year," you'd mutter. Matt would chuckle and say, "happy new year, sweetheart."