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bellaxgiornata · 4 months ago

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Under the Influence

Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader Word Count: 2.8k [Tuna-Tober Masterlist]

Tuna-Tober Prompt: Drunken Confession

Warnings/tags: 18+; Fluff, light humor, drunk Reader, pining

Summary: Drunk after a girl's night out, you accidentally slip up about your feelings for Matt.

a/n: This fic is literally months overdue, but it was written and I finally was able to edit it and share. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Stumbling into your apartment, you felt far less capable of walking in the heels you’d put on earlier than when you'd first slipped them on and left to grab drinks with your friends. But tonight's girl's night out with everyone had been long overdue with how constantly busy everyone had been, which meant you'd accidentally gone a little overboard with the drinks. In all honesty, you’d drank a bit more than you usually did whenever you went out with Foggy, Marci, Karen, and Matt to Josie’s on your usual Thursday night outs. So now, admittedly, you were a bit drunk.

Slipping out of your heels after you shut your apartment door, you balanced yourself with a hand against the wall. The room around you spun ever so slightly and you tried to blink away the sensation, focusing on removing the uncomfortable shoes from your aching feet one at a time. It had been so long that you’d forgotten just how painful it was to go out drinking and dancing in heels. Shoving your shoes to the side with a foot once they were off, you pushed yourself off of the wall and nearly tripped over your own feet in the process of turning around.

“Far, far too much alcohol,” you mumbled to yourself.

Barefoot, you sluggishly padded your way over to the kitchen and stopped in front of your fridge, pulling the door open to retrieve a bottle of water from the side door. You twisted off the cap, letting the fridge door fall softly shut as you drew the bottle up to your lips. Beginning to chug the cold liquid down in the hopes that it would help to ease your growing headache, you closed your eyes and internally begged the room to spin less–or at least slower.

Lowering the bottle from your lips, you wiped the back of your other hand across your damp mouth, feeling your exhaustion from the evening beginning to finally settle into you. But just as your body had begun to relax, a sound from outside your living room window quickly caught your attention and caused your eyes to snap back open. Growing alert, your head darted over your shoulder in a delayed response, the room once more spinning in your vision as you squinted at where you thought you’d heard the noise. Another metal groan from your fire escape met your ears and a brief surge of fear rushed through you.

“No need to panic,” Matt's familiar and somewhat muffled voice called out from behind the glass. “It’s just me.”

You almost immediately relaxed at the sight of him rising to his full height on the dark fire escape. Expelling a soft sigh of relief, a little smile slipped its way onto your lips next, thrilled that he was here even if you hadn’t been expecting a visit from your masked best friend this evening.

“Why’re you out there?” you called back.

“Because I'm…on patrol?” he answered through the glass.

Your grin grew wider as you turned more fully towards the window in your living room, the red form of him more noticeable with how he was standing on your fire escape just beside your window, the faint light from inside your apartment washing over him. Or rather washing over the two red forms of him, but you assumed the second was due to the alcohol in your system and not the sudden existence of a second Daredevil.

“You can come in,” you called out again, taking a few unsteady steps towards the window before immediately halting and grabbing onto your kitchen counter to steady yourself. “‘S’always unlocked for you,” you slurred out. “Unless you're–you're waiting for me to play you a theme song to enter to.”

“Theme song?” Matt’s confused voice called back.

“Y’know,” you continued, an amused grin pulling at your lips, “like if–if superheroes had a theme song or…something.”

You caught the sound of his laughter from out on your fire escape, the noise drawing forth a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest. You loved making him laugh.

“I’m not even going to ask what you’d suggest that would be right now,” he called back.

Teetering unsteadily on your feet, one hand still clutching the kitchen counter to keep yourself upright as your other hand still held onto the cold bottle of water, you giggled at the idea as he raised your window wide enough to climb through. The first song that came to mind was “Birthday Cake” by Rihanna, most likely due to it having been one of the last songs playing before you left the bar tonight, but also because you’d noticed how nice of an ass Matt had from the moment you met him–even if that was not what the song was about. Though the idea of him easily slipping through your window right now as that song played had you biting your bottom lip and fighting down a laugh. But of course Matt's sensitive ears still caught the sound, his head darting up before he smiled in your direction. A pang of sadness punched you in the gut at the sight of his charming smile beneath his cowl.

Why was he only your friend?

“Keeping this unlocked just for me?” he asked, righting himself in your living room before turning and closing the window after himself, shutting the sounds of the city back out of your apartment. “I'm touched but also now greatly concerned about your safety,” he teased as he focused back on you. “You're just on the third floor, don't assume I'm the only one willing to risk climbing up that.”

Your eyes followed the movement of his gloved hand, watching as he gestured at the fire escape behind himself. Before you had a chance to respond, the sound of his voice drew your vision back to the red lenses of his cowl, your hand gripping the counter even tighter in your grasp.

“But a theme song?” he asked in amusement. “Really? How much have you had to drink tonight?”

You laughed lightly, the thought of that particular song being the theme song for Matt's alter ego becoming more entertaining by the second.

“You're so dramatic,” you teased back, your words slurring together a bit as you ignored that little ache in your chest at the continued sight of his handsome smile. “You'd definitely have a theme song playing as you enter places.”

His head cocked curiously to the side at your comment and you couldn’t resist the grin at the sight. You always thought his head tilts were adorable; the way he listened closer to what you were saying often reminded you of a dog. The image of him on all fours hovering over you in bed briefly surfaced in your mind at the thought and you felt your pulse accelerate. Faintly through the haze of alcohol you caught the briefest twitch of his lips before he was speaking again.

“Excuse me, but, dramatic?” he shot back.

His voice quickly pulled you back from the mental image in your mind and you felt your face growing flushed. You hoped he’d blame the alcohol for the shift in your body as you nodded, the movement causing Matt to once more double in your vision.

“Yeah, I mean you–you're wearing a costume, Matt,” you said as you gestured at him. “That's pretty dramatic.”

He placed a hand against his chest, your eyes following the movement. You knew how strong and solid that chest was from the few times you'd had an excuse to hug him, but now you were itching to place your hand against it, too. Or to run your hand along the mysterious material of his tight-fitting suit in general.

“This is armor,” he pointed out simply. “It's not a costume.”

His voice once more drew you out of your thoughts, your attention returning to his mouth. The earnestness in his words had you biting your lip and fighting back another giggle. You noticed his smile had grown at the sound, his ears having still caught the noise.

“Matt, it–it has horns,” you countered, biting back a smile.

The corner of his lip twitched at your comment. “Fair point,” he agreed. “But you are drunk.”

“And that–” you said, swinging a finger towards his chest, “–is a poor change of topic.”

His head further canted to the side, his lips straightening along his face. “From the ever so important costume discussion?” he asked.

“No,” you said, setting your half-empty water bottle down and taking a step towards him. You stumbled and threw a hand out, catching yourself on the counter beside yourself with it again. “From why you're here.”

An amused chuckle rumbled out of him and you swore the sound itself vibrated through your entire body. Dammit, you would never cease loving being the cause of his laughter, even if somewhere in your mind you were aware he was laughing at you a little right now.

“Sweetheart,” he began, “we weren't discussing that even remotely. I can’t change the subject from a subject we weren't even on in the first place. I mean I know I smelt the alcohol on you from the sidewalk but…you’re far drunker than I anticipated.”

A heat ignited in your stomach at the term of endearment Matt occasionally threw out at you, your ears hardly hearing much else he’d said. Matt and you had only ever been friends, and in the years you'd known him he'd never called anyone else ‘sweetheart’ before–at least, not from what you'd ever heard. It both confused and excited you every time he called you that, the term slipping out of his mouth almost as if by accident each time.

“I uhm,” you began, pausing as your inebriated brain tried to catch up. “I may have…drank quite a bit tonight.”

Matt expelled a breathy laugh, one hand finally reaching up to remove the cowl from his head. You watched with bated breath as his handsome face revealed itself to you in the dim light of your living room. His other gloved hand reached up, combing through his dark strands of hair. Your heart clenched at the sight of how beautiful he was–as if you needed the reminder right now when you were about to go to sleep alone and drunk.

“I know,” Matt told you.

He took a step towards your coffee table and placed the cowl down on it, the gesture so casual that you wished it happened more often. Licking your lips nervously, you forced your gaze to return to Matt’s face once he began speaking again.

“You mentioned going out tonight, so I figured I’d make sure you got home safe,” he told you. “It wasn’t a busy night so I came up to check on you once I noticed just how much you smelled like alcohol. Wanted to make sure you were doing alright.”

“Oh,” you breathed out, surprised at his concern. “You–you didn’t have to…”

He grinned back, shrugging a shoulder. “I know,” he agreed. “I wanted to.” His expression shifted to something softer, his eyes focusing down on your body. “You sound very tired though. Maybe you should get to bed?”

Nodding your head, the room once more spun around you as you tried to push away that part of your brain which was still stuck on the way he’d called you ‘sweetheart.’ There was a nagging thought somewhere in your brain telling you that him showing up like this was something he never did for your other friends. Instead of focusing on that, you took a few steps towards your living room in an attempt to make it to your bedroom, but you swayed so much that your foot caught along a floorboard and began your inevitable drunk descent to the floor.

Matt immediately darted forward as you'd begun to fall, his gloved hands catching you by the shoulders in a tight grip before you'd gotten too far. Your hands instinctively flew up in response, grabbing onto Matt’s biceps to further steady yourself as your eyes snapped shut, a wave of dizziness rolling through you. Somewhere in your mind, though, you still noted how firm his muscles were beneath your death grip.

“Okay, you’re incredibly drunk, sweetheart,” Matt teased, your ears catching the affection in his voice and the term of endearment again. “Maybe I should help you.”

Swallowing hard, you slowly opened your eyes. His face was right before yours, the concern written on his expression was plain as day even with the hint of amusement. For a moment you lost yourself staring at him though, almost as if you were in a trance examining the laugh lines beside his eyes and the flecks of color inside of them as they focused on your chin. He had the prettiest eyes.

“You alright?” he asked.

Blinking rapidly, you realize you’d just been openly gawking at him. Flushing, you nodded and tried to right yourself, your hands releasing his biceps. “Yeah, sorry,” you muttered.

Matt didn’t completely release his hold on you, though he did instead wrap one of his arms around your shoulders as he began to help guide you through your living room and over towards your bedroom. The walk felt like it was longer than it really was with your mind hyper-focused on the weight of his arm around you, gently leading you across your apartment and into your bedroom.

When you reached your bed, Matt’s gloved hand darted out and pulled back the bed sheets before you had a chance. Not feeling as if you could easily slip out of the dress you’d worn tonight, and far too shy to ask Matt for help with something like that, you carefully climbed up into your bed still dressed in it. Sliding your legs beneath the sheets, your earlier exhaustion once more washed over you, your eyelids growing heavy as you began to lower your head down to the pillow. Beside the bed, Matt gently tugged the blankets up and over you, a hard to read expression on his face that was a vast difference to the amused one he’d had when he first showed up. Briefly you wondered what was on his mind before the thought vanished.

��You should get some rest,” Matt said softly, tucking you in. “You’re going to be feeling that in the morning, I can promise you that.”

Groaning at the truth in his statement, you rolled onto your side towards him. “I hate that you’re right,” you grumbled.

He chuckled lightly, the sound drawing a faint smile to your lips as you continued to stare up at him. The urge to reach out and touch him grew so strong that you had to force your hand to hold onto the sheets of your bed, fisting the material in your fingers. What you wouldn't give to trace the line of that jaw, to feel the scratch of his stubble along your fingertips.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Get some sleep.”

Eyes growing half-lidded, you emitted a discontented groan at his words. You much preferred the idea of staring at his handsome face with that confusing expression on it instead. Matt’s amused chuckle met your ears in response.

“You’re clearly exhausted, are you really going to fight me on going to sleep?” he asked.

The words tumbled out of your mouth in a tired jumble, your brain too exhausted and inebriated to know what you’d even said even after you’d said it.

“I’d rather look at you.”

Somewhere in your mind, you registered that Matt had stiffened beside your bed. A soft, warm look grew in his eyes as he gazed down at you lying there, but you weren’t fully aware of everything coming out of your mouth at this point, so the words only continued to spill out.

“‘Cause you’re so beautiful,” you continued. “And I like looking at you. I could stare at you all night, really.”

Matt paused for a moment, a crease forming between his brows. Silence momentarily fell over the bedroom as the exhaustion continued to drag you under.

“You…like looking at me?” he hesitantly asked.

Eyelids lowering against your will, you faintly nodded against the pillow. “Mhmm,” you hummed out, sleep gradually beginning to take you. “Always…liked you.”

“You–you have?” Matt questioned in surprise.

Barely awake, you hummed out an affirmative. “Shame we’re just…friends,” you murmured.

You swore you felt something rough brush gently along the side of your cheek, but with your eyes closed you couldn’t tell if you’d imagined it or not. And then just as quickly afterwards, you’d fallen asleep.

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#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #daredevil #Tuna-Tober 2024

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savemefromanepicoftimewasted · 1 month ago

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Forgive me father, for I have sinned

Matt Murdock X F!Reader

He needed to get to you, to make sure that no one had managed to lay even a single finger on your head. The sound of his steps was nearly silent as he lunged over the side, dropping down harshly onto the fire escape. Breath foggy, a reminder of just how close he’d come to losing everything tonight.

A/n: hello! It’s been a while since I’ve posted, and it’s been even longer since it’s been a marvel fic, this is just Matt being a slut if I’m honest

Warnings: smuuuuut, mentions of bodily injuries, mentions of blood, mentions of death

The wind was sharp, the cold stinging the open cuts that seemed to multiply as he stood atop the building. His heart was still beating, for now.

Lips pulled back into a snarl, fingers digging into the metal of the stairway, he vaulted over, pulling himself higher until he reached his apartment. He stopped, listening closely for your heartbeat.

Thump…thump…thump.

You were sound asleep, soft breaths echoing inside his bedroom as you slowly rolled over. You didn’t need to see him like this, like a monster.

It didn’t matter how often you rebuked that statement, claimed he was better than he’d ever seen himself. Daredevil was a monster inside and out, a way to express himself without causing harm to those he loved most. After he’d lost Foggy, things were blurry, as if he was remembering everything through a thick veil. Nothing made sense anymore, a reminder of how quickly things could be ripped from his hands.

Karen left not long after the funeral, stating she couldn’t stay in the same place he’d been murdered. Matt hadn’t left his apartment during those few weeks, his hands still stained with his best friend's blood. Sure, Dex might be behind bars for the remainder of his life, but it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

He opened the door slowly, his attention focused solely on you as the latch shut with a soft click. Your breathing hadn’t so much as shifted, letting him know he could head down without worry.

You’d nearly killed someone tonight, someone that has a family they go home to.

Matt’s heart slammed into his chest as he grabbed onto the handrail, heel nearly slipping out from underneath.

“No, he,” Matt cleared his throat, the skin of his knuckles breaking open once more as he struggled to compose himself.

Does she know what you do at night? How do you attempt to save the city by nearly killing people? Innocent lives will be lost by your hands.

“No!” Matt reached up, harshly yanking off the mask that kept his identity hidden from the rest of the world.

The air stilled as the cool air of the apartment began to brush over his heated skin, the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead in the moonlight. The red lenses of his helmet dimly, the mask held loosely in his hands, fingers curled ever so slightly.

How could he ever begin to believe that, even for a moment, he wasn’t the true monster of the world? His sins spreading far and wide, the inky blackness that slowly corrupted him sinking into those he cared for most. Foggy had already been ripped from his hands, the reminder that he couldn’t be by his side as he took his last breath, his final heartbeat echoing in Matt’s mind. Was he a monster for trying to keep the city streets safe? Or was he no better than the men he was going after?

“I’m nothing like them,” his steps were silent as he reached the base floor, movements fluid as he stepped over to the chest that normally hid his suit.

He halted in his haste to strip down as you shifted in bed, the sound of the silk sheets rubbing against your soft skin, a breathy sigh slipping through your lips.

His blood burned hotter in his veins, hands nearly ripping the suit off in his haste to shove it, none to kindly, into the case. The only sound he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, the blood rushing like rapid waters.

Her skin will be tainted with your sins, Matthew, are you ready to damn her as well? To bring her to hell alongside you to burn for eternity?

Matt growled low in his chest, hands clenched into fists as he stood nearly naked before the chest. His body littered with bruises that would heal before he could begin to worry about them. Feet turning towards the bedroom, his heart raced as he slowed the closer he got to the bed.

Fingertips traced over the soft material, calluses catching ever so slightly on the barely frayed edges. Your breath was slow, heart beating slow and steady. An angel lying before him.

“My darling,” his voice was soft as he gripped onto the blanket covering your body, slowly sliding it away until you were bared before the world.

Though he couldn’t see your body properly, Matt knew you looked ethereal bathed in the soft moonlight. Breath catching in his throat, his brow furrowed as he realized you’d gone to bed nude, the taste of your arousal thick in the air.

Swallowing thickly he slowly crawled onto the bed, listening intently for any change in your heartbeat. Hands pried open your thighs further, his lips trailing soft kisses along your smooth skin. Teeth sinking into the supple flesh of your thighs.

Your head twisted around on the pillow, thighs pressing against his ears as you attempted to both escape, and relish in the sensations. His tongue lapped at the mark, groaning low in his throat as he trailed the appendage closer to your soaked core.

Fuck, he’s never smelt something so divine in his life.

His eyes slipped closed as his lips wrapped around your swollen clit, suckling gently. Your essence coated his tongue like the sweetest candy, a delicious treat he’d gladly let himself drown in if you’d let him. His palms slid up to press against your belly, pressing your body into the mattress before sliding up to your chest.

Your legs squeezed tighter, eyes flicking back and forth behind your closed lids. Matt never left you unsatisfied, it was egregious that anyone ever dared utter the words around him. His tongue trailed down to your slick entrance, sliding in and curling up towards your g-spot.

Though your eyes remained closed, Matt could feel the way your cunt tightened around his tongue, your orgasm soaking his mouth and chin. He palmed your chest gently, thumbs sliding over your nipples as he felt the skin tighten beneath his touch. He pressed closer, sliding his tongue back up to your overly sensitive clit, practically able to feel your heartbeat through it.

Subconsciously he began to utter prayers, tongue and lips assaulting your clit. Your thighs clamped around his head harshly, an intense scream ripping free from your chest, your eyes flying open as you looked down at Matt.

“Fuck, baby,” your thighs shook as you ran a hand through his hair, gently gripping the soft strands as he ate you out as if it were his final meal.

It was almost as if Matt was deafened by everything surrounding him, his hands squeezing your chest as he lapped his tongue harder against your clit. Your eyes rolled back as a second orgasm washed over you, hands pulling harshly.

“Baby, please,” you could hardly catch your breath, heart racing as you tried to come down from the intense climax of your second orgasm.

Normally Matt would never push you past your limit, he loved you too much to ever hurt you. However, tonight was nothing like normal. His palms slid from your chest, your nipples sore and aching as he grabbed the fat of your thighs and ass, pushing you closer to his face as he rolled onto his back. Your eyes flew open as you realized exactly what he’d wanted.

“Jesus,” your voice was barely above a whisper, hips grinding down against his mouth.

Matt gripped your thighs harder, moaning against your skin as your essence dripped down onto his jaw. His cock strained against the tight fabric of his briefs, the tip leaking as he drank you in. His hands traced up your spine, pushing your body forward so his nose grazed your clit.

Your head dropped between your shoulders as you came for a third time, tears dripping down your cheeks as you struggled to keep yourself upright.

“Matty,” you gripped the headboard, carefully pulling yourself up and off before plopping down onto the bed.

His eyes were closed in bliss, chest rising and falling harshly as he licked his lips of your taste. Arousal flooded your body as you watched him, ignoring how battered his body was, again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t wake you,” Matt let his eyes open slowly, looking over in your general area.

“Trust me, that was an amazing wake up call,” you’d finally managed to catch your breath, a soft laugh slipping out.

He couldn’t help but smile, eyes crinkling as he reached up to gently graze his fingers over your thigh. You’d never seen him look so beautiful before.

“However, it looks like you need some help,” you scooted down the bed, hooking your fingers into the fabric of his briefs before pulling them down and off.

His cock slapped against his stomach with a wet slap, precum seeping into the thick hair on his stomach. The skin was nearly purple, hot to the touch as you gently stroked him.

“Fu-fuck!” His back arched off the bed, hands gripping onto the sheets as he did his best not to cum right then and there.

You cooed softly, leaning down to press a kiss to the base of his throat, lips trailing down his chest and stomach before reaching the tip of his cock. Taking him fully in hand, you wrapped your lips around him, giving gently kitten licks as you kept your eyes on him.

Matt couldn’t contain the guttural moans that echoed inside the bedroom, hands blindly searching for you as his hand tangled in your hair. You immediately pulled off his cock, squeezing the base as a warning.

“You’re going to behave and keep your hands to yourself, do I make myself clear?” You reached back with your free hand, untangling his hand from your hair.

One thing no one would ever expect to find out, is that Matthew Murdock, is an absolute sub.

“Yes miss,” Matt’s throat felt tight as you began to take control, laying his hands down onto the sheets.

You watched him for a moment to ensure he wouldn’t pull another stunt as he just had, leaning down to take him back into your mouth once more. He could hardly focus on anything other than how your tongue felt tracing over the underside of his cock. The air felt thick, drowning the both of you as Matt tried to focus on not cumming. You pulled off with a smirk, fingers sliding down to gently cup and squeeze his balls.

“You’re doing so good for me, bet you wanna cum, huh?” Your tone was condescending, teasing in a way that riled Matt up intensely.

He nodded hastily, eyes squeezed shut as his body shook from head to toe.

“Please,” his breath caught in his throat as your hand wrapped around his cock once more, pumping quickly.

Before he could utter a single word, even a warning, he was cumming over your hand, cock throbbing intensely as he whimpered.

“Look at that, such a good boy for me,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek as your hand continued to stroke his cock.

Matt felt his breathing pick-up as the intensity of his orgasm began to slow, the overstimulation setting in. His lips parted to bed for a reprieve, to beg you to stop if for even just a moment.

“C’mon, I know you’ve got one more in you,” you giggled, letting his cock lie against his stomach as you straddled his lap. He hadn’t even softened in the slightest.

His hands slid to your thighs, thighs shaking as you dragged your soak cunt along the underside of his cock.

“Baby, fuck, baby please,” Matt was ready to plead, to pray to any god that would listen if it meant sinking in to your heat.

You ignored him, hands pressed against his chest as you rocked your hips slower, the tip of his cock pressing harder against his stomach each time. To anyone eavesdropping it would be obvious what was happening, a man having what could only be considered the most intense orgasm of his life.

“I’m not stopping until I am done, do I make myself clear?” You pushed yourself up onto your knees, taking his cock in hand as you slowly sank down onto him.

“Ye-yes, ma’am,” Matt nearly went cross eyed as your heat enveloped him, jaw slack as he sighed happily.

Your movements were slow, deliberate in a sense as you took his hands off your thighs, sliding them up to your chest. Matt wasted no time in pinching and squeezing your nipples, thumbs rolling over the skin.

“So beautiful,” Matt could write sonnets about how beautiful he found you, fingers tracing gently over your skin as he quickly pushed himself up, pulling your bodies flush together.

“I love you,” you pressed your foreheads together, panting softly against his skin as you rocked your hips faster, his cock gliding deliciously against your tight walls.

“I love you too,” Matt leaned up, pressing a kiss to your lips, arms wrapping around your waist as he fucked up into you.

You dug your nails into his shoulder with a loud cry, moaning against his mouth as you struggled to keep up with his intensity. He cupped your jaw, pressing kisses along the skin as he chased your orgasm, your cunt tightening around him.

“Let go for me, come all over my cock sweetheart,” Matt gently nipped at your neck, slamming his cock in once, twice, thrice before you came all over his cock, your body locking up as Matt’s eyes squeezed shut once more, his hot cum filling your sore pussy.

He slowed his thrusts before stilling completely, your bodies still fully connected as he pulled away from your throat.

“Are you okay?” Matt pressed kisses all over your face, the fear that he could’ve hurt you in any way tearing at his soul.

“I’m doing fantastic, might not have feeling in my legs right now,” you laughed against his hair, fingers gently caressing the indents from your nails.

He carefully laid you down, pulling out slowly before making his way into the bathroom to get a damp washcloth. You watched as he came back into the bedroom, body covered in a light sheen of sweat as well as cum sticking in the hair covering his chest and stomach.

“Just warn me if I’m too rough, okay?” Matt had always been gentle when it came to aftercare, even if you didn’t have such intense sex.

The cloth was warm as it pressed to your core, cleaning up your mixed fluids. Normally he’d toss the cloth into the hamper to be dealt with later, instead he folded it over, cleaning off the inside of your thighs slowly, meticulously.

“Don’t forget yourself,” your eyes trailed down his chest slowly, even when you were on the brink of exhaustion you couldn’t get enough of him.

“I was thinking a shower would do us some good, if you’d be okay with that,” Matt leaned up, tossing the washcloth into the hamper before sitting on the bed beside your hip.

You mulled it over in your mind for a brief moment, could you even handle standing up long enough to get clean? Then again a shower would actually get you clean.

“Yeah, let’s take a shower,” you sat up slowly, not wanting to worry Matt by making yourself dizzy.

Matt stood up, lifting you up bridal style before heading into the bathroom. The room wasn’t that big, especially not for two people to fit comfortably. Carefully setting you down onto the sink he turned back towards the shower, turning it on and stepping back to let it heat up.

“Be more careful next time, okay?” You traced your fingers along his spine, the fresh bruising more obvious in the dim lighting.

“I’ll try, I promise,” Matt turned to face you, hands pressed on the sink on either side of you.

You pulled him into a soft kiss, lips moving languidly with his own as your chests pressed flush together. The taste of yourself lingered faintly on his mouth, your skin heating up at the recent memory.

As the room began to fill with steam Matt pulled from the kiss, his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifted you up.

“Shall we?” His lips pulled into a smirk as he stepped into the small shower, slowly setting you down.

“My, my Mr Murdock,” you giggled, resting your hands against his chest as the water glided over your skin.

Matt didn’t let his hands stray far, fingers tracing over every dip and curve that he could reach. Your own hands traced along his chest.

Soft words were whispered between the pair as Matt carefully washed your hair, fingers scratching at your scalp as you did your best to keep your eyes open.

God damn that man and his amazing hands.

He didn’t so much as let you lift a finger as he scrubbed your body from head to toe, being more gentle on any areas that could be sore from earlier. Never protesting as you grabbed his own soap, scrubbing down his body with a bright smile.

Matt felt his chest tighten as you turned to rinse off the loofah, your back pressed against him. He’d never thought he’d have something so domestic, so loving.

“Marry me,” the words slipped out before he could stop them, his heart pounding in his chest.

Your hands stopped altogether as you looked up at him from over your shoulder, eyes wide.

“Really?” Could this be a joke? A slip of the tongue, and Matt hadn’t realized his mistake yet?

“Yes, I have a ring hidden away, I know I’m asking you in the most unconventional way possible, but I want to marry you,” Matt listened to your heartbeat, hearing how it beat harshly behind your ribs.

You waited for a moment, gathering your thoughts as tears welled up into your eyes, a bright smile pulling up your lips.

“Yes!” You didn’t waste a second, turning to face him as you threw your arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Matt was stunned for a brief moment, mind slowly catching up that you’d said yes! His arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you in tight, kissing you back hastily. You’d actually said yes to marrying him, the woman he couldn’t believe at times had chosen him.

“I fucking love you,” he pulled free from the kiss, hands squeezing your soft flesh.

“I love you too,” you laughed through a sob, tears mixing with the water from the shower head.

He reached back, shutting off the water so that you could both get out and head back to your bedroom.

He scrubbed your body town with a towel, hands moving faster than you’d seen them before. Your giggles echoing in the small bathroom as you watched him. Matt smiled as he wrapped you in the towel, wrapping one around his own waist.

“Go sit, I have to get the ring,” Matt patted your ass gently, making his way out to the chest he’d hastily shoved his suit into earlier.

This night he was more than thankful you never pried into his lifestyle as Daredevil, you would’ve found the ring months ago, ruining the surprise. Grabbing the small box he held it tightly in his hand, making his way back to the bedroom.

You had somehow managed to change the sheets while Matt was busy, having changed them to clean, dry sheets.

“You’re too perfect for me,” he smiled, kneeling down in front of you before popping open the box.

Your jaw dropped open as you saw how gorgeous the ring was. Had he somehow found your Pinterest and given it to a jeweler to perfect a ring for you? That seemed like the only logical explanation.

“Matt, oh my god,” you pressed a hand to your mouth as he carefully pulled the ring free, grabbing your left hand before finding your ring finger, sliding the cool band over your skin.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together. You make me the happiest man alive,” as the ring settled on the base of your finger you couldn’t stop staring at it.

This was going to be your forever.

And you couldn’t wait to start the beginning of forever.

tags: @gaylemonshark @mel-thefrog

#matt murdock #matthew murdock #ddba #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x y/n #daredevil #daredevil fic #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil fandom #matt murdock daredevil

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 6 days ago

Text

the giordanos

buttercup, chapter fourteen

a/n: all aboard to angst city!!! choo choo, bitch! 🚂

summary: “I still don’t believe you,” he scoffed lightly, “and even so, I can’t just let you go. Your little devil has been sniffing around where he shouldn’t be. There has to be some consequences,” he spat, tapping the heft pliers in his other palm, “so even if you can’t give us any information about him, then maybe you could just become a message, cute as you may be…”

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, lots of angst, the black daredevil suit, kidnapping, torture, violence, injuries, blood, crying, mafia drama

word count: 1324

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“Just drop the act already,” the gangster muttered as you doubled over in the chair you were bound to, crimson slowly leaking from your lips as you panted for pained breaths, “we know, we’ve seen him, multiple times, stop by your little bakery after closing hours and getting something very different than what you’re selling out front…” he uttered of the habit Matthew had formed, stopping by to check up on you whenever you worked a late shift, “so, come on, just tell us. Tell us, and this will all be over,” he knelt down before you to get into your hazy field of vision, “what is his name? Your little boyfriend in the mask.”

Rain pounded against the dark windows of the vacant warehouse you’d been taken to. Shifting carefully against the tight ropes around you, you tilted your chin up to face the criminal directly.

“I–… I already told you,” a whimper escaped you as your bloodshot eyes met his dark ones, “I don’t know–, ah!” your words promptly faltered as one of the goons off to the side, the pair who’d snatched you from the bakery late the night prior, raised a rag back up against your skin before cracking a pipe against your shoulder, nearly dislocating it from the hit, though the fabric barrier prevented the skin from splitting too much, making their pending clean up job much less gory.

“Is it the hitting?” the mobster rose from his knees as you puffed for air to handle the agony, “is that not working for you?” his tone stayed chillingly casual, “because I can switch it up if that’d help, whatever floats your boat, sweet cheeks. Let’s see here…” he murmured as he then neared a table close by and let his gaze flicker across the supplies he had previously organised in a neat line. Picking up a pair of pliers, he then stared at the tip and snapped it a few times, biting the air, before his glance shifted back upon you, “maybe if you lost a few fingernails, then you’d become more talkative, huh?”

“No! Please!” you sobbed, instinctively tilting back as he once again neared, even though you knew you had nowhere to run, “just let me go, I don’t know anything!”

“I still don’t believe you,” he scoffed lightly, “and even so, I can’t just let you go. Your little devil has been sniffing around where he shouldn’t be. There has to be some consequences,” he spat, tapping the heft pliers in his other palm, “so even if you can’t give us any information about him, then maybe you could just become a message, cute as you may be…”

But as he then grasped one of your hands, restrained to the armrest of the chair, a ruckus suddenly sounded from the open doorway behind him, the remnants of a snuffed-out yelp from one of the gangsters down the hall.

Once he’d cast an alarmed glare over his shoulder, the man who’d done most of the talking then twisted towards the two mobsters off to the side and barked, “go see what’s going on.”

“Yes, boss,” one of them conjured a small knife before the pair disappeared further into the cold building.

You barely managed to suck in a breath before another loud scuffle then sounded before silence took its place and drowned out the entire warehouse.

The remaining gangster before you then tossed the pliers in his palm before getting out his gun and cocking it before the then exiting the room as well, leaving you all alone the echo of your torture.

A gasp filled up your lungs as you soon heard a deafening gunshot ring out, making you tremble against the itchy ropes. Footsteps then found your ears, making all of your aching muscles clench even tighter in anticipation of the mobster’s return, but instead, the figure who appeared in the doorway caused all of the air to slip from your lungs at once.

Clad in his black suit, it clung to Matthew’s frame like a second skin from the rain that was pouring down outside. Shadowing the doorway for a moment, his shoulders shifted jaggedly with every laboured breath he sucked in.

And as your lungs finally expanded once more in a breath, you watched with blurry eyes as he rushed towards you, swiftly kneeling down in front of you before his hands, which had seconds earlier accomplished unspeakable things, floated up to gently cup your tear-soaked cheeks.

His touch then drifted down to the ropes around your frame, though as he tried to undo them, a gravelly hiss swiftly escaped him as he tugged at the tight knots, “shit.”

Letting his efforts cease, his touch stayed glued to you as he then concentrated a moment, tilting his head, before he then shifted towards the table where all of the instruments were layed out. Grabbing a small switchblade, Matt then returned to your side and first sliced through the ropes that looped around the length of your forearms, fastening them both to the chair’s armrests, before he then twisted to free you from the ones enveloping your ankles.

And as soon as he cut through the last of your restraints, your frame collapsed down against him. Wrapping his strong arms around you and hugging you tight, your own hands only managed to weakly curl up against his chest as they trembled against him.

“Shh, I’ve got you…” he continued to catch his breath, panting against the crown of your head as sobs billowed out of you, “I’m here now…”

“I knew you’d come for me,” your tears joined the raindrops that still clung to him and soaked his shoulder further, “I knew it…”

His forehead then bowed down to rest against your own and stayed there a moment before he slowly shifted to press a peck against it.

“Can you stand?” he soon asked, though when you then attempted to get up from the chair, you swiftly lost your balance as your fatigue smacked you in the face and you nearly passed out, “woaw,” he promptly picked you up, scooping you into his arms before you could take a nosedive, “I’ve got you, it’s okay…”

The shock hadn’t worn off and let your body stop its violent shaking even after you’d lost track of how long you’d sat on the couch in the middle of your neighbour’s apartment.

Tears still silently rolled down your cheeks as Matthew helped you into some dry clothes, the both of you being drenched by the downpour you’d just trekked through.

Your injuries, thankfully, weren’t as horrific as they could have been. A few kicks and nasty bruises, a black eye, the ache in your empty belly and dryness in your sore throat, but nothing physical you couldn’t recover from in due time.

Though as you sat there on the couch, melted down against Matthew’s broad frame beside you as he held you in his arms and listened closely as your heartbeat gradually began to slow, the thought of shifting, even just a few meters into the bedroom, made you feel like the dam inside of you would burst right back open. So instead, you simply stayed right there, frozen in the embrace, in hopes that your body would soon surrender and let itself truly feel that it was all over.

But then, as the sun began to peek over the skyline, and Matthew finally seized his whispered apologies, profusely placing the blame solely on himself, you instead heard him murmur into your ear, “I’d like you to stay here…” he uttered slowly, “just until I’ve taken care of them,” his thumb shifted just an inch, gently sweeping across your skin as if you were made out of glass, “I can’t–…” his voice then suddenly broke, causing you to blink up at him, “I need to know you’re safe,” desperation began to wobble his tone, “please…”

#lea’s writing #buttercup series #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fanfic #matthew murdock imagine #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #matt murdock series #matthew murdock x reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock angst #matt murdock hurt/comfort

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marifilue · 3 months ago

Text

Attempted

Wordcount: 1.5k

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader (No use of y/n)

Oneshot: Takes place at Daredevil Season 3, where Matt faked his death. You find him in his lowest point.

Tags/Warnings: Mention of su!cide attempt, angst with comfort, blood, violence, established relationship.

You knew Matt was alive. At least, two weeks after you believed he was dead when a twenty-story building collapsed on top of him.

That was the longest two weeks of your life. Two weeks of waking up to the same nightmare, two weeks of staring at the empty side of your bed, two weeks of waiting for a ghost.

Denial clung to your bones like a second skin—no body was ever found, no trace of him beyond fragments of his suit, scattered among the rubble. No DNA. No sign of life.

It was as if Matt Murdock had never existed.

Then, one random Tuesday morning, Father Langton approached you. He didn’t have much to offer—just a few quiet words, hesitant but weighted with meaning.

Matthew was alive. Matthew was hiding beneath Clinton Church.

Your world cracked wide open.

You could have dropped to your knees, could have broken down right then and there. Gratitude flooded your veins, burned behind your ribs. And yet, before you could run to him, before you could beg for proof, Father Langton shook his head.

Let it be.

He said Matt needed time. That it would be easier for everyone. That if you truly loved him, you’d wait.

Three months passed.

Three months, and Matt never reached out—not to you, not to Foggy, not to Karen.

You've saw him around. Like a ghost, drifting through Manhattan, blending into the crowd. Jacket pulled tight, cap drawn low, always listening, always observing. Planning his next move.

Tonight, after your night shift, you walked home, the cold New York night never kind as the clock neared ten. Spotting Matt was the last thing on your mind. But then you heard voices—men, tense and aggressive. And there he was, caught in a fight in a narrow alley.

Your breath hitched as you instinctively stepped back, pressing yourself against the wall, hidden in the shadows.

He wasn’t exactly hard to find. Not in that all-black outfit, not in that mask.

You weren’t sure if he had sensed you yet. He used to be able to pick you out of a crowd with just the rhythm of your heartbeat, the faint scent of your perfume. But tonight, his head was bowed, his posture eerily still.

Two men. A fight. But Matt wasn’t fighting back.

He fell on his knees purposely, arms spread, unmoving.

A metal rod glinted under the glow of a streetlamp, raised high, aimed for his skull.

Your world stopped for a second.

Then you ran.

You didn’t think—you just moved. You yelled, the sound slicing through the night, drawing their attention. The one with the rod barely had time to turn before you tackled him, knocking him to the ground.

Matt startled at the sound of your voice. His head snapped up. And then, as if something inside him snapped back into place, he swung, his fist cracking against the second man’s jaw.

The one beneath you growled, tried to strike—you caught his wrist and snapped it. He screamed.

Before you could react, he flipped, hands closing around your throat. Your vision blurred, air cut off. Then—

A sickening crunch.

Matt’s boot slammed into the man’s already-broken arm. Another scream. His grip loosened, and you stumbled back, gasping.

But Matt didn’t stop.

He grabbed the man by his collar and hit him. Again. And again. And again.

The rage in his fists, the sharp sound of bones cracking. Three minutes ago, he had been ready to die. Now, he was desperate to live.

He was painting, his knuckles red. The body beneath him went limp. Matt stilled. Tilted his head slightly. Sensed you.

He muttered your name.

And all the grief, all the anger, all the love you had swallowed for the past three months tore out of you in one sharp, broken breath.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” you yelled, frustrated at him.

Sirens.

Matt’s head snapped up. “We gotta hide. Run. Now.” He said before spitting his own blood.

You get on your feet immediately and didn’t hesitate, he run followed you closely behind.

Six blocks. A sharp turn. Another alley. Neither of you spoke. The sirens faded, but the weight in your chest didn’t. You turned to leave.

His voice caught you, calling your name. “Where are you going?”

You kept walking. “This was a mistake.”

He reached for you, grabbed your arm, calling your name once again. “Stop it. You can’t just walk away.”

You flinched. Yanked yourself free. “Why not? Isn’t this what you wanted, Matthew? For everyone to be out of your life? For me to be out of your life?”

His breath hitched. He pulled off his mask, let it fall to the ground. “H-how long have you known?”

Your throat tightened. “As if you care.”

“Tell me—how did you find out?” he said voice laces with despair.

You turned, took a step back, shaking your head. “What the hell were you thinking, Matthew?” The bite in your words betrayed you, your heart clenched immediately at the sight of him. Exhausted, blood smeared across his mouth. His eyes screamed, help me.

He let out a bitter chuckle. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Exactly. You weren’t.” Your voice cracked. “Two weeks, Matt. That’s how long I thought you were dead. That’s how long I woke up every morning thinking I had lost you forever.”

Matt’s lips parted, but no words came.

“And then I found out you were alive. Still you never reached out. You just disappeared.”

His silence was deafening.

You laughed—sharp, humorless. “What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t I worth a single goddamn explanation?”

He exhaled, ran a hand over his face. “It wasn’t about—”

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare tell me it wasn’t about me.”

He reached for you again. You stepped back. He followed.

You turned. He caught your wrist.

His grip wasn’t forceful—just unwilling to let go.

“Let me go, Matt.”

“No.” His voice was quiet, steady. Unshakable. “Not this time.”

Your chest caved. A war raged inside you—anger and grief and longing, colliding like waves against jagged rock, tearing through the fragile walls you had spent three months building.

“Matt—”

“Just listen to me.” His voice was raw, pleading. “Please.”

You swallowed against the burn in your throat, blinking hard.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he wanted to punch something—maybe himself.

“I know I’d be condemned if I tried to take my own life,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

His next words were quieter. Broken.

“But I could let someone else do it.”

Your stomach dropped.

His grip on you tightened slightly, as if saying it out loud made him realize how fragile he still was. “I was done.” He said your name like it hurt. “But then you found me.”

Something inside you shattered.

Your vision blurred. “You can’t just survive death and take that for granted, Matt.” Your voice cracked, barely able to hold itself together.

His hands found your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped free.

“I know,” he murmured, breath warm and unsteady.

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. “Screw you, Matt.”

A faint, broken smile flickered across his face—gone before it could settle. And then, finally, he pulled you into his arms.

The second he held you, something inside you collapsed. His warmth wrapped around you, his heartbeat thrumming against yours—a rhythm you had feared you would never hear again. You buried your face against his shoulder, and your fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt like you were afraid he’d slip through your grasp.

Your sobs shook against his chest. “You’re such an asshole.”

His chin rested atop your head, his arms locked around you. “I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I should’ve come back to you sooner.”

You pulled back, meeting his gaze—hazel eyes, exhausted and searching. A bruise darkened his cheekbone. Slowly, you brought your palm to his mouth, wiping the blood away with your sleeve. He shuddered at your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

You didn’t care that his blood now stained your sleeve. All that mattered was him. Just because he always took a punch like a champ didn’t mean he wasn’t breaking from inside.

His palm pressed over your heart, fingers splaying across your chest as if he needed to feel you—needed proof that you were real, here, alive.

“I missed you,” he whispered, the words raw and open. “The rhythm of your heartbeat—I haven’t felt it in so long.”

Your breath hitched. “What now?” Your voice was barely a breath. “We can’t just pick up where we left.”

Matt exhaled, and something in his gaze shifted—like steel reforging itself in fire.

“We can,” he murmured, conviction threading through his voice. “And we will.”

His hands framed your face again, his touch grounding you, tethering you to this moment.

“You’re here. I’m here.” His thumb traced your cheek, lingering like a silent promise. “That’s enough.”

Your throat tightened. Was it enough? You weren’t sure.

But as his fingers curled around yours, as his warmth seeped into your skin, as the exhaustion in his eyes softened into something steadier—something sure—you let yourself believe him.

For now, it was sure all you needed.

A/N: This was one of my oldest drafts. I first wrote it two years ago, and after proofreading it for a while, I finally decided to post it. I’m coming back to my roots with my Daredevil obsession, and I’m so excited that Born Again is releasing next month, just a few days before my birthday! Yippee!

#matt murdock fanfic #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #daredevil #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fanfiction

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dyns33 · 1 year ago

Text

Obvious

Most of the time I see him as the cool silly big bro, but I love Deadpool, so here's a long Deadpool x female reader.

Normally nothing destined Y/N to meet Wade Wilson.

A normal life, without enemies, without superpowers, without contracts on her head. She didn't fight, respected the law (at least for the most serious and important things) and she considered herself to be a good person.

The first time she had passed Saint Agnes Orphanage, she hadn't really paid it much attention. The second time, she found it a little strange that an orphanage was in this part of the city, which was not really made for children.

Then one evening, when she had had a bad day, she realized that it was a bar and she decided to go in for a drink.

Since she thought an orphanage was strange in that place, she might have thought it was odd for a bar to have such a name. She could also have been scared when she saw the other customers, who all turned towards her, indicating that she might not be welcome.

But Y/N was tired, and she just wanted a drink before going home, so she smiled politely as she sat down at the counter.

The waiter frowned, but he agreed to serve her with a shrug, muttering that as long as she was an adult, it wasn't his problem.

A tall, bald, tattooed guy then approached her, putting a hand on her arm without worrying about her private space, asking her if she wanted to follow him home.

"… No thanks."

“Come on, don’t be a slut.”

"Please."

“Come with me, you stupid bitch.”

"Now, that's really not very nice. The lady said no, a gentleman should know it's time to leave. But no Hector, not only are you insisting, but you're being rude."

"Fuck you, Wade, don't get involved in this !"

The waiter continued to mumble about cleaning, while this Wade guy smashed Hector's head against the counter. A tooth even flew close to Y/N’s face.

That might have been enough to scare her completely. In addition to the surge of violence that was happening right next to her, there was the red suit, the katanas and other guns, which could make you want to flee as quickly as possible.

But when he finished kicking Hector's ass, Wade turned to her, and despite the mask, it was obvious that he was smiling, extending a hand towards her.

"Miss, my apologies for that boor. He knows nothing of good manners."

"… Thank you."

"You're very welcome, lovely angel ! Wade Wilson, Deadpool, Merc with a mouth, at your service ! Oh, he spilled your drink�� Bad Hector ! Or was it me ? Maybe it was me. Weasel, the same for the little lady, on my note !”

“You already owe me a fortune.”

“I will kill whoever you want for free !”

“I thought you didn’t kill anymore.”

"Ah yes… I'll suck you for free !"

“Here you go, two drinks, just shup up Wade.”

In the end, Wade was a bit special, but not evil. He stayed with her, partly because he loved having someone to talk to, but also to make sure no one else was going to bother her again.

And he talked a lot. Everything he said didn't always make sense, he even seemed to be talking to himself sometimes, but he was funny. It seemed to please him that Y/N laughed at his jokes. Behind the counter, Weasel was still muttering that she was doing something silly.

Among the long tirade he delivered that evening, she understood that Wade had not had an easy life. That he had done some things that could make him a criminal, but he had been trying to improve for some time.

"Colossus already wanted me to become an X-men but it wasn't for me. Wait, there are X-men in this universe ? I do not know anymore. Anyway, there's Spidey and Devy. No, he's right, this nickname isn't great, Devil. Like Daredevil. They want us to be Team Red, but only if I stop unliving people. It's not fair because they're friends with Frank, and Frank keeps unliving people, but he lost his wife and his kids, so I guess he has more sympathy points than me."

"I don't understand everything, but I guess Spidey is Spiderman ?"

"Yes ! He's super cool ! And his ass ! People confuse us sometimes, it annoys me, but it's a bit of a compliment. He's my role model."

Like a true superhero, Deadpool insisted on taking her home. He was terribly honest, saying that he could leave her a few blocks away, but that was useless, because as a former mercenary, he was very good at stalking people and he could find her address without difficulty, even if he only had her name.

"Which I wouldn't do ! Normally. I might want to see you again, and ask Weasel to find your number, but I know myself, I'll put it in my phone, and I'll hesitate for weeks, then I'll send a lousy message, you'll be scared, you'll block me, I'll be ashamed and I'll shoot myself in the head because I'm a moron."

“I can give you my number.”

"And I… Huh ? Huh ?! For real ?!" exclaimed Wade, jumping like a child on Christmas Day.

Wade called her right away, specifying that it was not to verify that she was giving him a false number but a little. Despite the mask, his face showed surprise when he saw that she hadn't lied.

"I should put a bullet in my head to make sure I'm not dreaming."

“You wouldn’t wake up.”

“Baby girl, we only just met, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

When Deadpool talked about shooting himself, he meant it literally. It often happened that he died, either because of an enemy, an accident, or by his own hand. But he always came back. A gift like a curse.

They became friends. It was obvious, and quite sad, that Wade didn't have many friends.

Most people around him couldn't stand him or were afraid of him. It was true that he could be quite unpredictable, especially when he got lost in his discussions with the boxes, or an imaginary audience. But he was never mean.

Weasel was more of a collaborator, Al was forced to accommodate him, and the other heroes, unable to get rid of him, tried to make him a nice guy.

And he was really nice. Crazy but adorable, funny and wanting to do well.

Very quickly, Y/N started to have a crush, and even more. Even after seeing him without a mask. He never took it off completely to eat, repeating that he didn't want her to lose her appetite or feel like throwing up.

But after landing in a trash can after a fight, and forgetting that he had invited her to watch Princess Bride, Y/N had seen him. Yes, his scars were a bit impressive, but they weren't that bad.

With an embarrassed smile, he waved his hand while remaining frozen near the entrance.

"… I can move if you want to run away. I won't follow you. I may look like Frankenstein's monster, but I only pursue young girls who ask me to. Or who deserve it. Because criminals have no gender, I don't discriminate."

“I brought popcorn.” was her only reaction.

"... Oh. Sweet ? Salty ? Caramel ? Al must have beer somewhere, hidden with the cocaine."

After that, he was a little less afraid to show his face, even though it was obvious he wasn't comfortable. It wasn't easy to reassure him, repeating that she didn't care about his appearance.

Y/N didn’t remember how they ended up having this conversation. The only thing she knew was that she was pressed against him, laughing, when she had innocently said it would be fun if they went out together.

This made Wade laugh, but a very serious laugh, leaving no chance and hitting where it hurt.

"You and me ? Ah ! No chance."

"Why ?"

"It's obvious."

A simple little sentence could sometimes do a lot of damage. Too busy making fun of the characters on the screen, Wade didn't see Y/N's look of sadness, just as he didn't feel her body stiffen.

Still, she should have expected this response. Of course it was obvious that they had nothing to do together. Deadpool was a super hero (in training), he was tall, muscular, funny, rich.

She had seen photos of his deceased ex, Vanessa. She had observed him flirting with beautiful women and men before. It was already fortunate that she was only friends with him.

So Y/N swallowed her pride, accepting the obvious, and not talking about the subject again.

But it was hard, because the more time passed, the stronger the feelings became.

It was even harder when Wade entered his depressive phases. He kept putting himself down, insulting himself and accepting insults from the boxes in his head. It took a lot of patience and perseverance to get him to put down his gun.

"Anyway, I'll come back later. Bad luck for the world. People would be happier if I wasn't here anymore. Maybe they'll miss me a little, for a few minutes."

“I would miss you, Wade.”

"Yeah… You say that because you're adorable, baby girl. But you'd be better off without me too. I'm a real drag."

“You saved me the first time we met.”

"And since then you think you owe me a debt. You know, every time we're in the street, the others look at me and they're afraid. If I wasn't there, you could be with them. You could have lots of friends.”

"I don't want lots of friends, Wade." Y/N sighed, taking him into her arms. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Oh, sweetie pie, me too !”

It was rarer for them to find themselves in the opposite situation. Not because Deadpool wasn't capable of empathy, but because she didn't like talking about her problems, preferring to keep everything to herself and cry out of sight.

Unfortunately, she had made the decision to become friends with a former mercenary who loved to jump from roof to roof, only to come visit without warning by tapping on the window.

Y/N had no time to hide her tears, holding back a sob as her eyes met those of Wade, who had stopped mid-movement, fist raised against his window.

He didn't hesitate before entering, terribly serious.

"Who ? Who did this ?"

“Wade…”

"Who made my baby girl cry ? I want a name. Spidey and Dev will understand. Yellow wants decapitation, White wants emasculation. Tell me who."

"It's really not necessary. It's not important."

“It’s important if you cry.” Deadpool growled as he looked around the apartment for clues.

Once he had an idea in his head, it was almost impossible to divert his attention. If it wasn't so important, it was possible with food or talking about Spiderman's butt. But this time he considered it very important.

Tired, Y/N thought that all she had to do was say that it was just a ridiculous heartbreak for him to calm down. He had no reason to kill someone just because they didn't love her back.

This actually seemed to calm him down a bit, as he patted his cheeks with his hands in a dramatic gesture.

"What ?! Someone doesn't love you ?! Someone doesn't like my sweet little angel ? Are they crazy or stupid. You deserve the best !"

"Actually… He's the one who's too good for me."

"Bullshit ! The important thing is love ! If a woman can marry a space duck, then everyone can be together, as long as it's legal and consensual !"

"… What ? No, wait, it doesn't matter. Wade, please forget it."

"A name. Let me prove to you that this fool doesn't deserve you, and not the other way around !"

"No."

"A name !"

"You ! It's you !"

For the first time since they met, Wade was silent for more than a minute, staring at her like he wasn't sure she was real. He often had hallucinations, so this happened to him.

Then he muttered incomprehensible things, probably speaking with his boxes to check that he had heard what she had just said.

"… Me ? As in, me ?"

“I know what you’re going to say.” Y/N sighed, wanting to disappear. "You've already said it, it's obvious that we're not meant to be together. You're charismatic, and strong, and funny, with powers. You save people, you have an extraordinary life, while I… I am me."

"… Baby girl. Do you have a fever ? Did you lose a bet ? Because… You saw me without a mask. You know I'm crazy and dangerous. There are several bounties on my head, I've unlived more people than the population of New York, and my favorite movie is Zoolander 2. When I said it was obvious… I meant that you were too good for me."

There had been a misunderstanding, each being convinced that the other could never want the other, because they were too different. But even though he was special, with skin problems and an inability to concentrate for more than ten minutes, Wade was much better than a space duck.

However, while she was sure of what she wanted, he hadn't clearly said what he expected next.

"I mean, if you just want to be friends, I'll understand."

"You can't tease me like that and then break my heart. Don't play with me, woman !"

“Wade…” Y/N sneered, as he gesticulated like a degenerate, declaiming his great love for her and her smile, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Taking advantage of his inattention, she approached him, until he froze when he felt her hands on his mask.

With a look, she asked him if she could take it off, and as he didn't move to stop her, she took it off first up to his nose, before hesitating.

Y/N didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but she also didn’t want him to think that she didn’t want to see him if she didn’t go further. So she took out the whole mask, she observed Wade, smiling before kissing him.

"… Don't take what comes next as a bad thing." he whispered as their lips parted.

"What ?"

"I'm going to have a heart attack…"

As always, Y/N thought he was joking at first, until he collapsed in front of her, looking delighted even though his heart had stopped beating. Fortunately she was used to seeing him die, even if it was still a little traumatic.

It took almost an hour for him to wake up. Y/N had time to take a shower and make herself some tea, sitting on the couch to wait.

"Shit !" he shouted as he opened his eyes, looking around the apartment before looking at her. “Did we kiss ?”

“Yes and you died.”

"It's weird. Normally you go to heaven after you die, not before. But I probably don't have enough superhero points for heaven yet, so the other option is that I became totally crazy."

“Wade…”

"I know, White and Yellow would have told me. They're already saying that all the time, but they would have insisted, especially for me to escape from the asylum. It's no fun fighting with fake people and hippos. Was I dead long ?"

“No, a little over half an hour.”

"And you stayed with me, it's so cute. Nurse Y/N. No, Doctor Y/N, and I'll be Nurse Wilson. Oh, Doctor Y/N, I made a mistake in the dosage of a patient, I'm a bad nurse, punish me."

"… Let's see Nurse Wilson, we're in the middle of an intervention, calm down."

"Uh oh ! You're playing along !" Wade exclaimed, pouting from the ground. "I didn't expect that ! Wait, I need a blonde wig, and a white dress. You'll see, I look super sexy in a dress. Wait, we do this now or it's quick and we should have a date first ?'

“I wouldn’t say no to a date.”

"I see the genre, like in novellas. Doctor Y/N takes me to the restaurant to talk about my future promotion, but in fact, you are going to admit to me that I am pregnant with you, before I even enter your bed !"

“As long as you’re in my bed before the hundredth episode.”

“UH !”

The small, high-pitched cry of pleasure preceded a second cardiac arrest, Deadpool's mind imagining Y/N and him in a bed, with a stetoscope.

When she asked him if he was going to have a heart attack every time, he told her that he would probably die for good the day he saw her naked, or that they made love for the first time.

But Wade was a gentleman, he ate lots of vegetables, exercised, and begged Daredevil to teach him meditation techniques.

So he had the courtesy of having the next heart attack only after they were finished, and in the toilet. And every time after that they were together, Wade would go out of his way to just get a nosebleed.

Especially on Weasel's counter, telling him everything they had done or almost everything, which annoyed the poor waiter a lot, even if he knew that it would happened from the start, the moment he saw Deadpool with Y/N.

#deadpool #wade wilson #wade wilson x reader #deadpool x reader #deadpool fanfiction #deadpool imagine #wade wilson fanfiction #wade wilson imagine

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lab-gr0wn-lambs · 30 days ago

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Does Heather know that Matt's the one who put Fisk in jail? Twice? Not Daredevil, normal Matt. It's still public knowledge that Fisk will kill anybody who looks at him funny, right? Does she know that he put a hit on Matt before? Twice now. He wouldn't need to mention Daredevil at all, they have personal beef. His secret identity is DumbFuck and behind the mask is DumberFuck.

#daredevil #daredevil born again

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mediocre-shark-tales · 6 months ago

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The Debut Part 2

Masterlist

Interviews after the race were the worst part. Riding the high of my debut, I had forgotten how some people would still question me, regardless of how much I’d proven myself on track. Sure enough, an older interviewer wasted no time, diving straight into the skepticism.

“We didn’t see you here on media day. Would you say you weren’t mentally ready, given the backlash online about you stepping in for Lance?” he asked, his tone pointed.

I kept my expression bright, masking the sting behind his words with a smile. “Actually, I don’t mind what people think about me racing. My team requested permission from the FIA to excuse me from media day. I don’t know if it was our preparation yesterday that influenced their decision, but I’ll be here for all the other media days,” I replied confidently.

The reporter’s scowl hinted he’d hoped I’d falter. But he pressed on. “Can you explain why you disappeared from F2, only to suddenly show up in F1?”

Images flashed through my mind—my strong F2 season, the bittersweet moments with my mother, and my decision to leave to be by her side. Without missing a beat, I answered, “As my former team and I have always stated, I left to undergo the training Aston Martin required. Luckily, that timing allowed me to step in strongly for Lance after his accident. I wish him a strong recovery and hope to see him back next season.”

His frown deepened, as though frustrated by my composure. “You do know that no one buys that story, right? Plenty of insiders have come forward with other theories.”

I met his gaze with a smirk, catching him off guard. “I’ve seen those theories, and they’re certainly creative! But they’re reaching. I’d hope my real supporters pay attention to who’s sharing those stories—that alone could answer a lot of questions.” I took a breath, then added smoothly, “I love a bit of chaos as much as the next person, and if it’s at my expense, so be it. But I’ll prove myself on track. I can show you my personality, but if you already dislike me without knowing me, why should I try to change your mind?” I finished, my smile still firmly in place.

Finally, I was given the chance to move on from him, though I knew he wouldn’t be the last disrespectful interviewer I’d face. It was time to lock in and remind myself that I couldn't let their jabs or ignorant questions get under my skin. The media's skepticism would always be there, but I could choose how much of myself I shared with them.

It was time to bring up my walls again, to let the ‘daredevil’ persona I’d honed over the years take the lead. I’d mastered that version of myself—the unshakeable, casually confident, and unflinchingly witty driver who wouldn’t let anyone mess with her head. I was here to race, to show everyone exactly what I could do. And if I had to tune out the noise to keep my focus razor-sharp, then so be it.

Once I escaped the media pen, I heard my name called over the hum of busy teams rushing around. Marcus, who had been quietly with me throughout, looked back first. He turned to me with a reassuring smile. “I’ve got a few more things to wrap up. Once you’re changed and ready, find me in the Aston Martin Hospitality lobby, and we’ll head back to the hotel.” I nodded, watching him leave before turning toward the person calling my name.

It was Franco, of course, his signature smile lighting up his face as he approached with his PR manager in tow. “I was hoping to catch you before you took off,” he said quickly, then hesitated, his expression shifting to one of concern. “I heard what that guy said. Don’t let it get to you. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I know you belong here. After another race weekend or two, I bet you’ll have plenty of drivers on your side—even if I have to convince them myself.”

I returned his smile, touched by the sincerity in his voice, though I noticed something else—an edge to his tone, as if he was frustrated with the others. It felt like he knew something I didn’t, but I didn’t push. We weren’t that close yet, and if there was anything important, I trusted he’d tell me in his own time. For now, I was grateful just to have his support.

“Enough of the tough topics,” Franco said, shifting to a more cheerful tone. “I actually found out we’re on the same flight back to the UK. How about we sit together? I’d really like to get to know you better. It’s nice to have another rookie on the grid, but it would be even better if that rookie became a good friend of mine?”

I smiled, appreciating his honesty, and nodded. “Yeah, I’d love that. Here, let me give you my number so you can text me when you’re in the waiting area. We can meet up and figure out seats then.” As I handed him my phone, I added, “Do you know if any other drivers are on our flight? I’ve never been on one of these shared private charters. To get here, they just had me fly business class.”

Franco chuckled, noticing my nervousness. “Don’t worry, it’s a bit different, but you’ll get used to it. Plus, you’ll have me as your tour guide,” he said with a wink. “I honestly didn’t even check which other drivers were on this flight,” Franco admitted, his eyes glinting with a playful smile. “I just wanted an excuse to see you again.”

I felt a blush creep up at his flirty tone, and I laughed, brushing it off. “Well, you’ve got your excuse,” I replied, meeting his smile with one of my own. “Just don’t go using all your charm on me at once.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying my reaction. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m saving some for the flight.”

Two hours later, freshly showered and packed, I made my way down to the hotel lobby. Marcus greeted me with a smile, already waiting with our bags by his side. Soon, we were off in an Uber, navigating the post-Grand Prix traffic around Monza. It didn’t take long before we arrived at the airport, and I gathered my bags, heading toward the entrance.

As I stepped through the doors, my phone buzzed with a new text notification. I pulled it out and smiled when I saw Franco’s name on the screen.

Hey, hermosa. I just got to the waiting area. You’ll find me by the big windows looking out at the planes.

I typed back quickly: Just got here too! I’ll be through security soon and meet you there.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I felt a little surge of excitement. After a long day, I couldn’t wait to unwind—and having Franco’s company on the flight would make the trip back a lot more enjoyable.

Security was surprisingly quick this time. Being a Formula 1 driver on a chartered jet with other team members seemed to come with its perks—no endless lines, just a fast check of my bags and a quick scan, and I was through in under five minutes. My larger bags were taken aside to be loaded onto the plane, leaving me with only my small personal bag for the flight.

Fidgeting with my sea turtle necklace, I glanced around the private waiting room, scanning for Franco. The place was buzzing with drivers and managers, some eyeing me with thinly veiled curiosity or judgment. Ignoring the glances, I finally spotted Franco, engrossed in his phone, lounging by the windows as he’d promised.

I walked over, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Franco looked up as I approached, flashing a grin as he moved his bag off the seat in front of him. Gratefully, I slid into the booth across from him, feeling a wave of relief as we exchanged a friendly smile. The tension from the room faded slightly with his friendly demeanor.

“Finally, thought you’d gotten lost back there,” he teased, sliding his phone into his pocket.

I laughed, shrugging. “I was a little distracted by all the stares,” I admitted, glancing around the room. “Guess they’re not used to new faces—especially mine.”

He nodded sympathetically. “It’s their loss,” he said, shrugging it off. “I get the whole ‘new kid’ vibe too. It’s why I was so keen to talk to you. How are you finding it so far?”

“Intense,” I replied, chuckling. “It’s been a dream come true, obviously. But the media, the judgment, all of it’s been... a lot.”

Franco gave an understanding nod, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, they don’t really teach you how to handle all this quick enough, do they? I feel like we’re both just tossed in with the sharks and told, ‘Good luck.’” He grinned, then added, “But hey, you killed it today. I heard the team talking about it back there.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “You did too! I mean, holding off my DRS attack for that long? Impressive.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I was just praying my tires would hold out. Honestly, the whole time I thought, ‘If I screw up, she’s taking my place.’ Guess we’ll just have to keep each other sharp, yeah?”

“Deal,” I agreed, feeling my nerves ease. “Let’s make a pact—rookie alliance, right? We can look out for each other. Maybe have a few friendly competitions?”

Franco’s eyes lit up. “I like that idea. A little rivalry—who gets the most overtakes, or who makes it into Q3 first?” He paused, then smirked. “Loser buys the winner lunch?”

I grinned, nodding. “Oh, it’s on. And I hope you have an expensive taste, because I’m definitely winning.”

“Confident, huh?” he said with a laugh. “Alright, I’ll see if you can keep up. But really, it’ll be good to have someone who gets it, you know? We rookies have to stick together.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed, feeling genuinely happy. “And hey, here’s to proving everyone wrong.”

Franco raised an imaginary glass. “To that,” he said with a wink.

Our conversation continued for a little while longer until it was finally time to board the plane.

Franco and I found our own little area, of course it was a group of 4 seats facing each other. I sat across from Franco who watched to see if anyone else might join us. I could see both of the drivers from Mclaren and Mercedes. Of course there is also Alex and Fernando from our teams as well.

As we settled into our seats, Franco glanced around the cabin, nodding toward the familiar faces. “Feels like a reunion of sorts,” he murmured, leaning back with a grin. “Wonder who’ll join us in our little corner of the plane here.”

I chuckled, glancing over to the other drivers too. “Honestly, it’s kind of surreal to be surrounded by them. Like, I grew up watching half of these guys race. Now here I am, sharing a plane with them.”

Franco smirked, lowering his voice. “You’re handling it well, though. Can’t even tell you’re fangirling inside.”

I playfully kicked his foot under the table. “Oh, please. You were the one practically glowing when Lewis said you defended well today.”

He laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. But, hey, Lewis Hamilton is still a legend, no matter how chill he tries to be.”

Just then, I noticed Alex approaching with a water bottle. He paused, giving us both a slight nod. “Mind if I join?” he asked, glancing between us with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Franco shot me a quick look, as if to say, Is this okay? I nodded with a smile. “Of course, take a seat! We were just… rehashing the race,” I added with a laugh.

Alex slid into the seat next to Franco, giving a faint smile but avoiding my gaze just a bit. “You two held up the midfield well today. Gave the crowd something to watch.”

“Trying to make our rookie debuts memorable,” Franco said, shrugging but smiling.

Alex nodded, a little more reserved. “Good mindset to have. Just remember it’s a marathon, not a sprint. A few strong races don’t make a season. You’ve gotta keep that consistency.”

I leaned forward, intrigued despite his slightly distant tone. “How do you manage that? I mean, all the pressure, the criticism… how do you stay grounded?”

Alex glanced briefly at me, as if weighing his answer. “Honestly? You’ve gotta tune it out. Find people who believe in you—team, family, friends—and hold onto them. The rest? Noise.”

Franco nodded, clearly taking it all in. “Noted. I think we’re off to a good start, though, right?” He shot me a grin, his confidence unmistakable.

I smiled back, feeling a little reassured, though Alex's slight hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Definitely. And having each other’s backs just makes it easier.”

Alex gave a quick nod, looking out the window. “Yeah… it’ll help to know who’s really there for you.” His words felt weighted, leaving me with a feeling that maybe not everyone was convinced I belonged here—yet.

Hours passed as the plane hummed softly around us, and eventually, the lights dimmed, casting a warm, quiet glow across the cabin. Franco had fallen asleep, his head tilted slightly back, arms crossed. Across from us, most of the drivers had either slipped on sleep masks or simply leaned back, eyes shut, lost in much-needed rest.

But sleep evaded me. I leaned my head against the window, earbuds in, playing one of my favorite playlists on low volume. The familiar songs were meant to be comforting, but my mind raced far too much to relax. I glanced at Franco, then Alex, even Fernando a few seats away, all peacefully asleep. They seemed… unburdened, or at least at ease in a way I hadn’t felt since I first entered this chaotic world.

My thoughts drifted back to the interactions I’d had with some of the drivers over the past few days. The way Alex seemed hesitant earlier, the awkward silences in the paddock, the way some of the others had yet to fully acknowledge me. It wasn’t overt; most people were polite, but something lingered under the surface, a guardedness. And I had a sinking feeling I knew why.

I clutched the pendant of my necklace, my thumb running over the little sea turtle. If only they knew the truth, I thought bitterly. If they understood why I’d left my F2 team so suddenly, maybe they wouldn’t look at me like some sort of imposter who had jumped into F1 overnight.

But that truth—the time I spent away, the weeks I’d missed—wasn’t something I could just blurt out. It was private, a chapter of my life I’d had to keep from everyone. I had left F2 mid-season, not for any lack of commitment or a mysterious “training opportunity” as the media had said, but because I couldn’t bear to be anywhere else but by my mother’s side in her last days.

She’d kept her illness a secret from everyone except those closest to us, not wanting the world to see her in her most vulnerable moments. And I had honored that, staying silent even as the rumors spread that I’d gone MIA. That I’d given up. Or that maybe I just couldn’t handle the competition and pressure. My team had tried to cover for me, but the whispers had taken on a life of their own. It was strange; the further I pushed ahead, the more those rumors seemed to haunt me.

I sighed, leaning back in my seat and turning up the volume slightly, letting the music drown out the dull ache in my chest. Maybe they’ll see who I really am in time, I told myself. Maybe the track will speak for me, louder than any rumor. But part of me wondered if it would ever be enough. If, someday, they’d realize why I’d fought so hard to get here and just how much I’d given up to be in this seat.

With one last glance around the cabin, I took a shaky breath, steeling myself. I had a lot to prove—not just for me, but for my mother, who had believed in me until the very end.

#x reader #f1 angst #driver!reader #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #lando norris #franco colapinto #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #george russell #grill the grid #f1 grid x reader

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livingforkastle · 17 days ago

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okay, late night thoughts, but it lowkey pisses me off that there are people who actually still ship karen and matt in the big '25 lmaooo. the instagram comments on their scene in ddba (@marvelstudios) really made me raise an eyebrow. i just cannot relate 😄😁

like did you even watch netflix's daredevil season 2, where he basically would leave everything behind just for elektra?? she suddenly appeared in his life again, stayed for a week or whatever, and had him sobbing and throwing up over her. (i bet veteran kastle shippers had this discussion so many times, and i need to join in that thought too)

and mind you, all of that happened when he literally was already romantically involved with karen 😭 it's not just about the other woman but just the not picking up her calls and leaving whenever he wants is such an ick. i do love matt as a whole but he just sucks as a romantic partner.

i do believe that karen is totally what matt needs; someone who already knows about his mask & story and now, someone to grieve with. but matt is the last thing karen needs; someone who shuts down and runs away whenever he likes. long story short, she's it for him but he's not it for her.

ps. i know i'm only focusing on the romance aspects of daredevil's and the punisher's universe and it is what it is!! i'm a hopeless romantic, let me be. as always, i stand by the fact that frank and karen do belong together <333

#karen page #matt murdock #frank castle #daredevil #daredevil born again #the punisher #kastle #frank castle x karen page #this is my belief #maybe an opinion maybe not #im getting emotional actually

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tmpestuous · 2 days ago

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illicit affairs

summary: you’re bucky’s campaign manager. but he wants you all to himself.

pairing: (future)congressman!bucky x campaign manager!reader

warnings: smut (18+, fingering); mentions of anxiety, fluffy if you slightly squint

word count: 3.8k

a/n: i’m back! i’ve decided to make this a miniseries so i don’t have to deal with the commitment of a whole series again yet. this chapter is set before bucky is elected. also, i’ve been so back in my marvel obsession that i’ve expanded on some new york marvel lore that marvel studios clearly won’t do themselves </3 i hope you enjoy! apologies once again for the hiatus!

“Your numbers in the polls are doing much better, leading your opponent by 12 points; early exit polls from early voting are showing a lead of 7 points, and voters seem really ecstatic to vote for you which is a huge turnaround from the beginning of this election cycle.”

Bucky looked at you from his seat at his desk, a hint of admiration behind his gaze as you met your eyes with his. “Is that all?”

You looked back down at your notes, revising them one more time. “For now,” you said while nodding, then returning your attention to Bucky’s stare. Ignoring the heat in your cheeks, you gave him a confident grin. “I think we’re gonna win this.”

“And I,” Bucky started his sentence as he got up and made his way over to stand right in front of you, “couldn’t have done a single bit of it without you.”

Being part of Bucky Barnes’s political campaign for his bid in the U.S. House of Representatives has been nothing short of a whirlwind. It’s not that you’ve ever been apolitical; you’ve actually been quite the opposite given your family’s consistent involvement in politics. Your parents both worked as advisors in different government agencies, your father actually having a stint with SHIELD long before their ultimate demise at the hands of Hydra.

Nonetheless, your interest in politics never seemed to push you into entering the scene itself. Having the knowledge was great; you were far ahead of your peers in university classes and weren’t susceptible to the growing craze of news outlets in a post-Avengers world. But you never desired to get into politics, much less as the campaign manager to James Buchanan Barnes. His campaign, however, intrigued you from the start.

Many people, especially in New York, do not forget the impact vigilantes and their world have on their lives as civilians. Not all of us are given mutant powers, super soldier serums, or involuntary training to become an assassin. Not all of us have the ability to be Avengers or associated with the like, and unfortunately for New York City, it’s seen days worse than just ugly. When everyone thought the Chitauri invasion was the worst the city could see, half of the population was snapped and turned New York into a ghost town. A once bustling city that indeed never slept, completely silent and left with a void that seemingly couldn’t be replaced.

Once everyone came back, the world was forced to rebuild. New York’s homeless population was increasing exponentially, crime was on the rise, and the Avengers were nowhere to be found. Of course, you had your solo heroes, like Spider-Man and Daredevil. Then they were seemingly gone too, more preoccupied with what they dealt with outside of their masks and costumes than the looming threats over the city.

As soon as Fisk was predicted to win the election as Mayor, his poll numbers more than indicative of a clear sweep at the voting booth, your hope for the city was dwindling. You knew he meant no good, and having political power would only amplify that. The media seemed to disagree, though in the same vain, trashed Bucky Barnes for thinking he could run for the House.

It was idiotic, really. A man who had no choice in his past, a man who was pardoned, is out of his depth for thinking he could run for Congress, but the notorious criminal is the answer to the city’s problems. Yeah, fucking right.

From that point, you’d decided to make your attempt at joining Bucky’s campaign. You wanted to do simple canvassing: knocking on doors and spreading the message of Bucky’s campaign.

You spent about a week and half knocking on doors in the congressional district Bucky was aiming to represent. You’d even convinced maybe two handfuls of people to vote for him, earning praise from the team leads. You quickly became one of the campaign’s most valuable canvassers, but your position only propelled at a meeting with everyone working in the campaign office, Bucky making a rare appearance.

Bucky was never very conversational, clearly a more-than-reserved man, probably running for office to channel his desire to do good in ways other than vigilantism.

It was no secret that the public’s opinion on vigilantes was mixed, especially in New York. The frontrunner for the mayoral election hates them and he’s killing the polls for crying out loud. But the city never felt as scary when the Avengers were around. Sure, the usual destruction of downtown Manhattan was an insane circumstance to consider for your morning commute. However, you knew you’d most likely make it home at night. If you got into trouble, you could hope that someone was coming. Where is that feeling now?

When talking to the room, Bucky expressed gratitude for everyone’s interest in his campaign. Ultimately, he wasn’t shy to mention the negative attention on his attempt for the House seat, which took you by surprise.

“They’re not expecting me to win, and, if I’m being honest, I wasn’t expecting to win either.” That earned him a few laughs, but you could tell he was being mostly serious. “I need some help. If anyone wants to offer some ideas, I’m all ears.”

“I think you need to be more relatable!” Someone shouted.

“More fundraising!”

“Have a town hall!”

“Why not just be more of yourself?” You said in a tone loud enough for him to hear and turn his attention to you, but not shouting like everyone else.

“What do you mean?” He asked sincerely.

“The people don’t really know much about you outside of your service alongside Steve Rogers and, of course, your time as… well, the Winter Soldier.” You were honest, which earned you some stares and glares, no one wanting to mention the elephant in the room that didn’t have to be one at all.

“Go on,” Bucky encouraged.

“It’s either you’re depicted as the past that you’ve worked so hard to make up for,” you alluded to his Winter Soldier days, which he didn’t seem as fazed by as you thought, “or you’re depicted as Steve Rogers’s best friend who faced tragedy during the war. Hell, you could even be depicted as Sam Wilson’s best friend. But the people don’t know you. It’s about relatability, yes, but it’s also humanization. Separating you from what everyone already knows about you. Who is Bucky Barnes? Insert the quote about people wanting to vote for someone they feel they can have a beer with.”

Speechless at (what seemed to be) your clear read on him, his gaze shifted to one of admiration. “You’re hired.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My campaign manager,” he corrected your confusion. “I want it to be you. Come with me to my office.”

After sending everyone back to their desks to finish their tasks for the day, Bucky led you to his office at the campaign headquarters.

“So you’re telling me you’ve been at this for months and didn’t have a campaign manager?” You asked, an incredulous tone in your voice.

“She quit.”

“Oh.”

He turned to you, his back previously facing you, and leaned on his desk with his hands lightly gripping the ends. The light in his office was dim, but it still bounced off of his metal arm beautifully. You’d always thought the vibranium arm was a better look for him.

“I need to win this election,” Bucky broke the ice. “I think you can help me do that.”

“Well first, we need to fix… that.”

“Fix what?” He asked, his brows furrowed and a clear sass in his tone.

“You’re not really a man of many words.”

“Never have been.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you tested. “Does Sam Wilson get a lot of words out of you?”

He scoffed playfully. “No.”

You stared at him silently, your eyes slightly squinted.

He shook his head, a playfully defeated grin on his face. “Fine. Sometimes.”

With a smirk on your face in return, you pulled out a notepad from your bag. “Let’s channel some of that Bucky, hm?”

From there, you dove headfirst into fixing Bucky’s campaign. Between scheduling fundraisers, charity appearances, town halls, several advertisements (including a hilarious one with Sam endorsing him), and endorsements from current Congresspeople.

In just a few weeks, Bucky’s campaign had done a complete 180. The media changed their coverage of him entirely, and you did so without compromising his personality and trying to turn him into America’s golden boy, like his previous campaign manager.

“I’m very grateful for you,” Bucky continued. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but—”

“Don’t rush it,” you cut him off. “We still have an election to win and it’s still very early.”

Bucky nodded in understanding. “Something tells me you’re not worried, though.”

“I’m not,” you said, the same smirk from before appearing on your face. “Numbers don’t lie, Barnes.”

————————————————————————————

One Week Until Election Day

There was a line between professional and personal. It was clear. Never mix your professional life with your personal life beyond a reasonable amount. That couldn’t be hard, right?

Except when you’re working with—for Bucky Barnes who’s clearly gotten a bit of his 40s charm back in the last few years.

You both enjoyed each other’s company. Bucky’s grumpy nature somewhat crumbled near you. Although you couldn’t completely break through it, you loved that part of him. He, on the opposite end, admired your wit, your knowledge and your wisdom that went well beyond your years. You shocked him with so many facts about history and he’s 110. You were a gem, the first person he’d actually opened up to after losing Steve besides Sam. And not once did you ever judge him.

But there was a line. It was clear, but fuck, is it now slowly starting to blur.

“What are you doing later?” Bucky asked as he hesitantly placed his hands on your waist which you quickly swatted away.

“We’re at work, Bucky,” you warned, your attention still fixed on the list of tasks you needed to complete before Election Day in a week. “Someone could catch us.”

Bucky sat at his desk, loosening his tie. “The day’s over. It’s just you and me.”

“It is never just you and me here,” you corrected. “There are still canvassers and volunteers who have to make their way back to the office and collect their things. I have to hear back from the pollsters for our daily numbers, specifically from early exit polls, and then get in contact with media coordination to make sure that nobody’s pulled a quick one on you. I also need you to approve the last batch of ads to go out this week. It’s crunch time.”

“You’re insanely hot when you boss me around,” Bucky said as he undid the top button of his dress shirt, earning him an annoyed glare from you that he chuckled at. “I’m messing with you, although I wasn’t lying. You are gorgeous.”

“I’m flattered,” you said sarcastically. “I also don’t have any plans for tonight, to answer your question. It is a Tuesday.”

Bucky didn’t say anything as he studied your presence, soaking it all in. The furrow of your brows as you studied your to-do list, the way you bit the inside of your cheek absentmindedly whenever you were focused.

He wasn’t lying. You are beautiful. Every piece of you.

Messing around with his campaign manager has the potential to raise so many alarm bells. After finally having the media and general public on his side—a result of your efforts—he couldn’t risk it.

But the line was so easy to cross.

Nothing had necessarily been romantic between the two of you, but you had gotten pretty damn close.

There was a graze of each other’s hands, a gaze into each other’s eyes that lasted longer than it needed to, and a subtle glance at each other’s lips. There were late nights in the office, with takeout from Bucky’s favorite Chinese place and anecdotes from each other’s lives. There was a shared comfort between you that not only made you both feel at home, but a magnetic pull that was near impossible to ignore or fight.

“No response, huh?” You turned your attention to Bucky, who you found staring at you. “Not even a slick remark? One of those sarcastic, grumpy quips of yours?”

“I am not grumpy,” he retorted.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you said with a giggle. God, he loved this side of you. “What are your plans for tonight?”

“Um,” he shrugged, moving his gaze to the traffic outside the window. “I don’t know. My campaign manager yelled at me about approving some ads.”

“I didn’t yell,” you defended yourself, moving to the other side of the desk where Bucky was. Sitting on the desk, you stared at the man to your right. “Why’d you decide to run?”

“Surprised it took you this long to ask,” he said, his head turning away from the window.

“My job doesn’t entail prying for unnecessary information,” you shrugged. “Just curious.”

Bucky chuckled, flashing that beautiful grin of his.

His decision to make a move for office was an amalgamation of things. After Sam had officially taken on the mantle of Captain America, Bucky had settled into more of civilian life. It was weird, not having a mission to accomplish. After fighting for several decades, being a regular person almost bothered him.

Antsy, was how he described it to Sam, who had offered him tons of help that Bucky never took. He felt bad trying to get some work from his friend, though Sam never minded. With all of the resources at his disposal, he knew Bucky would be of great assistance. The brooding brunette, however, felt that maybe he needed to change his direction.

Eventually, seeing the struggles of the people in his neighborhood made him want a more grounded approach. There isn’t much help in the city since the Avengers have been gone, but fighting the bad guys with his fists was something Bucky wasn’t trying to do. Seeing Sam with government resources also gave him the idea, but searching for a different form of access. He can help the people in a non-destructive way, feeling better about himself and fighting the good fight.

“Needed a different approach to help people,” he admitted after gathering his thoughts.

“Vigilante life not enough?”

“I never really considered myself a vigilante,” Bucky shrugged. “Didn’t do much work after the words were out of my head.”

“Didn’t you help Captain America stop the whole Flag Smashers thing?”

“I give him the credit for it,” he said sincerely. “He was meant to be a hero. Meant to have the shield.”

“You’re a hero too, you know,” you assured, offering Bucky a soft smile. “You just have different fights. Different paths, too.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Sam did have a different fight, but he’s built for it. Bucky was finally starting to be more forgiving of himself—of his past—and in a much better state of mind than years prior. He just didn’t need to fight with his hands. He didn’t need to create any more possibilities of destruction and violence. He wanted to help people in a way that felt more valuable. This was it.

————————————————————————————

Election Night

The polls close in an hour and a half, and Bucky’s leading by a decent margin to keep your (and his) anxiety at bay.

It was at the point in the evening where all everyone could do was wait. Everyone who’s worked on this campaign has dedicated countless hours to pushing Bucky’s message. Though he is still not a man of many words, people weirdly admired him. The advertising did its job.

Getting Bucky elected didn’t mean changing him. It didn’t mean forcing him to become a talkative extrovert that he was most certainly not. There was plenty to work with, and from the looks of it, success was in the cards.

You looked over to Bucky through the doorway to his office. His eyes were glued to the computer screen, his usual contemplative stare adorning his face once again. Everyone had voted early in the morning when the polls had just opened, including Bucky. Since then, it’s been a waiting game.

“Feels weird voting for the first time in decades.”

After walking out of the voting location together, Bucky took you to get some breakfast at his favorite cafe.

“Who was the last person you voted for?” You said after taking a small sip of your coffee.

“Um,” he thought for a second. “Yeah. Roosevelt, 1944. Not even sure if my ballot counted during the war, but I filled it out.”

“That’s so crazy,” you giggled.

“What?”

“You voted for fucking FDR,” you exclaimed in a whisper, almost like a secret. “That’s so crazy to think of.”

Bucky chuckled, taking a sip of his own coffee with a roll of his eyes.

He was hiding it better this morning, but Bucky’s anxiety was almost palpable. He wasn’t anxious about winning, oddly enough. Sam had called him in the morning to wish him luck, not without a quick joke about him having to talk about more people. Bucky quieted his best friend’s contagious laughter with a confident voice, one he’d recently found with this campaign and your help.

He knew he had this election in his pocket. It was a weird feeling, such confidence in himself. He was probably the biggest pessimist he knew, yet he felt a sense of serenity.

The anxiety came with the waiting, the analysis of what kind of representative he’d be, what things he’d accomplish. Oh, and actually doing the fucking job.

What if his constituents ended up hating him, or protesting against him, or cussing him out in a town hall? He doesn’t do well with people, even though he had convinced himself he could become more talkative, more likeable. You had convinced him of that. Without wanting to change him, you helped him feel better about himself and what you called his ‘marketability’.

And now he was going to win. Because of you.

“If you stare at that computer screen any longer, you might actually burn a hole through it.”

Bucky quickly looked up at you, a cocky grin on your face while you stood in the doorway with your arms crossed on your chest.

“This is excruciating,” Bucky shut the computer, a grimace on his face.

“What happened to feeling good about today?” You said, closing his office door.

“I think I overestimated myself,” Bucky shook his head. “What if I’m not right for this at all?”

“You told me you were running because you wanted to help people,” you took a seat on the same spot of his desk where you were when you had said conversation. “That’s better than almost all people who run these days. Everything is about some kind of agenda that is self-serving and ends up hurting people more than helping them. You want to help them directly, even when you already have all of the means to do it. That’s more than enough to be right for it.”

“Shit, maybe you should have been the candidate.”

You giggled. “Shut up. You’ve got this. I know it.”

Staring at each other for a moment, Bucky placed his metal hand on yours. This was as far as you’d ever gone, neither of you initiating contact that clearly meant more than what meets the eye.

“I meant it when I said I couldn’t have done this without you,” Bucky stood from his seat to stand right in front of you, his face mere inches from yours. “I probably would’ve dropped out by now.”

You smirked again, shaking your head. “I don’t think Sam would let you live that one down.”

“You’re right, and I hate when he’s right.”

Another brief pause, letting you get lost in each other’s eyes for a moment before you let yours drift to the clock in the corner of the room.

“Polls close in 20 minutes,” you said, but Bucky could only stare at your lips.

Deciding he couldn’t wait any longer, he cupped your face in his hands, grabbing your attention.

“Is this okay?” He asked without hesitation, searching for a glimpse of rejection in your eyes, like he was expecting it.

Taking a quick glance at his lips before returning your gaze to his ocean-colored eyes, you gave him a quick nod. “It’s okay.”

Every late night, private one-on-one meetings to debrief events, planning Bucky’s appearances, Bucky learning all of your work habits, and each shared anecdote that only brought you closer.

That line between professional and personal—there was no line anymore. Fuck the stupid fucking line.

Closing the short gap between you, Bucky planted his lips on yours, kissing you with a longing passion that both of you recognized had been brewing over the course of this campaign.

Bucky quickly undid the button and zipper of your slacks, he didn’t think he’d find fucking slacks attractive. Swiftly sliding his right hand past your underwear and rubbing circles on your clit, Bucky moved his kisses from your mouth to across your jaw and down your neck. You let out hard exhales, trying not to moan with the entire campaign staff right outside.

Bucky lifted his head to look down at you, then resting his forehead against yours as he proudly watched you squirm on his hand. You bit down on your lip as he slid two fingers inside of you, whimpering softly as you tried not to make much noise, but couldn’t stifle your pleasure any longer.

“Fuck, look at you falling apart for me,” Bucky whispered, his fingers getting faster with each thrust. “This is only my first thank-you, sweet girl. You deserve even more than this but I can’t feel those sweet walls around my cock with everyone outside, hm? So this’ll do, right?”

“Fuck yes, Bucky,” you moaned out, the sultry tone of his voice only pushing you toward your climax. “I’m so close.”

“Cum for me, baby,” he said before he kissed you again, curling his fingers inside of you, quickly making you shudder in pleasure as he helped you ride out your orgasm. “You’re so pretty.”

“Holy shit,” you breathed out after coming down from your high, Bucky retreating his fingers and licking them in front of you. “You’re a vice.”

He chuckled, just as everyone erupted in cheers outside. Bucky quickly opened up his computer, typing his password in while you buttoned and zipped up your pants. His last opened tab was one tracking the election results, and with polls closing in less than 10 minutes, the outlets were already making their conclusions.

Projected Winner — 10th Congressional District of New York: James Barnes

You smiled at the screen before looking at Bucky, who stared at the same screen in disbelief.

“We actually did it.”

You turned his face towards yours, planting another soft kiss on his lips.

“Congratulations, Congressman Barnes.”

—

A/N: stay on the lookout for the second and third part (while bucky is in congress and when he is out of congress — iykyk). i hope you enjoyed!

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan #sebastianstan #thunderbolts #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #congressman james buchanan barnes #congressman bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x you

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pastafossa · 1 month ago

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When Heather said Muse and Daredevil are the same, just “underdeveloped boys hiding behind masks, trying to make it look more sophisticated”, do you think she might have a point? (Personally, I don’t — I think she’s speaking from a place of ignorance + trying to process her recent trauma + feeling some understandable anger. Also I think this is good indicator — and purposeful by the writers — that Heather doesn’t actually know Matt that well and their relationship won’t last much longer)

Eager to get your perspective — imagine me with my face in my hands, kicking my feet and giggling

NO BUT LET'S TALK ABOUT THIS, CAUSE I CLOCKED THIS TOO.

I think there's multiple things being brought together, a lot of which you caught here.

Going to put this under a see more cause it's a slightly longer dissection of this part of the episode.

DDBA thoughts beneath the cut.

"Underdeveloped boys hiding behind masks, trying to make it look more sophisticated."

If we compare this to the last time she brought this up, there's been a clear shift in perspective. Before, she was curious about the 'why' with vigilantes and masks - does the mask allow vigilantes/antiheroes to be their true selves, or is the mask about hiding those true selves, creating some sense of separation? She wanted to talk to Daredevil, even Frank Castle about it. Now, she seems (to me at least) to be working through her own trauma and anger, yeah - anger at Muse, yes, but at Daredevil too, because to her, at least right now, she's latched onto, 'Muse was a horrible person who wore a mask to hide his identity, which means horrible people wear masks. Therefore the people wearing the masks are the problem because if they were doing what's right, they wouldn't need to hide.'

It doesn't matter to her brain right now that Daredevil saved her life. He's part of the problem - especially since she just saw Daredevil at his most violent. I think with time she'll be able to process that and recognize it eventually, in the way that someone bit badly by a dog will often come to recognize that not all dogs are bad. But they're going to be afraid of dogs for a while, or maybe even forever. Especially if their sole experience with a dog is getting bit.

But if we set all that aside and just take the statement at its base value: she's both right and not, I think. We know how people are. We know how Muse is, calling his slaughter an 'art' and not just, you know, serial killing. There would absolutely, in this universe, be insecure, chest-thumping, underdeveloped dudes who'd slap on a mask so they can run out and beat people up and see themselves as heroes. But in reality they just like being violent, and the mask DOES help hide them from consequences.

But she's also wrong by applying it overall/to the masked vigilantes in general. Not just because of Matt/Daredevil, but because of people like Hector earlier in the season. With Hector, that was one of the whole plot points: he was (RIP) doing it because it's the right thing to do, and because he wanted to help. Matt, arguably, does what he does for the same reason: because it's the right thing to do. Hell, Frank isn't even hiding behind a mask for all that she included him on her list earlier. He's not calling it sophisticated, or hero work. He's doing it because he believes this is the only way to solve the issue.

They aren't playing at being sophisticated. What they are doing is trying to save lives in an inherently broken, corrupt, inherently unjust system: a system that killed Hector despite him being found innocent, a system that would rather spend more money jailing a hungry guy than feeding him, a system that allowed Muse to kill 60+ people before anyone noticed, a system that elected Fisk despite his loooong list of crimes. It's a system that will literally kill you if you help the very person the system is trying to crush, like Hector did. The mask is an added layer of protection so that they can keep doing what they can to help. It's not about 'allowing' them to be violent in the way the statement implies.

And the strongest evidence of that? If all crime stopped, they would give it up.

Frank would go into retirement.

Matt would hang up the suit.

And Hector would have been at peace.

That's something about the street level heroes. They're not up there. They're down here in the dirt with us. They're the ones who hear a woman get grabbed in an alley. They're the ones walking by the corner store when they hear someone pull a gun inside and demand money. They're witnessing all of this firsthand. And I don't think you can call them all underdeveloped boys playing at being heroes without acknowledging the reality that that the person being robbed in the alley needs a hero, because the system sure as hell isn't all that interested in doing anything about it.

And I think that's sort of where they're going this season. What they're leading us to. Because that's the reality that Matt's been struggling with - the system is broken. So what do you do when you have the ability to stop some of that suffering? Do you turn away and hope someone fixes it? Or do you fight?

We know what Matt's answer is, what Hector's was. And I'm not convinced it's the wrong one.

And I think you keyed in on how this relates back to their relationship: Heather doesn't know Matt all that well, not really. None of them do, really. Heather loves the image of Matt that he's shown to her, of course, but it's a false one, an incomplete one. That's not her fault, since Matt has been lying and frantically trying to hide that side of himself to her, and he also clearly hasn't been exploring his stance on various ethics with her like the regular debates he had with Foggy and Karen in the past. I do think the relationship's destined to blow up, though whether that might get mended in S2 is anyone's guess, but I just am noooot getting the feeling that relationship's going to be able to survive the fallout once she realizes just how much Matt has hidden from her.

#ddba spoilers #ddba #daredevil: born again #daredevil #matt murdock #heather glen #MY RAMBLING THOUGHTS ON THAT THANK YOU BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN CHEWING ON THAT FOR A BIT #ask response

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mauromance · 23 days ago

Text

A case for Kastle | Why Karen and Frank are end game

The relationship between Frank Castle and Karen Page doesn’t just surpass her connection with Matt Murdock, it fundamentally redefines what intimacy looks like in the darker corners of the MCU.

Where Matt’s love is complicated by secrets and duality, Frank’s is startling in its raw transparency. And crucially, their bond is textually romantic in ways the narrative consistently reinforces.

Matt’s love is fractured by duality

Matt Murdock exists in perpetual contradiction: saint and sinner, attorney and assailant, the man and the mask. His relationship with Karen mirrors this civil war within: every tender moment undermined by secrets, every act of protection laced with deception. He doesn't withhold truths because he doesn't care, but because he's forgotten how to exist without walls. Even as Daredevil fights for her safety, Matt Murdock keeps her at arm's length—not from lack of love, but from the terrifying certainty that to let her truly see him might destroy them both.

Frank’s love is brutal in its honesty

Frank Castle wears no mask, he owns his brutality. And yet with Karen, his most jagged edges as the Punisher soften.

Karen could never replace his family, but she becomes something equally dangerous: proof that Frank Castle might still exist beyond his war. She's the first person who makes him consider there could be an after—not as the Punisher, but simply as Frank. And that's what truly terrifies him.

Because in Frank's world, love is vulnerability. It's the knowledge that those closest to us are the ones who can destroy us most completely. His family's love made him whole; their loss unmade him. To let Karen matter is to risk that devastation all over again. Yet still, against instincts and effort their connection is forged.

Kastle is a lens, not a subplot

Frank and Karen’s relationship isn’t romantic filler, it’s the narrative’s moral compass. A lens through which we learn about their characters. Through their connection, we see:

Frank’s capacity for tenderness beneath the violence

Karen’s strength and empathy in the face of darkness

Their shared language of guilt and vengeance

They are each other's revelation. Karen is Frank's reckoning—the living mirror forcing him to confront the man beneath the body armor. And he, in turn, becomes her permission:

Permission to stop running from the blood on her hands

Permission to stare into her darkness without flinching

Permission to plant her feet when the world says "know your place"

Where Matt's half-truths left Karen questioning her worth, Frank's brutal transparency becomes her foundation. Their connection transcends romantic subplot. It's the spinal column of their shared narrative. Every loaded glance, every silence thicker than gun smoke, every "Karen" growled like a prayer or "Frank" whispered like a secret—these moments do more heavy lifting than any fight scene.

That's why the question was never "will they/won't they," but "how could they not?". In a universe where Daredevil hides behind masks and Kingpin behind tailored suits, Frank and Karen stand stripped bare. No aliases, no pretenses, just two scarred souls recognizing each other in the wreckage.

And that raw honesty? In my book, it's rarer and more revolutionary, than love.

Matt can move on (Frank can’t)

Matt's story thrives on reinvention. Across the comics and the MCU, he cycles through defining relationships (Karen, Elektra, Claire, Kirsten, etc.). Each love interest representing a different phase of his moral journey. We know that Karen in this case, is a chapter in Matt/Daredevil’s story, not the ending. The MCU's current trajectory seems to confirm this flexibility: with new Daredevil projects announced and more adversaries emerging, Matt's character arc clearly has room to evolve beyond any single romance. He's a hero whose growth comes through many varied connections.

Frank's narrative on the other hand, operates on an entirely different principle. It's a closed emotional circuit. His past is defined by the family he lost; his present (and with any justice, his future) by Karen Page. These are the twin anchors of his humanity, because beneath the body armor and bloodstains, Frank Castle remains at his core what he's always been: a family man without a family.

Where Matt's rotating relationships showcase his evolution as a hero, Frank's bond with Karen serves as his last tether to something resembling normalcy. She prevents him from devolving into pure monstrosity.

This distinction is crucial for understanding Frank as an anti-hero rather than a villain:

Without Karen, Frank risks becoming a one-dimensional killing machine. She serves as his living connection to the world beyond vengeance.

Karen gives viewers permission to root for Frank despite his brutality. Through her eyes, we see:

The remnants of the man he was before the tragedy

The potential for something beyond endless war

The cost of his crusade on someone who cares about him

With Karen in the picture, The Punisher's story becomes:

A tragedy of survival rather than mindless violence

A meditation on what parts of ourselves we sacrifice to trauma

A question of whether damaged people can still connect

The MCU's current trajectory seems to recognize this. While Matt will continue evolving through new relationships and challenges, Frank's arc demands resolution. His character is getting older, and this crusade it taking it toll (evidenced in Born Again when he is seen taking pain killers on two seperate occasions). Karen isn't just another love interest to him, she's the last remaining thread connecting Frank Castle to humanity and his way out of the life of venegence. Sever that, and you don't have an anti-hero anymore... you just have a loaded gun in a world full of targets.

Their relationship transforms what would just be gratuitous violence into Shakespearean tragedy. Without it, we're left with the shell of a character who long ago forgot why he started fighting.

There’s transformation through love

Love made Frank Castle into the Punisher (a husband and father’s rage crystallized into war). Now love, his simmering connection to Karen, could forge him into something new. Not a saint, not even a hero, but a man who’s learned to carry his losses without being crushed by them.

The tragedy and the triumph is this: The same force that created the monster might yet redeem the man. Not through grand gestures, but through cups of coffee and all the quiet ways two broken people learn to fit together without cutting themselves on each other’s edges.

To me, that’s beyond romance. That’s resurrection.

A Kastle resolution would fit the MCU’s pattern

In the MCU, completed love stories are reserved for characters whose journeys are ending. Steve Rogers gets his dance with Peggy only after hanging up the shield. Thor’s reunion with Jane coincides with her heroic exit. So following this narrative calculus, if the plan is to wrap up the Punisher’s story, it would seem that the Kastle payoff is inevitable.

The evidence:

1. The original plan to exclude Karen from Born Again was a miscalculation so glaring it had to be reversed. This speaks volumes:

The push for her inclusion recognises her narrative necessity to both Daredevil and the Punisher

Karen's light footprint in Born Again season 1 suggests the show is saving her emotional weight for a more pivotal conclusion

2. The upcoming Born Again season 2 and 2026 Punisher special create an ideal narrative runway:

For Matt and Karen it could provide a clean, mature resolution to their relationship that:

Honors their history without trapping Matt in the past

Gives Karen agency in walking away

Leaves Matt open for fresh dynamics in a potential season 3

For Frank and Karen it grants a sunset moment with gravity:

The Punisher special could mirror Logan's emotional heft (not in death, but in closure)

Karen's arc would be allowed to culminate not as "Daredevil’s love interest” or "Frank's salvation," but as a woman who's faced her demons and maintained her agency

3. It serves everyone

Matt grows beyond his Netflix-era baggage

Frank's story ends where it began: with love as his defining force

Karen avoids becoming a plot device—she exits as someone who shaped both men

This is narrative justice. The pieces are all there. Now Marvel just needs to follow through.

It’s bitter and beautiful

Kastle was never meant to be a fairytale. It's two fractured souls using each other's sharp edges to polish their own broken pieces:

Karen's unwavering courage files down Frank's nihilism

Frank's brutal honesty cracks open Karen's shell of guilt

Their quiet understanding becomes armor against a world that wants them broken

In a universe where Spider-Man’s optimism feels increasingly naive, and Daredevil's moral code keeps crumbling, Kastle offers something radical: the notion that damaged people don't need fixing, just someone who sees their cracks and doesn't look away. That recognition alone can make the endless fight worthwhile.

The final verdict

All signs point to one undeniable truth: Kastle is the only ending that does justice to Frank and Karen's complex journey, while still giving Matt the narrative space to evolve beyond his past. The foundation has been meticulously built across multiple shows and seasons. Marvel now faces a choice: honor this years-long character arc with the emotional payoff it deserves, or let these rich, layered relationships fade into unrealized potential.

Giving us a Kastle ending is more than fan service, at this point it is narrative integrity. Kastle represents:

One of the MCU's most mature explorations of trauma and connection

A rare love story built on mutual respect

The perfect emotional conclusion for Frank’s and Karen’s arcs, while allowing Matt to move forward unshackled from old dynamics

The evidence is all there in the text, the subtext, and the behind-the-scenes decisions. The story has been telling us where this is headed for nearly a decade. Now, Marvel just needs to listen to its own narrative.

Want to dive deeper?

Coffee in the MCU

A way forward (my fan theory)

Kastle scene breakdowns: The subtext you missed [WIP]

Published: April 23, 2025

Last edited: April 23, 2025

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 3 months ago

Text

Close-r Call

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: After years of rivalry with Matt Murdock—both in law school and at Nelson & Murdock—she never expected to get tangled up in his biggest secret. When Daredevil saves her one night, a slip of the tongue sets off a chain of events that leads to an explosive revelation, a very public workplace call-out, and a dinner invitation she never saw coming.

Author's Note: Part two for Close Call as requested!

The rest of the day passed in a blur of case briefs and client meetings, but her mind kept drifting back to last night. To the way Daredevil had looked at her, to the way his voice had curled around his words like a secret meant just for her.

By the time the sun dipped behind the city skyline, she had managed to convince herself that it was just the alcohol, the adrenaline, the danger of it all that made it feel so much more than what it was. A masked vigilante saving her wasn’t exactly a fairy tale. It was a coincidence.

And yet, as she packed up her things and slipped her coat over her shoulders, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her.

“Murdock,” she called over to his office, pausing in the doorway. He was still seated at his desk, seemingly deep in thought. He hadn’t argued with her once all day, and it was starting to get unnerving. “You good?”

Matt turned toward her, lips twitching as if he were debating something. Then he nodded. “Fine. You heading home?”

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “Yeah. Why?”

“Be careful,” he said simply, taking a sip of his coffee.

Something in his tone made her shift on her feet. “Since when do you care?” she teased, arching a brow.

Matt just smiled. “Since you decided to take shortcuts through dark alleys.”

Her stomach flipped. She had never mentioned the shortcut.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but Matt was already standing, reaching for his cane, moving past her with that effortless grace that had always irritated her. She turned to watch him leave, the pieces clicking together in her mind.

No.

No way.

It wasn’t possible.

…Was it?

She didn’t get the chance to ask him. That night, as she walked home, a figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path.

"Nelson & Murdock really should be more careful about who they piss off," the man sneered. He was tall, broad, his face half-hidden beneath the low glow of the streetlight. "Your firm has a habit of making enemies."

Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to stay calm. "If you’ve got a legal complaint, you’re more than welcome to file it."

He chuckled darkly. "Not that kind of complaint."

Before she could react, another figure grabbed her from behind, yanking her back against a solid chest. A sharp, cold press at her throat made her freeze—her breath hitching as she realized it was a knife. The blade’s edge grazed her skin, just enough to make her still.

"You scream, you die," the man behind her growled.

Panic flared hot in her chest, her pulse hammering. She forced herself to stay calm, to think. But the weight of the knife, the grip of the man holding her in place, made her feel helpless in a way she never had before.

Then, out of nowhere, the air shifted.

A blur of red and black crashed into the man holding her, sending him flying. A second later, Daredevil was between her and the attacker, his movements smooth, brutal, and efficient. The fight was over in seconds, her assailants left groaning on the pavement.

She exhaled shakily, clutching her ribs. "You again. I should start carrying a punch card. One more save and I think I get a free coffee."

Daredevil turned to her, his stance rigid as he surveyed her, making sure she wasn’t hurt. She could still feel the ghost of the blade against her throat, the adrenaline still burning through her veins.

"You shouldn’t be walking alone at night," he said, his voice lower than before, more controlled.

She huffed a breath, rolling her eyes. "You sound like someone I know."

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something she couldn’t hear.

And then, before she could say another word, he added, "Are you okay, Y/N?"

She froze. "How do you know my name?"

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. He had made a mistake.

Her eyes flicked to his cowl, her breath coming faster now. "No. No way."

Before she could think, she reached for his mask.

He caught her wrist midair, his grip firm but careful. "Don’t."

She yanked her hand back and lunged again, trying to rip it away. He sidestepped, catching her other wrist. "Y/N—"

"Take it off," she hissed, pushing against him.

They twisted, a tangled struggle of determination and resistance, her fingers brushing fabric, his grip tightening in warning. He could overpower her. She knew that. But he wasn’t. He was letting her fight him.

That’s what made her sure.

"Take it off, Murdock."

His breath hitched. And then, slowly, he let go of her wrists, reaching up with careful fingers.

His mask slid away.

And there he was. Matthew Murdock, standing in the dim glow of the streetlight, his face open, unguarded, exposed.

Her chest tightened. "I knew it."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. You did."

And then it hit her.

The coffee shop. That morning. Her sitting at the desk, gushing about Daredevil—about his jawline, his voice, the way he moved. And Matt had just sat there, stirring his coffee, trying to hide a smirk.

Oh. Oh.

Her face burned. "You—" She pointed at him, stepping back like she needed distance to process this. "You knew I thought you were hot."

Matt’s lips twitched, but he fought the smile. "I didn’t say anything."

"You didn't have to*! You just sat there, drinking your coffee, acting all smug while I went on and on—"

He crossed his arms, head tilting slightly. "To be fair, I was very flattered."

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Oh my God. Kill me."

Matt chuckled, the sound warm and entirely too pleased with himself. "Pretty sure I just saved you."

She peeked through her fingers, glaring. "Shut up, Murdock."

The next morning, she stormed into the office with purpose, slamming her bag onto her desk with more force than necessary. Karen and Foggy barely had time to exchange a confused glance before she pointed at them both, eyes narrowed in accusation.

"You knew."

Foggy blinked. "Knew what?"

"Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Nelson!" she snapped, rounding the desk to lean against it, arms crossed. "You knew Matt was Daredevil, and neither of you thought to tell me?"

Karen pursed her lips, giving Foggy a look before sighing. "Well…yeah."

She let out a sharp laugh, exasperated. "Are you kidding me? You guys let me sit here, day after day, talking about how hot Daredevil is—to his actual face—and said nothing?"

Foggy had the audacity to grin. "Oh, we said nothing on purpose."

Her jaw dropped. "Unbelievable."

Karen shrugged, though amusement flickered behind her composed demeanor. "It was kind of entertaining."

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "This is workplace harassment. I should sue."

Matt, of course, chose that moment to walk in, cane tapping against the floor as he headed toward his desk. "Good morning, everyone."

She spun on her heel, pointing at him next. "You—"

He smirked. "Me?"

"I hate you."

"You don’t." He was so damn smug.

She huffed, turning back to Foggy and Karen. "I can’t believe I work with all of you."

Foggy clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Welcome to Nelson & Murdock. We keep secrets, and we judge quietly."

Before she could retort, Matt cleared his throat. "Can I see you in your office?"

She turned, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why? Planning to reveal another massive secret you’ve been keeping? Maybe you’re secretly Spiderman, too?"

Matt smirked. "Not quite. But it’s important."

Karen and Foggy exchanged a look, clearly enjoying the show. Huffing dramatically, she grabbed her coffee and gestured toward her office. "Fine. But if this is some long-winded lawyer trick to get me to drop this, it’s not working, Murdock."

"Duly noted," Matt murmured, following her inside and shutting the door behind them.

Once the door clicked shut, Matt exhaled, leaning slightly against the edge of her desk. "I owe you an apology."

She crossed her arms, raising a brow. "For what? Lying to me every single day? Letting me ramble about how hot Daredevil is without saying a word?"

His lips twitched, but he didn’t take the bait. "For not telling you sooner. I should have. I just… didn’t know how."

She let out a breath, some of the frustration ebbing. "Yeah, well. You could’ve saved me a lot of embarrassment."

He tilted his head slightly. "You don’t have to be embarrassed."

She scoffed. "I literally objectified your alter ego to your face."

"So, is it just the suit? Or do you actually think I’m good-looking?"

Her mouth fell open. "You did not just ask me that."

He shrugged, feigning innocence. "You’ve been very vocal about Daredevil. Just curious if the same applies to me."

She groaned, running a hand through her hair. "I hate you."

Matt grinned. "You don’t."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Was that really why you pulled me in here? To stroke your already massive ego?"

He pushed off the desk then, his smirk softening into something else—something real. "No. I pulled you in here because I want to take you to dinner."

Her breath hitched slightly, caught off guard. "You—what?"

"Dinner," he repeated. "You, me, someplace nice. No case briefs, no fights, no masks. Just us."

She searched his face for any trace of teasing, but for once, there wasn’t any. He meant it.

"Are you serious?"

"Very."

Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she forced herself to stay composed. "I’ll think about it."

Matt chuckled. "You do that."

#daredevil #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock x reader #daredevil born again #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock imagine #oneshot #imagine #fanfic #mattmurdock #charlie cox

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farfromstrange · 1 year ago

Text

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,

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

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