#matt murdock self insert

[angellicxx]

Ricochet- Chapter 1: The Beginning

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Vigilante Reader

Summary: In the streets of New York, injustice thrives in the dark. Despite your work alongside Daredevil, you have to dig deeper into the criminal underground of NYC to discover the roots of corruption. Your vigilante life becomes entangled with your past as you work to infiltrate the underground mob run by the infamous Kingpin, freshly released on parole. Loyal federal agent Benjamin Poindexter is tasked with overseeing Fisk’s house arrest– and aiding in his empire under the alias of Bullseye. The both of you become interlaced within the Volchiy, a Russian gang led by your childhood friend; you moonlight as a vigilante, trying to take down the mob from within, while Dex is unaware the new girl he can't get his mind off of is the same one in a mask he fights in the streets. Torn between secret identities, lies, and threat of betrayal, you and Dex navigate a tension filled clash between loyalty and justice.

warnings: drug dealing implication, fight scene, blood, mention of h@nging

slowburn, enemies to lovers, secret identities, bullseye x vigilante reader, use of (y/n), reader is an orphan

an: Chapter 1 of my first full length fic. Hopefully you like it and I actually finish.

disclaimer: ivan volkov is an oc and the volchiy gang is a fictional mcu gang i made up. i dont speak russian so sorry if any of the langauge is wrong or stupid.

wc: 3,500

YOU

New York City was different at night. 

A different city during the day, and different from anywhere else in the world. 

But to the fortunate millions who are unlucky enough to burrow within the labyrinth of streets nestled between skyscrapers and offices, twinkling streetlights and billboards that replaced the stars, living in rows of century old bricked townhomes and eating at their corner store bodegas– it was home. 

With its dreams and flaws and all, it was the one place where in a crowd of millions you could feel so close– yet so alone. 

You weren’t a stranger to the deep poison that drained into the ground of the city. Bloody– like black bile– the cruelty of crime and lies that had been ever present as a New York native. 

Justice had to be paid with a high price, but only by those willing to sell. Even with the haunt of knowing there was at least one person out in the streets below you who needed help, just someone to be noticed and saved by a dashing hero in the night, was enough to send you on the streets every evening in a skin tight costume, face guarded in a mask.

Every night was different. 

Tonight could change. 

“(Y/N).” A voice called from the other side of the roof as the access door’s hinges squeaked in the wind. 

Devil horns pointed to the heavens as the fellow masked hero walked across the roof, where soot and dirt had caked into layers from decades of the building's abandonment. 

“You’re late, Matt.” You with a tinge of annoyance through a cracking smile. This wasn’t an uncommon late appearance, but you didn’t mind; it gave you more time alone to breathe.

This has been your routine for the past year. 

Late nights alongside Matt. 

You couldn’t picture what your life would be like if you hadn't crossed paths. There were few heroes in New York, some that were unknown to anyone but thugs in the shadows. But meeting Matt put you on a clear path. It was refreshing to come across a normal person who understood you, even if you met that someone by nearly bashing each other's ribs in. 

 Your tired arms pushed your body up from its spot of legs dangling over the ledge, tingling as they gained feeling to stand up. 

“Apologies. Got held up in the office.” He flashed a charismatic smile from beneath his half exposed cowl, stepping onto the ledge next to you. 

You rolled your head over your shoulders, stretching your back with a scoff. “Don’t let your job get in the way of your hobby.”

“Ouch.” Matt said. 

“And to think you actually enjoyed working with me.”

“No,  no, I’m strictly here for business.” You patted a gloved hand over his padded shoulder and sighed. “Where are we going tonight?”

“Yesterday, there was a robbery on 56th. Three men from the Italians, all armed with guns and high out of their minds. Through their drugged rambling they managed to tell me about a warehouse at the piers; they said it was a hideout for some operation, only ever occupied for drops and pickups. Figured we would check it out tonight and see where it leads.” 

You nodded, eyes wandering to the river distant in the horizon, the black waters gleaming with reflections of moonlight. “Sounds fun.” You said, pulling on your mask. 

The warehouse was near the docks– an old canning factory in the early industry days turned moonshine distributor in the twenties. Abandoned for decades the red brick had faded and been engulfed in tangles of long ivy that covered the frosted pane windows. 

Semi-trucks were parked for the night on the surrounding lot, stacks of shipping containers and a chain link fence keeping it guarded from a pedestrian road and isolated to the water. There was a small dock of rotting wood with a single boat bobbing in the black water. 

You jumped the fence after Matt, the impact absorbing into the heel of your boot as you scanned the area. “It looks like a drop point.”

Matt rolled his shoulders as he crept around a shipping container. “Does it?”

You ignored him, piecing together as many clues as possible. “Shipments must be coming down from the Hudson, either local or overseas. Did the Italians say who owned it?”

“No, he passed out before he could even say what it was. It's empty, smells like gunpowder.”

“Weapons?”

He nodded. “Or there was trouble here recently.”

You managed to find an unlocked side door, making your way inside to the spacious warehouse. There was a layer of stagnant dust covering pillars of stacked crates and workbenches, the faint glow of a lantern as you peered from behind a wall. 

Before you could advance further inside, a glove layered hand clutched onto your shoulder, pulling you back behind the corner. 

“Stop.” Matt whispered. 

You quickly scanned the area and tried to listen for what Matt was sensing. “What’s wrong?”

His head tilted. “Five men, armed. Coming from the dock.”

Through a shattered window you could see it, a second boat tethered at the water and the muffled sound of speech. 

“Shit .” You muttered. “Great timing.”

There was a rumbling of an iron door and footsteps as the men entered– foreign speech echoed across the walls. A loud crash sent them into disarray. You peered over to see a crate had been knocked over, black guns scattered over the floor as they began to yell at eachother, fingers pointed at a retreating peer. 

Matt took this opportunity to creep from the shadows, throwing a punch into the back of a straggler at the edge of the argument. You quickly followed suit, throwing your momentum into a kick that sent another on the ground as the other three were too busy engulfed in their bickering to notice they had visitors. 

You were quick in the dark, it was where you worked best. Maybe that was why you and Matt worked so well together– you both had an advantage of being invisible. 

You propelled yourself with your legs, wrapping them around the smaller of the accusing pair as you wrapped his neck and slammed him into the ground. 

Despite your stealth, it came at the cost of your strength, especially against guys twice your bodyweight. You groan as you hit the pavement, thankful his head collided and knocked him out on the first try.

The other men finally caught on to the ambush. They snapped from the dispute, reaching for their holsters only to be hit away with a baton. One of the guys was on the ground before you even managed to stand back up. The last one standing, the guy who had dropped the crate, stood frozen– scrambling to unlock his safety as he walked backwards into a pile of boxes that clattered over him. 

Your smirk dropped when an arm wrapped from behind you. Before you could dodge the impending blow to your face, Matt had pulled him off of you and pummeled his face.

Halfway between consciousness and falling to the floor from his knees, Matt held him up by his collar, fist raised. “Who do you work for?”

His head rattled frantically, pleading to the dark eyes of Daredevil’s mask. “N-n--nobody. N-o work-” Matt hit him again, grasping a tighter hold and looming over him. 

“Who do you work for?” 

The man choked, blood spurting out of his throat and dripping to the ground, eyes near swollen shut as he managed the words. 

“Ivan Volkov.”

The name echoed in your mind as Matt struck a blow to his bloodied face, a quick knockout as he fell limp to the floor. There was a moment of silence– only heavy breathing echoing through the large warehouse.

Matt was listening, slowly turning to look at his partner who hadn’t moved.

 “You know him.”

Not a question– a confrontation. You really hated having a human lie detector to work with.

Suppressed memories of your childhood seemed to flood in with no reason. Just one name and you were suddenly seven years old again; running through the streets of Brooklyn with your friends to escape classes taught by the nuns, scavenging for change in the gutter to buy candy and spend on petty bets, breaking windows with rocks to enter the abandoned buildings just like this one. 

Just parentless, uncontrolled children–  dreams still far and the ever lingering hope of finding a family one day. Through those early formidable years you had countless siblings. 

Ivan Volkov was one of them. 

A few years older than you, Ivan was orphaned at age ten when his father was imprisoned for his position in the Russian mob, only to be found hanging in his cell two days before the case went to trial. As far as you ever knew, Ivan’s mother was a nameless woman never present in his life, most likely killed for knowing too much when he was a child. 

Nonetheless, Ivan was one of the few older kids at St. Michaels Orphanage. Aggressive, erratic, and manipulative– how he was labeled in his file. But you only knew Ivan as sweet, caring and funny. 

He was just troubled, like the rest of you. 

He would leave some nights and return bloodied in the morning; it was only a secret from the nuns that Ivan was slipping into a life similar to his father’s. You and the other children had watched him steal and do deals in the park near the church. He would only smile at you and buy ice cream with the leftover money so you all kept your mouths shut and never questioned anything.

He was like a brother to you. 

When he aged out, you and three other kids cried all night; one of you even begged him to adopt you all. Ivan never visited after he left. He moved on in life. 

But everytime a group of men in dark sunglasses, trench coats, and brooding energies walked down the street near gang territory you looked extra closely to see if you could recognize his face.

Now, years later, the truth was revealed. Heavy dust in the air and echoing clatters of distant machinery confirmed you weren’t dreaming. Ivan was alive and making a name for himself. 

Reminiscence broke as you furrowed your brow and blinked your dry eyes to focus, a reluctant nod and click of the tongue.

“Yeah. Yeah I know him.”

Matt was watching you closely, reading you through subtle movements. “Have you worked for him before?” 

You shook your head, sweat dripping as you rubbed your mask-covered brow. “We- uh,  grew up together– in the orphanage. He left as soon as he turned eighteen and I never knew what happened to him. Last I knew he had run off to join a gang his dad had been a part of.”

Matt cocked his head, pieces coming together. “Dimitry Volkov, right? Christ, I remember studying that case in law school. He had the cops running circles back then– the biggest weapons bust in city history.” 

“And now I guess he’s built it back up.” You reached your hand into an opened crate, fingers brushing cold metal as you hauled a handgun from its depths. You studied it in your hands– the weight, model, balance. As you turned the hilt you could see it. Carved into the shiny black was two thin converging lines, a watermark– “ V ”. 

You swallowed, holding it out for Matt. 

“Volchiy .”

 He sighed as he took it. “Russians.” He removed a glove and brushed his thumb over the inscription. “I felt the same thing on the guns I found on the Italians. It's new– oiled. My guess, they were manufactured abroad and altered in the city. The Volchiy are dealing them underground so the weapons can’t be traced. There's probably hundreds of them distributed in the streets right now.” 

You stood silent. The warehouse was filled with boxes. “Well, what do we do now?”

“They’re going to realize their stashpoint is compromised, probably move it or reinforce security. For all we know there could be dozens of locations scattered across the city– factories, hideouts, headquarters. It runs deep. This is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“What, we just leave an anonymous tip to the NYPD? ‘Hey, here's a new crime ring, good luck.’ We have to find where this leads.”

Matt was hesitant, placing down the gun. You knew the reason he didn’t want to keep searching. 

“ Fisk .” You hissed, the name a curse. “You think he’s involved?”

He lowered his head, shaking it.  “I know he’s in charge.” 

“He’s on house arrest. He got the justice you wanted. He can’t possibly be doing damage from a penthouse.” You protested, but it was no use. Fisk haunted Matt more than you could realize. You could tell his release from prison infuriated him, despite when he claimed the FBI had the right to keep him locked away under supervision, even if it was in the comfort of a luxury apartment. 

“He’s got the whole city wired from that penthouse. He’s pulling strings with the FBI– he’s only locked in there because he wants to be. He’s brutal, (Y/N). A man like Fisk– we can’t.”

You nodded despite your disappointment. This was a serious lead Matt was willing to abandon just because of his past with Fisk. 

“Fine. I guess we’ll just stick to disarming the thugs on the streets after they’ve already striked.” You took one more look around the spacious warehouse before stepping over a knocked out gang member to the open door. 

You were exhausted climbing up the fire escape to the roof, gripping the rusted rails to haul yourself up the next step. You were relieved to pull off your mask and breathe uncovered air when you landed on the same decrepit rooftop overlooking Hell’s Kitchen. You and Matt had made your way back through the shadows in silence, tensions high about your splitting decisions. He finally broke it as he lingered behind you. 

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). Really. If things were different, then maybe. But right now– it’s just not safe.”

You understood. You hated that he was partly right, Fisk wasn’t a figure to be messed with. Especially when every criminal organization was under his command. Just going after one would domino all the others to come to aid. But deep in your bones you knew there was more. This was the whole point– protecting the city. If just one guy got to dictate how it ran, then there was no justice at all.

You turned around, nodding with sincerity. “I get it Matt. It’s alright. I’m sure there's something else we can do.”

He read you for a moment, a twitch of a smile when he realized you were telling the truth. “Thank you.” He gave a nod of approval before turning around. “Stay safe (Y/N).” 

“You too, Matt. Good night.” 

“Good night,” Matt called out as he vanished down the fire escape. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

You rolled your eyes and beckoned a wave, crouching back down onto your rooftop perch, gripping your mask in your hands-- hard. A sigh of aggravation fell through the air, caching back in your throat as you looked up. 

Your eyes lingered in the skyline. Nothing felt so far anymore. Everything that was happening was in your territory– the one you promised to protect. 

 It was right there, stretching its influence across the city and trickling into Hell’s Kitchen.

It was a dumb thought, really. But what more was there to lose? How many people could get caught in the crossfire before you decided to sacrifice your integrity? 

You tucked your mask into your belt, taking one more glance at the alive city before retreating home. 

It was time to pay an old friend a visit. 

DEX

Dex was haunted. 

By the things he’s done, the things he was bound to do all over again. 

He fell for it.

 He fell right into Fisk’s grasp. 

Every order he followed, it was because he wanted to.

Testified in the trial for Wilson Fisk’s parole and appeal. 

He lied under oath– not like the truth has ever mattered. 

He took out the fellow agents who refused loyalty. 

Wore a mask.

Pulled the trigger. 

Killed people.

The rest of the FBI would move on from this assignment and continue their work. Dex would be left to linger in the past-- more trapped within the house arrest boundary than Fisk ever was. 

The thick bulletproof glass was the only thing keeping him from falling over sixty stories to the muck filled streets of New York. His gaze fell over the skyline, light filled windows of the Midtown high rises imitating the stars in the midnight darkness. 

The sterile apartment of Fisk was like a familiar sanctuary above the city.

It was the same way he had his apartment– clean and orderly. The only thing visible in the fresh white painted walled penthouse were the dozens of modern art pieces on display at every turn, a museum worth millions for only Fisk and his wife to see. 

At first, Dex could understand how only a deranged monster like Fisk could find solace in those strange pieces. 

As time grew on, he began to grow fond of them too.

His favorite one was hanging right in the foyer.

Much of the art Fisk kept was just geometric shapes of paint on canvas, nonsensical patterns he never cared for of bland color.

This one was different.

Organic. 

Messy.

Raw. 

It wasn’t art to him– it was real.

Splatters of crimson that stained the linen canvas, no clues of the former cream color it once was. Streaks of different hues and splotches of unidentified circles. It was chaotic, but organized. 

Just a red, bloody, mess. 

For the quick glance where his eyes fell each day when he entered the front door, his dread disipated. He would forget he was in the same sterile apartment with the one task of being ordered around by Fisk; instead he was back in the field, gun in hand and steady throw at his will– complete precision and control. This was the only art in the world he could truly digest. 

Every time he saw it there was a reminder that the artist– a name of a painter unknown to him and probably long dead– understood him. 

Even with the entire city in his field of vision, Dex’s mind was far behind him in the entryway, glaring at the red and trying to understand it. 

“Special Agent Poindexter.” 

A gravelly voice echoed through the abnormally large apartment,  rippling a chill through Dex’s spine, ears perking up as he turned to face the dim lit room.

The brooding force in a white suit– Wilson Fisk stood across the living room, hands behind his back like a marble statue. 

“Sir.” Dex straightened, legs shoulder width apart and arms crossed over his thundering chest. 

A vicious smile crept across his round face, city lights from the window bouncing off his bald head as he crept closer to the agent. 

“Please, there is no need for formalities. I owe my gratitude for what you have done. For me, for Vanessa.”

Dex flexed his hands, fingers aching and knuckles bruised.

Killed people.

Fisk began his creep forward, careful steps across the white tiles that reverberated through the sparsely furnished room until he was parallel to the windows next to him. 

“I am proud of your work.” Fisk sighed out the reluctant praise. Dex could tell the corruptive man wasn’t one to hand out sincerities like this.

“From that very night you saved my life, I knew you had an exceeding talent. One that could never be fully appreciated under the constraints of a federal agency. Where rules and standards demanded you set aside these strengths and neglect your abilities for a noble pursuit. The Bureau never appreciated you the way I do, Benjamin. With your help, I can restore the city. To the way it needs to be. Tamed. Disciplined.”

Dex rocked back on his heels to adjust his footing, becoming more aware of his time standing all day. “Thank you sir. It’s an honor to work for you.” The words forced from his voice, a tinge of a smile and nod at his approval. 

“Now that I am free, the true work may begin. My time incarcerated has enacted a toll on the order of everything. They are becoming more sloppy and arrogant, my workers. I would go myself, but as you know I am still constrained.” He smiled. 

Dex’s eyes flicked to the black banded ankle monitor, light beeping in the dark over Fisk’s pant leg. “My prospects are in desperate need of management in my absence. It is much to ask of you– but it must be done.”

Dex rolled his shoulders, glancing from the city to his boss. 

“Anything you need, Fisk. I’ll do it.”

“Good. Very well.” Kingpin grinned. “How familiar are you with my empire?”

[miss-breathless]

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[mattymurdockswife]

Really good lawyer - First meeting

FemReader X Matthew Murdock

Hi guys! Finally got some inspiration to write between final exams, so here it is! This isn't my best work so sorry if it sucks. I'm planning to make this a series, so stay tuned!

This is really short...my bad🥹

Foggy walks into Matt’s office, a confused look etched on his face. 

“Uhh…Matt?”

Matthew looks up at him with a curious expression.

“Brett just texted me… there’s someone in the police precinct who’s being accused of…being Spider-Man…?”

Matt is now sitting across Peter in an interrogation room. Foggy clears his throat awkwardly.

"Listen, you're going to need legal representation; these are some serious allegations."

"Someone's coming," Matt says, his expression more serious and his body tense. "It's two men and a woman, and she sounds pissed."

Peter groans and puts his face in his hands. "She's here."

Foggy raises an eyebrow. "Who is?"

"My sister."

"I thought you were an only child."

"No, I am. It's- It's hard to explain."

"I would appreciate it if you would stop speaking to my client." Foggy, Peter, and Matt all turned to the door, where you were standing with Harvey and Mike at your side.

Mike subtly points out Matt and Foggy with a question in his eyes. Harvey just shrugs, also not knowing where they came from.

"Peter will be represented by Pearson Specter."

Peter stands from his seat and walks up to you. "I want them to represent me too."

You look at him like he just said the most stupid thing in the world. "What?"

"They seem like good guys, and they've been in cases like these before! Don't you think you guys could work together?"

You turn to Harvey, and he nods slightly.

"You sure this is what you want, Pete?"

"I am. I'll feel better knowing there are more people taking care of it."

"I guess we could...work together with their firm."

"That must've hurt your ego." Harvey chuckles and takes another sip of his drink. "Who would've known that your brother would want outside representation?"

You grunt and pour yourself a drink. "He's hiding something."

"What makes you say that? Maybe he truly fell for their advertising."

"Peter is naive, not stupid. He said he trusted them because they've had experience. He was referring to the Frank Castle case, which they lost."

"Yeah, that boy is bullshitting you."

You take a swing of your drink and get up from your seat. Harvey watches you walk towards the door of his office. "What are you going to do?"

"I think it's about time I get familiar with Hell's Kitchen."

[sunflowersandsapphires]

I saw something in the fandom that made me upset and I need to rant about it. It’ll be below the cut so I don’t clog up people’s dashes!

I cropped the name off of this post because I am not trying to start drama, but I found this under the “Matt Murdock x Reader” tag and found it INCREDIBLY disheartening to go through to comments/reblogs and see how many people agreed.

I am in no way trying to dispute the fact that fandom spaces and self-insert fanfiction is heavily white washed/influenced by white writers. As a white woman myself, I catch many little slip ups in my own work that make my writing less accessible than I want it to be. I understand being frustrated that there aren’t many stories where you feel your appearance has been considered.

However: fanfiction, fanart, gif making and coloring, edits, and other forms of fan-made-content are usually completely free to access. No one is entitled to them—they are a privilege, not a right. Which means that people are allowed to write whatever characters they want, even if it’s not completely unique or what you want to read.

My issue is with OP’s critiques of weak/feminine/sweet/innocent readers and the way they voiced their opinion (again, not disputing the appearance stuff). I know that many readers are sweet or innocent, but as someone who is rarely given the space to be the “damsel in distress” so to speak, I enjoy writing characters who are taken care of and protected. Regardless of my or any other writer’s reasoning for writing the characters this way, we are allowed to do that. It’s our fucking work.

If you don’t like something, no one is forcing you to read it. If you notice a lack of fics that appeal to you, write some yourself. It is inconsiderate to chastise people spending hours of their free time to give you content that you can enjoy just because it’s not exactly what you want to see.

Also, don’t threaten to block me if you don’t like how I write. Just block me. It is your responsibility to curate an enjoyable experience on this app, not everyone else’s.

In summary: I am not trying to say that fandom is perfect or inclusive or that critiques of my writing aren’t welcome. This person can have whatever opinions they like and are welcome to post them on their blog. I would just like to point out that the delivery could’ve been more polite and that authors don’t need to change the plots/characters’ personalities they write just because others aren’t happy with the outcome.

[earth-4511]

screenshot redraw of you know which movie

[vyeoh]

The "x female reader he leaves you for a man" memes have ruined me because everytime I see a x reader I open it thinking it's the meme and then it's actual x reader and I get 1000000000000000000 psychic damage

[woowzaaa]

matt murdocks my lil fella (saw a trend on insta not my og idea)

[gins-stim-emporium]

self indulgent matt murdock (daredevil) stimboard (with lots of summer themed stims) !

ice cream / pinkies / dog training

firefly / ☕️ / koi pond

boquet / jumpy stim / wave pool

[mitch0id]

i think i kinda like digital art, so here’s a little doodle dump

[callixton]

just thought abt the rising popularity of using afab!reader instead of literally any other descriptor as if having a vagina is an inherently afab trait and made myself mad

[kanedaloveslas]

A new crossover idea. Matt murdock/Las. A daredevil and law and order svu crossover

When Carisi sees Las with her new lawyer boyfriend he sighs he knows Matt Murdock's reputation in the courts and he's concerned.

Las is naive and sweet, and he just doesn't want her to get hurt.

He scoffs as he sees her walking in with ada Murdock. His hand was confidently wrapped around Las waist as they walked to her and Benson's office.

"Who's the suit?" Valasco asked.

"Ada Matt Murdock." Carisi sighs as he watches Murdock flirt with Las

"You don't like the guy?"

"He's a bit of a wild card in court and he has a reputation as a ladies man."

"Huh. Want us to keep an eye on the guy?"

"Sure."

~~~~~~

Matt chuckled. "Las. They're talking about us. Pretend I'm flirting with you."

Las giggled "what are they saying?"

"They're wondering who i am. The guy at the desk."

"Valasco."

"Uh the guy who just walked in. Knows me. My reputation as a lawyer. Valasco says he doesn't like me. And that they can keep an eye on me for him." Matt chuckled leaning into whisper in Las ear "they care about you."

Las giggled as he kissed her cheek. "I'll see you later"

Matt pulled out his white cane and smiled as he made his way across the room.

"Oh, let me open the door for you." He heard the familiar voice of Las' boss. He heard her on the phone and through half closed doors. When he had just snuck in through Las window after a brutal night of crime fighting.

"Thank you." He stumbled forward a bit as she scrambled to help. He nodded as he made his way downstairs and back to his own office. This was going to be interesting.

Las smiled, seeing Matt mess with benson. It was a sort of power move he liked doing. He always did it to new people to see how they'd react. And Las was amused every time. This time, she sighed, What was he planning now. It seems like Carisi already doesn't like him.

"Hello, who was that?" Benson asked

"Las boyfriend." Valasco smiled

"Yeah." Las smiled. "Matt Murdock, he's a lawyer."

"He's trouble Las. Be careful." Carisi sighed

[antracenil]

i hope this is a safe space for some self insert🙏

[fandom-friday]

Pound the Table by An_October_Daye (https://archiveofourown.org/works/32633056/chapters/80950963) X-Men. "There is an old adage among lawyers that says: If you have the facts on your side, pound the facts. If you have the law on your side, pound the law. If you have neither the facts nor the law, pound the table." – Martin A. Davis, Jr. Mutant law is an emergent filed, more or less the wild west of the legal profession. And when your list of recurring clients are the Weilder of Cerebro and the Master of Magnetism? Well… suffice to say, there is plenty of pounding the table to be done. A 90’s era Self-Insert where she is a lawyer. This is really well done and the I love how the world is fleshed out! One thing I love when I read this is to try and catch all the Marvel references. As someone who loves Marvel and grew up with the 90’s cartoons, this is great!

Look, you had me at "90's Era X-Men" because as a child of the 90's, that's just ALL OF THE NOSTALGIA. And the tag "Law & Order But With Mutants"? CHECKING A LOT OF MY BOXES hahaha. Thanks so much for sending this one in! it seems super fun!

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)

[cellophaine]

Chapter IV: Entrechat

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

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

Word Count: 5.9k

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

GIF Source – The GIF is extremely relevant!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matt?”

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

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to work out.”

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

You course correct at his plain answer.

“But the gym is closed.”

“I can say the same to you.”

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

He thinks for a moment. 

“Ahh. That explains the new equipments.”

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

“You still haven't answered my question.”

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

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

The man mentioned has already gone home, it seems.

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

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

“I admitted to no such thing.”

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head in amusement.

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

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

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

“I’m glad I missed it.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face brightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt’s brows furrow as you keep going. 

“I misconstrued your words and intention.”

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

You interrupt with a call for his name. 

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

“Changed my mind about what?”

Honesty, you remind yourself.

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

Understanding dawns on his features. He softens.

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

You know that now.

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

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

“I enjoy being around you, as well.”

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

“I’ll … let you get back to it.”

“Me, too.”

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

“I really don’t mind either way.”

“Accommodating, as always.”

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

/

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

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

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

/

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you bleeding?”

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

“It’s nothing.”

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

“What happened?”

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

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

“Are you okay?”

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

“You should probably get that taken care of.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be right back.”

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

“Can you hold your shirt up for me?”

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

“I’ve had worse.”

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

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

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

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

“Just my luck.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Right."

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

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

His brows raise above the red glasses. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I hurt you, let me know, okay?”

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

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

“But not a knife, apparently.”

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

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

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

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

His thoughtful silence gives you the courage to go on. 

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

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

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

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

“Did that friend happen to be Jo?”

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

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

“That sounds awful.”

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

You cover the wound with new gauze and bandage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re welcome.”

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

“Will I see you tonight?”

“Not tonight. But tomorrow night. Definitely.”

/

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, how did you know?”

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sneer on her lips sours into a scowl. 

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

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

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

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

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

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[farfromstrange]

Heya Lizzi! Happy early bday to u 🥺❤ I think it's amazing that you give away presents when you should be the one getting them!! But I do hope this can be fun for u, too: So, for my bouquet, I would love some peonies and daisies with the prompt "This is the best uniform a good lawyer could ask for" and HEAR ME OOUT: gn!reader is an artist that has been feeling down for a few months - mental health stuff, you can do whatever here - and stopped drawing, painting, doing pretty much anything for a while. so to get back in track they try out a new form of art - sewing, embroidery, and pretty much anything fashion related. What if they start by... Maybe embroidering small flowers and hearts inside the sleeves of Matt's suits or maybe a little sun in a hidden corner of his tie? Until they turn into more elaborate designs such as flowers with different sizes and shapes (Matt obviously being able to feel the patterns made with thread and needle and discern them) and he just realizes happily his partner is back to making art again... I know this is a VERY specific ask and I'm so sorry 😭 you don't have to write it if you don't want to 😭 but it would make me really happy too bc... It's sort of a self insert there to be honest... Well anyhow SORRY FOR THE LONG ASK (and for my poor english) and again HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUEEEEEN!!!!

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AHHH this was such an amazing idea to write! Thank you so much for your request, Sun! This ask was so incredibly detailed I was scared of doing it wrong, so it took me a few days to finish. But don't ever apologize for telling me exactly what you want because getting this request was honestly a joy. I know that feeling of not being able to, in my case write because of my mental health, sometimes for months on end, so this was personal. It makes me all giddy that you trusted me to bring this idea to life. In this house, we support self-indulgence! I tried my best to stay true to your request, so I hope you enjoy! It turned from a Drabble into a whole-ass One Shot, but honestly, you deserve it. (Also I love how you signed off as a sun and wanted me to incorporate embroidering a sun into Matt's clothes, which led to me using that word a lot during this fic. I don't know it just makes me really happy).

Of Suns And Flowers

Event Masterlist | Matt Murdock Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x GN!Reader (no pronouns or physical descriptions used)

Request: A bouquet of… peonies and daisies.

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of mental health issues (depression, anxiety, but nothing explicit), struggling with creativity due to said mental health issues

WC: 1.2k

(This also marks the last request for this event. Wrapping things up with a sweet little treat.)

You haven’t been yourself lately. Depression. Anxiety over being depressed. Work. It’s a toxic cocktail that poisons you from the inside out. When it happens, you retreat into your shell like a scared turtle to somehow survive the million thoughts rushing through your mind. 

Matt doesn’t need you to say the words to know. What hurts him most is sensing the light leave your body whenever the demons take over; they turn every brightly colored aspect of your character and paint them dark. 

The art you usually burn for lies discarded in a box in the closet. Brushes, pencils, empty canvases, and even the expensive collection of oil paint he got you for your birthday remain untouched. 

Matt is aware of how guilty you feel when you can’t create, but every time he asks you, “You want to do some pottery together?” Or anything else that would tickle the light out of you, you just smile and say, “I’m sorry, I’m busy. Maybe tomorrow.” But tomorrow is always the same. 

He knows you’re not fine. Your inspiration has died, and he doesn’t know what to do. He can hold you as you cry. He can try and put out those fires of doubt that consume every fiber of your being, and he can love you, but he doesn’t know how to bring the art back into your life. 

One morning though, when Matt adjusts his tie back at the office, he notices something different. He traces his fingers over the intricate design on the inside of the fabric. At first, he can’t make sense of it. It feels odd, almost, an amalgamation of thread in the shape of a sun. He can’t remember it being there when he first bought it, but he doesn’t question it further—until the strange sensation finds him again on the inside of his suit jacket a few days later. A flower, he’s sure of it. Most of his suits are as old as his law degree, so he’s sure it wasn’t there before. 

To study the sudden appearance of these designs further than the one thought in his mind telling him exactly what he wants them to be, he decides to pull Foggy into his office one day and ask him, “Can you look at something for me?”

His friend raises his eyebrows. “You know I don’t mind helping you, buddy,” he starts, “but I’m not a doctor.”

Matt sighs. “That’s not–” He opens his suit jacket to demonstrate. The thread is now carefully placed right where his left chest pocket lies, in the shape of what he assumes to be a bouquet of lavender, poppies, and daisies. “Here,” he points to it, “See that?” 

Foggy gasps, and he bends down a little to observe the design. “Oh, wow! That’s awesome. Where’d you get that?” 

Still not sure if his senses are betraying him, he runs his finger over it again. “That’s the thing. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I don’t know how it got there. It wasn’t like that when I bought it.”

“Well, they’re flowers,” Foggy states. “Embroidered flowers. Poppies, lavender… and I think those are daisies.”

“Embroidered?” Matt asks.

“Yeah. If you ever find out who did this, tell them to send me the pattern. It’s amaze-balls. Marci would love it.” 

Huh. Embroidery. It doesn’t take him long to put two and two together, and his lips curl into a smile. A broad one, not a smirk. It’s like the sky has opened up and the sun is shining down on Hell’s Kitchen again. On him. On you. And the weight on his shoulders seems to fall off almost instantly.

When he comes home later that evening to find the air smelling of his favorite Indian takeout, he drops his bag by the door and makes his way toward the sound of your heartbeat. It’s getting steadier, he notices it. Your breaths weigh less heavily in the air. The one thing he wanted to be true seems to have actually become true: you’re creating again. 

“Hi,” you greet him with a smile, albeit a little exhausted.

“Hi,” he smiles back, not wasting a second to wrap his arms around your frame and press a chaste kiss to your head. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too. How was work?”

“Lots of paperwork. How was your day?” 

“Same,” you say, “but I picked up dinner on the way home.”

He hums. “I can smell that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You reach for the cutlery to set the table, but Matt catches your wrist mid-action. “Actually, I have something to ask you,” he says.

You swallow. Your pulse starts to race. You’ve been waiting for this moment, he can tell, trying to figure out how long you can get away with this, and once again the sun comes out. 

“Someone’s been tampering with my suits.” He reveals the embroidery on the inside of his suit jacket as if it were news to both of you. “They’re flowers, I asked Foggy, and somehow every item of clothing I own suddenly has one. You have any idea who could’ve done this?”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. “I am so sorry,” you ramble. “I got this new embroidery set, and I got really into it, so I wanted to try out how they’d look on different fabric, and… well, your tie was kinda just there, and then I moved on to your jackets because why not? You know, and–”

“Baby,” Matt laughs, cutting you off with his hands on your shoulders, “Baby, breathe! It’s okay. I’m not mad.” 

You shut your mouth. “Oh.”

“I just… you haven’t touched your arts and crafts in, what, weeks? Months?”

“I felt like trying something new.”

“And you have no idea how happy that makes me,” he says. “These flowers… They feel amazing. Beautiful.”

“They’re a bit crooked,” you try to argue.

He shushes you, his forehead now resting against yours. “You’re making art again. That’s a big deal. And crooked or not, they’re beautiful to me.”

You melt against him. How can you not when the thing you were most insecure about turned out to be a good thing?

“I missed you,” his voice is barely above a whisper, “and I am so proud of you.”

You take his hands off your shoulders and into your own. “Thank you.”

“I mean it, sweetheart.” He kisses your forehead, your eyes, your nose, and then finally, he reaches your lips. The kiss is soft, chaste, but it conveys those three little words he doesn’t even have to utter anymore. 

I love you. 

“You really don’t mind?” you ask then, uncertainty still gnawing away at you. 

“Mind?” he says, almost offended you would ever think that, and he places your hands on his jacket. “This is the best uniform a good lawyer could ask for.”

From that day on, Matt flaunts every little (or big) piece of embroidery on his clothing. Even long after you have crawled your way out of that slump, he keeps flaunting the fact his partner is such a talented artist in everything they do, and when you forward the pattern to Marci, Foggy soon enough joins in on the trend. 

[capybaramurdock]

✦ BURNING IN THE SHAPE OF YOU MASTERLIST ✦

pairing: matt murdock x afab reader setting: dungeons & dragons fantasy au rating: mature warnings: canon-typical violence, religious themes, grief, betrayal, blood mention, divine silence, corrupted justice, moral conflict, slow descent into darkness

A/N: This fic is intended to be Reader Insert. "Silver" is a name given to the reader character by her order, not a given name. The only descriptors used are she/her pronouns and that she has pale, silverish, moonlight hair—a common trait among followers of Selûne in this setting. Please feel free to self-insert as much or as little as you'd like. 🕊️

༺ ⚖️ ༻

Summary: Once, Matt Murdock served justice. As a paladin of Tyr, he lived by the law—until it failed the innocent one time too many. In the silence of unanswered prayers, he fell… and something darker answered. Now bound to a hellforged blade and branded by the archdevil Zariel, he carves a path through corruption with fire and fury—no longer a servant of order, but a weapon of judgment.

Silver, a moon elf paladin of Selûne, is sent to stop him. Her order, the Waning Light, guides the lost home—not to punish, but to redeem. And in Matt, she sees the flicker of a light not yet extinguished.

When she binds him in chains of moonlight, their journey should end. Instead—it begins.

💀 Act I: The Fall (Chapters 1–3)

Chapter 1 – The Fall: ⚖️

Chapter 2 – Ashen Oath: 🗡️

Chapter 3 – Chains of Moonlight ⛓️

✯ Act II: Holy Custody (Chapters 4–6)

Chapter 4 – Mercy in Silence 🛐

Chapter 5 – Embers & Echoes 😠

Chapter 6 – The Breaking Point 💔

🌘 Act III: The Unraveling (Chapters 7–9)

Chapter 7 – Dreams of Fire 💭

Chapter 8 – When Light Falters ⚔️

Chapter 9 – Where Shadows Wait 🌒

🌕 Act IV: The Trial (Chapters 10–12)

Chapter 10 – Kindling the Dawn 🌸

Chapter 11 – A New Oath 🌞

Chapter 12 – Burn Bright for Me 💞

✩ Act V: The Dawn (Chapters 13–15)

Chapter 13 – As One Flame 🔥

Chapter 14 – The Light That Remains 🌅

Chapter 15 – In the Shape of You 💗

💕Matt and Silver’s Character Sheets💕