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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

#fic reccomendations #fic recommendation #fic recs #fic rec #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x you #vampire!matt murdock #daredevil

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myficreccs · 1 month

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Half-Wrong (College!Matt Murdock x college!fem!Reader)

Author’s Note: Howdy folks, ya girl somehow caught Covid during the worst week possible! I have a 102 fever and I don't really remember writing this cuz I've been taking a lot of naps, so if it doesn't make sense and has errors I'm sorry. I saw that Owen Sleater gifset (iykyk) and rolled with it. Enjoy :)

Summary: You have been attracted to Matt Murdock ever since the pair of you met at the coffee shop on campus on move-in day, but you knew he'd never feel the same way about you - this became especially true once you got insight on his romantic life. So when you find him waiting for you after you come back from a date, you take a chance.

Warnings: Sweet platonic fluff, close friendship vibes, kissing, smut (oral - f!receiving, sexy oral m!condom put on, protected sex, p in v sex), swearing

Other Characters: Foggy Nelson, ofc (Cassie)

Word Count: 2,844

“C’mon, just a little more,” you huff as you move your run to a jog on the sidewalk. “A little bit more, and then we’ll be back at the dorms.”

“I don’t get why you think this is the best way to exercise,” Matt huffs as he puts his hands up in a T shape.

“You like boxing, I like a good run. Potato, potahto. The thing you should be thinking about is why you repeatedly agree and continue to go on runs with me,” you pant as you untie the tether that you use while you run—with Matt being unable to see and just how hard you imagine running with a cane would be, a tether to your waist to guide him and gently keep him out of the path of obstacles seemed like a good option.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve figured that part out yet, either. I mean, you do agree to box with me which is nice. But I think I just like spending time with you. Although, being tied with you does kind of make me feel like a dog.”

“Ah, but you’re such a kind, pretty dog with soft hair,” you smirk, ruffling his sweaty hair. “Such a good boy.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, his cheeks flushing beyond the rosiness from the run. “Help me get to the cafe in the student union and I’ll buy us some waters.”

You press a kiss to his warm cheek and place his hand on your forearm.

“Hey, are you still gonna join Foggy and I at Josie’s tonight?” he asks, his breathing sounding like it’s starting to return to normal as you both enter the nearby building.

“I thought that was tomorrow?” you return, navigating the pair of you through a small little self-serve concession area.

“No, tonight. You have plans?”

“Don’t sound too shocked.”

“I don’t mean it like that.”

“Okay. Then how did you mean it?”

“Well, just that you haven’t had plans in almost a year,” he exaggerates as he takes the waters you hand him.

“Excuse me, I have plans,” you say as you take the waters back and scan them, Matt rooting around in his shorts for his student ID.

“No, you have plans with your other friends semi-regularly. You never have date plans,” he clarifies as he swipes his ID to pay.

“I’m sorry all of us can’t be you with a new companion every few weeks.”

“I don’t have a ‘new companion’ every few weeks.”

“Oh, come on, Matt, don’t deny it,” you say as you drink your water. “Right now, it’s that girl from that IP law class, before that it was a dental student, then I think an international relations major? But let’s not forget about contract law girl, estate planning—.”

“Okay, fine, I’ve had a lot of short-term relationships.”

“Well, that’s great for you, but that’s not what I’m looking for,” you tell him. “I mean, I don’t expect anything right now to last forever, but, I don’t want it to be a four-week thing and then be done with it. If I’m gonna make plans with someone, it’s because I think I still might be making plans with them in five months.”

Matt nods and drinks some of his own water as you move back outside and in the direction of our dorms. “So, what’s this guy like? Where’d you meet?”

“Cassie actually set us up,” you say. “She said that he seemed like my type, like a really good guy.”

“Well, then, I’m happy you have plans tonight. I hope it goes well.”

“Thanks, Matt. I do, too. I mean, I have no reason to think they won’t. Just tell Foggy I’m sorry I’m gonna miss him tonight.”

“Of course.”

“Do I see a wild (Y/N) in one of her natural habitats?” you hear Foggy call from across the quad.

“Speak of the Nelson, and he shall appear!” you smile as he comes to wrap you in a hug.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“(Y/N) has a date tonight,” Matt says with a devilish grin.

“Matthew!” you say, giving him a swift whack. “This is exactly why I don’t tell you things.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m happy for you, really.”

“I am, too!” Foggy chimes in. “I’m bummed that it means you’ll miss drinks at Josie’s, but, it’s about time you get dicked down.”

“I need to hang out with more friends that are girls,” you sigh, taking a look at your watch. “I gotta go now if I want to take an everything shower.” Kissing each of their cheeks, you wave goodbye and run off to your dorm to get ready.

“I just don’t see it going anywhere,” you sigh as you enter the main lobby of your dorm building.

“Really?” Cassie asks over the phone.

“We work on paper, but there wasn’t any spark.”

“Maybe the spark is gonna take some time.”

“A spark shouldn��t take time, Cass. It should be right there I didn’t feel anything.”

“You can’t pin every guy against Matt, you know.”

“I’m not comparing everyone against Matt,” you scoff incredulously.

“Yes, you are. Ever since you met. I bet you felt a spark with him.”

“So what if I did? It’s clear he didn’t with me, but . . .” You sigh and shake the thought out of your head. “I’m not an option for him. He’s a good person, but more importantly, he’s my friend. I’m not gonna spend my time fantasizing about something that’s never gonna happen.”

“HA.”

“You are so mean.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just a funny concept—you, not fantasizing.”

“Rude.”

“I’m your oldest friend, it’s my job.”

“I appreciate it. Listen, I just got to my door, I’m gonna call it a night.”

“Okay, (Y/N). Sleep well.”

“You too.”

Hanging up, you sigh as you put your phone back into your bag, hiking the strap up over your shoulder, slipping out your keys and undoing the old locks. You toss your purse on the nearby table, but freeze in your tracks when you see someone sitting on your bed. Not any someone. Matt.

“You shouldn’t be in here this late,” you breathe.

“I shouldn’t be in here at all,” he says softly, folding his glasses and putting them on your nightstand. “But why do something half-wrong?”

You slowly start to close the gap between where he sits and where you stand. “Matt . . .”

“If you want me to go, I will. Just say the word.”

“. . . Why now?”

“I don’t know. I just . . . I realized tonight when I was at Josie’s with Foggy that if you’re going to be kissing anyone, I want it to be me.”

You don’t care what you just told Cassie. Honestly, you don’t care about anything or how this could complicate your friendship or any of the consequences. Instead, you move to your bed, climb into his lap, and kiss him. That spark you first felt with Matt when you met is a full-blown lightning bolt now, every last bit of you tingling with electricity; you know Matt feels it too from the way his hands slide up your back and how his fingers card through your hair. Matt leans back on the mattress, letting you take the lead as you make out. His kisses gradually grow more aggressive—the clashing of teeth, nipping, squeezing, and grinding. Matt rolls your bodies over on the bed, eagerly but carefully pulling off your shirt.

“Please tell me you were anticipating this and have condoms on you,” you pant as he peppers kisses all over your torso.

“Mmm,” he hums into my body. Oh my God, I think I just came. “Four.”

“We’re using all of them.” You feel how his lips curl into a smile against your body, making you writhe before you scream out when he starts to suck on the sweet spot on your neck.

“Ambitious,” he hums, licking and kissing at the stinging spot on my neck.

“Oh, well, you know me,” you grunt, your fingertips scratching his scalp. “I love to go above and beyond.”

“Let’s shoot for two,” he says into your collarbone.

“Don’t think I can handle using them all?”

He lifts his face up to be level with yours. “I’m saying that you won’t be walking straight after one. If we use more than two, I’ll be carrying you around campus for a week.”

“Sound like a challenge.”

“It’s a guarantee.”

You both smile brightly before you kiss, and you bunch up the cotton of his shirt exposing his soft skin and toned muscles something out of a romance novel.

“Like what you see?” he smirks.

“You’re too cocky for your own good,” you sigh as you run a hand down his exposed body. “But as a matter of fact, I really, really do.”

“Well, if you’re thinking of doing what I think you are, angel . . . Tonight is about you, and treating you right. How I should’ve treated you a long time ago.” He leans down and kisses your lips before moving the embraces along your cheek to just below your ear. “Sit back and relax, sweetheart. I’m gonna take good care of you.”

You sigh as he presses kisses down your chest, nipping at your cleavage and soothing the sting of any bite with his lips. You pant in excitement under his touch as his hands wrap around my back, unclasping your bra and sliding it painfully slow off of your body. You let out a sigh and toss your head to the side as his lips wrap around your nipple, one of his hands on your free breast while the other hand holds onto yours. Matt takes his time as if he’s trying to map out your body in his mind with his lips. Gazing down, you catch a glimpse of how happy Matt looks as he drags his lips further down your torso, pressing a long kiss on your belly button before unbuttoning your pants to shimmy them off your legs. Tossing them to the floor, he kisses all the way up your legs before spreading them apart to nestle his face against your covered core. You whine at his careful and deliberate movements, lifting your hips to help him slide the fabric off. Matt’s fingers gently spread you open, exposing yourself completely to him.

“Oh, fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathes. “So perfect for me.”

Carefully, he lets out a soft breath on your pussy before leaning forward and wrapping his lips around your clit.

“Oh!” you cry out. “Fuck . . .”

Your toes curl as Matt works his magic, and your eyes flutter shut as you let your mind get caught up in all the things that Matt is making you feel. If you had known he could make you feel like this—if you knew he even felt an inkling of the same way toward your, you would’ve done something to let him know that you care about him more more than a friend.

“Matty,” you breathe, running your fingers through his hair. “Oh, Matt, just like that. So good.”

You watch as Matt tries to lift his gaze upward to meet yours, his beautiful hazel eyes sparkling with delight as he eats you out. You swallow hard, throwing your head back as you feel your orgasm quickly approach. You cry out when you feel him slide two fingers into you, curling them just right to throw you over the edge. Your body arches off of the mattress as you cry out, your thighs clenching around his head. Matt’s tongue cleans up every last drop of your arousal before kissing all the way back up your body.

“You taste so good, angel,” he murmurs into your lips. “You ready for me?”

“Please,” you breathe, kissing him deeply. “I need you.”

He grins, kissing you again before leaning back and undoing his pants, shimmying them down enough to free his cock from the fabric before he reaches in his pocket to grab a condom. He is absolutely huge—delightfully so, and I feel the space between my legs instantly flood at the sight of him. Now what he said about not walking straight makes total sense, and not Matt just being cocky.

“All the way off,” you demand with a smile.

“Your wish is my command, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip in excitement as he gets completely naked while you tear open the little foil package.

“C’mere,” you grin as you drink him in as he kneels on your bed, completely and utterly bare.

Matt licks his lips, doing as you ask, folding his arms behind his head. Fuck, he has to know what he’s doing when he rests like that. Carefully, you crawl over to him, putting the tip of the condom in your mouth before you wrap your hand around his base and bring your head down his length. Your jaw hurts as you go down his thick cock, but you manage to get it all the way down. When you get back up, you see how lust-blown Matt’s expression is, how flushed his cheeks and chest are.

“That was so fucking hot,” he hums. “Get over here, angel.”

With a smile, you move to meet him in a kiss, a new passion in the embrace that hand’t been there before.

“You ready for me?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you nod eagerly as you dip down for a kiss.

With firm hands on your hips, he guides you down on his cock. You moan in harmony as he gets deeper and deeper in you, and it feels like you’re going to get split in two the further he goes. When you’re all the way down, he pulls you in for a deep kiss.

“Are you okay?” he breathes when your lips part.

“I’m okay,” you assure him. “You’re big."

“And you’re tight,” he smirks. “You good for me to move?”

“Oh, fuck, please.”

“Such good manners.”

With another kiss and a smile, Matt wraps his arms around you so your back is on the mattress and he’s hovering above you. You feel the sweet sting from the drag of his cock as he pulls out before pushing back in, testing and stretching you slowly as he starts to establish a rhythm. Your lips part as you feel more pleasure with each of Matt’s thrusts, one of your hands moving to his bicep and creating little crescent moons in his soft skin as he moves faster and faster.

“Right there,” you breathe. “Shit . . . Matt, yes, right there.”

“Good girl,” he hums. “So good taking my cock like that.”

“K-Kiss me,” you stutter, feeling your second orgasm approaching.

Looking at you tenderly, he leans down and kisses you long and slow, staying lower to keep little space between our bodies.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, kissing your cheek. “So perfect.”

“Matt, ‘m close,” you whimper.

“Whenever you’re ready.” His hand cradles the side of your face, kissing you once more.

You bite your lip, stifling your moan as you come around Matt, your body clinging to his as he continues to move his hips, his skin flushing as he grunts, approaching his own release, spilling into the condom. He kisses you all over as your breathing steadies, pulling out and tossing the condom into the trash before wrapping you in his arms and kissing your wherever his lips can find skin.

“Matt,” you chuckle softly as he sucks marks into your collarbone.

“Shh,” he hums, kissing the marks to soothe them.

“Matt, it tickles!”

You feel his lips curl into a smile as he presses kisses up your neck. “I’ve always loved your laugh. This is just another way I can hear it.”

“And it’s another way I can see your smile.” You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You know, I bet if you give me enough time in between, we can use up all the condoms.”

“You think?”

“Nothing saying we can’t try.”

“Ambitious girl,” he smiles.

“It’s part of my charm. Why you like me. Why we work well together.”

“One of the reasons, yeah. There’s plenty of others, though.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.” He kisses your forehead. “I’ve got a whole list.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You giggle at the silence and look at him. “Are you gonna tell me any?”

Matt’s fingers trace aimless patterns on your skin. “I think you already know them, angel. But I’ll tell you one every day. Today, it’s your ambition. Tomorrow . . .” He lets out a breath. “It’ll be whatever feels right for me to point out.”

“Well, I’ve got a list, too. And right at the top is how safe you make me feel. How special you make me feel. How loved." You kiss his chest. "Tomorrow’s something might have to do with your nose.”

Matt’s expression is filled with tenderness, closing the gap between you once more, holding onto you and letting you rest right above his heart.

Permanent Taglist: @majesticavenger @steampowerednightvaler @themusingsofmany @just-the-hiddles @toozmanykids @dangertoozmanykids101 @clints-worldavengers @theburningbookshop @itwasthereaminuteago @peter1ismybrother@hellskitchens-whore @dpaccione @catnip987

Matt Murdock Taglist: @two-unbeatable-beaters

#fic reccomendations #fic recommendation #fic recs #fic rec #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #college!matt murdock #college!matt murdock x fem!reader #college!matt murdock x college!fem!reader #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock smut

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myficreccs · 1 month

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If We're Being Honest [2/2]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word Count: 6k [Part1]

Summary: It's been a couple of months since you drunkenly kissed Matt and you've been avoiding him ever since, but Matt realizes that your absence from his life afterwards pained him more than he ever could've imagined.

Warnings/Tags: Angst with a happy ending, confession of feelings (with a twist), delayed comfort, anxious/depressed inebriated Reader, fluff at the end

a/n: The second and final part of this little fic is finally here! Hopefully the comfort is satisfying enough after the angsty first part. You also get Matt's POV in the first half of this one. Feedback is always appreciated!

Matt Murdock One Shot Tag List: @pazii @shouldbestudying41 @kmc1989 @ebathory997 @mattkinsella @yeonalie @shiorimakibawrites @xxdrixx @wkndwlff @leikelle @pinkratts @lazyxsquirrel @1988-fiend @marvelcinematiquniverse @carstairswife @stilldreaming666 @kiwwia-wiwwia @willwork4dilfs @will-delete-this-later-probably @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @theetherealbloom @yarrystyleeza @dramaholic18 @ladywholikesreading @sleepysleepymom @tartbeanpuzzles @harleycao @sunflower-tia @lotrefcp @gamingfeline @juskonutoh @kezibear @ninacotte

Matt slid his desk chair back with a sigh, relieved the frustrating work day had finally come to an end. Standing up, his hands felt around his desk for the mess of papers he’d had scattered along it. He gathered them up, neatly stacking them together before he stuffed them back into the folder they'd initially been inside. Bending over, his back muscles protesting the movement from his previous night out as Daredevil, he picked up his briefcase that was leaning against his desk on the floor. Placing the briefcase on top of his desk, he packed the folder inside before closing it up and tossing the strap of the bag over his head, taking a moment to position it comfortably along his shoulder.

Making his way around his desk afterwards, one of his hands absently grabbed his folded up cane from off of it as he headed towards the door of his office. He could already hear Karen and Foggy in the firm's main room, the pair of them clearly talking about wedding related things. As he stepped out of his office and into the room, he could feel the air shift minutely as both of them looked over in his direction.

“More wedding details, Fog?” Matt asked, walking over to where the pair were leaning against the front office desk.

“Did you know that absolutely everything is a detail?” Foggy complained. “Like napkins. Did you know napkins mattered? Because I didn't. They're literally meant to wipe your dirty face and hands on, why does it matter what they look like? Or what material it’s made out of? It's a napkin!”

“Don't let Marci hear you say that,” Karen teased.

Matt could hear the way her fingers were tapping away at the screen of her phone. Probably sending a text message from the sounds of it.

“I just want a break from all the wedding planning,” Foggy grumbled. “I feel like half our place is currently storage for some binder or seating chart or wedding magazine or stack of business cards and pamphlets.”

“Well you'll get a bit of a break from it this weekend,” Karen assured him, setting her phone onto the desk beside her. “When we go wedding dress shopping with Marci on Saturday. She'll be talking all our ears off about the details for the whole day instead of yours.”

Foggy let out a dreamy sigh at the thought. “And I'll be relaxing at home by myself thinking about literally anything else while all you lovely bridesmaids, who I'm sure are vastly more interested in color schemes and table decor, discuss all of that,” he replied.

At the mention of bridesmaids, Matt's mind immediately jumped to you. He hadn't seen you since the night he'd offered to walk you back to his place and let you sleep over after you'd had a little too much to drink at Josie’s. The same night you'd randomly kissed him and told him you'd had feelings for him–something that had come as a complete shock to Matt.

You had actively avoided him ever since then. Ignoring his phone calls and texts. Never returning a single voice-mail he'd left asking to talk to you about what had happened that night. You'd stopped meeting up with everyone at Josie’s, only spending time with Karen and Marci over the past couple of months. Foggy even only ever saw you whenever you'd stopped by to see Marci at their apartment when helping with the wedding planning.

Matt expected you to be embarrassed after the incident, especially because he could feel the way your body had reacted before you'd sprinted out of his apartment and back into the rain outside. He'd felt bad, wondering if he'd really done something wrong that night to accidentally lead you on. He hadn’t meant to, he’d just wanted to make sure you were alright. You’d seemed off all night to him, but you had no idea about his heightened senses, so it wasn’t as if he could ask you why your body was all over the place that night. It had been confusing, and the amount of beers you’d drank certainly hadn’t helped him get a read on you, either.

He thought he’d been doing the right thing that night. The fling with that woman wasn’t worth risking you walking home in the rain drunk–which he’d overheard you talking to yourself about doing. He hadn’t wanted to risk something happening to you, because Matt damn well knew what could happen to drunk women walking home alone at night in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d certainly rescued a few himself. But somehow you must’ve misread the entire situation and thought he’d been after more than that. Which was absurd because you’d always just been a great friend to him since he’d met you. A really close friend who he’d been sorely missing lately.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Matt said your name aloud, catching the attention of both Karen and Foggy. “Is she…going to be there this weekend, too?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah, she’s one of the bridesmaids,” Karen answered. “So of course she’ll be there on Saturday.”

“I’m guessing she’s still not talking to you then, huh buddy?” Foggy asked him.

Matt sighed, shaking his head. He’d hated the silence from you and he had no idea how to fix things.

“No,” he replied. “She’s still very much ignoring me.”

“I don’t exactly blame her,” Karen cut in. “The whole situation sounded incredibly embarrassing and awkward when you told us why she was avoiding you. Especially considering how quiet she naturally is. For her to just kiss you and then to be rejected by you right after?”

“Ouch,” Foggy muttered. “Yeah, she’s probably never speaking to you again, man. Sorry.”

Matt ran a hand across his mouth, his shoulders sagging in defeat. The thought of never spending time with you ever again physically hurt. He’d never again hear another one of your ridiculous jokes or have another surprise drop-in lunch visit at the office from you. You always somehow remembered his favorite sandwich from his favorite sandwich shop, too. He’d always thought it was sweet that you’d made a mental note of his particular order, considering you had no idea how delicate his palate was with his heightened senses. Though he supposed now knowing that you’d had feelings for him all along had that attention to detail making more sense.

Standing in the office, an uncomfortable feeling twisted his stomach into knots, his heart squirming in his chest as the realization that you might really be gone from his life fully hit him. He didn’t like it one bit.

“You okay, Matt?” Foggy asked him. “You sort of look like you’re going to be sick.”

Slowly, Matt shook his head. “I just wish I could fix things,” he confessed. “I wish she’d just talk to me again. I don't like this weirdness between us.”

He heard the way the air shifted in the room again. As if both Karen and Foggy had looked at each other. Matt’s eyes narrowed curiously behind his glasses, his head tilting to the side. Both of their heart rates had slightly elevated at almost the exact same moment when they’d done that.

Why?

“So uh, you really miss her, huh?” Foggy asked.

“Of course,” Matt answered easily. “She’s one of my best friends.”

“Yeah?” Karen questioned.

Matt’s head canted curiously to the side at the odd tone in her voice. What were they getting at?

“Yeah,” Matt reiterated. “She’s been an important person in my life ever since the pair of you introduced us a while back. We always got along so well, and she always had such witty things to say. I miss talking to her. Josie’s just doesn’t feel the same without her anymore.” He ran a hand through his hair in growing aggravation. “I hate that I can’t just call her and hear her voice whenever I want anymore. And that she never randomly stops into the office just to say ‘hi.’. It–it hurts that she’s just gone now.”

The air shifted again as Karen and Foggy clearly exchanged a look with each other. Frustration began to fill Matt at whatever it was they weren’t saying.

“What?” Matt snapped. “You both keep looking at each other, I can feel it. What’s that about?”

Foggy cleared his throat, his attention returning to Matt. “It’s just…are you sure you just miss your friend?” he asked carefully.

Matt pulled a face at the ridiculous question. “What? Of course I do,” he shot back.

“No,” Karen said, shaking her head. “He means, are you sure you miss her because she’s just a friend to you?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to–”

Matt abruptly stopped short, his mouth hanging open for a second as Karen’s words suddenly registered in his mind. Lips pressing together seconds later, Matt’s hands landed on his hips as he shifted his weight on his feet.

“What’re you trying to say?” Matt asked the pair. “That you think I like her? As more than a friend?”

“Well, buddy,” Foggy began carefully, “you’ve been acting pretty moody lately. Ever since she stopped talking to you. And you haven’t been as interested in the ladies, either. We’ve both noticed you turning them down. I don’t think you’ve brought a single person back to your place since that night.”

Matt scoffed, shaking his head. “So? I just haven’t been interested in that exactly,” he replied stiffly. “That doesn’t have anything to do with her.”

“You perk up at her name every time she’s mentioned,” Karen added. “And for the past couple of months you always find some way to randomly ask how she’s doing or what she’s been up to.”

“And when we told you she’d gotten onto that dating app,” Foggy chimed in, “you were in a horrible mood the whole day afterwards. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so grumpy for no reason to quite that extent before. I mean,” he continued with a chuckle, “that was like a Matt Murdock record level of moody. And there was no reason for it that day except for, well, that .”

Matt licked his lips, his fingers digging into his hips through his dress clothes. He’d just been worried about the jerks you might meet on that site, that was all. And he’d been jealous that you were still talking to Foggy, Karen, and Marci but not him. That had been all it was.

Right?

Karen leaned up against the side of the desk, her arms crossing over her chest as she focused on Matt. He bristled under the attention, feeling like he was suddenly on the stand and she was about to interrogate him.

“Let me ask you something,” she began, “and I want you to be honest and really think. How’d you feel when she kissed you that night?”

Matt frowned in her direction. “I told you, it’d been a shock,” he answered. “I hadn’t anticipated her to do that. Then I was worried I’d given her the wrong impression and I felt horrible that I’d upset her.”

Karen was roughly shaking her head at him. “No, how did it make you feel Matt?” she asked again.

“I mean I–” he stopped short again, his mouth closing almost immediately.

In all honesty, with everything that had happened that night, he hadn’t really thought about that. He’d been afraid of you thinking he was trying to take advantage of you when you were drunk, something he’d never do. And then he’d been upset and worried about you running out of his place crying and trying to make it home that night. He couldn’t even follow after you because it wouldn’t make sense that a blind man could navigate his way down the stairwell after you like he knew he’d be able to. And he was certain if he’d called your name down in the lobby–because he shouldn't have been able to know you by the sound of your heartbeat and scent of your perfume–you’d only run out of the building and ignore him. Chasing after you hadn't been an option.

But he had wanted to. Something he hadn’t even thought about after the fact because he’d been so upset at you ignoring his calls and messages. All he'd been focused on was how much it hurt that he'd lost such a great friend. He hadn't really stopped to think about how he had wanted to follow you or how that surprise kiss had made him feel.

Had he enjoyed it? It had been timid and hesitant, only a brief kiss, but it hadn't been horrible. He'd just…never thought about you like that before. Because you weren't the kind of woman who blatantly threw yourself at him, the type he'd bring back to his apartment for a fuck and then be content to never see again.

You definitely deserved more than that.

You were the type someone brought home to meet their parents, the type a guy planned dates for, wanted to spend holidays with. You were the long term, committed relationship type of woman. The type Matt avoided because the thought of something serious scared him, especially with how he spent most of his evenings.

But he missed you. He missed the scent of your perfume you always wore, the smell sometimes even lingering on his clothes when he'd return home from Josie’s. He missed the way you'd try to fill awkward silences whenever you were with him, always saying whatever random thing was on your mind. He missed the way your heart usually jumped whenever you first spotted him–because he'd always known you were attracted to him but he'd never thought more of it than that. He missed the sound of your voice after a difficult day at work, on days like today.

“Well?” Karen prompted, breaking through his thoughts.

“I uh,” he began, pausing to clear his throat, “I guess I never really thought about her like that before. I've always avoided anything possibly serious, and I've always tried to keep her at a distance because she didn't know about Daredevil. So I never really gave it much thought. Especially since she'd always just been there before. But now that she's not…” Matt trailed off, aware of the strange and unfamiliar feeling growing in his chest. “I guess I miss her more than I think I even realized,” he finished softly.

“So wait, let me get this straight,” Foggy began, excitedly waving his hands in front of himself. “You're just now realizing that maybe you really do like her? Like for real? As more than just a good friend?”

A small smile slid across Matt's lips as he thought of the sound of your laughter and how he wished he could hear it tonight after the shit day he’d had. His hands dropped from his hips, that stupid smile growing a little at the thought of you. “I suppose I am,” he admitted.

Foggy pushed off the desk and crossed the few steps over towards Matt. Both of his hands flew forward, grabbing Matt's shoulders in a tight grip and lightly shaking him. Back by the desk, Karen tried to hide her laugh behind a hand.

“Then dammit, Murdock,” Foggy ordered, “Go tell her that!”

The smile grew wider on Matt's face, an idea forming in his mind already. If you weren't going to answer your phone, he'd find a way to make sure you couldn’t ignore him.

Straightening up your kitchen now that you'd finished with dinner, you paused what you were doing when you heard your phone alert you to a notification. Turning around, you picked it up from where it had been sitting on the counter, curious to what the notification was about.

Unlocking your phone, you noticed you'd received another message on the dating app you'd downloaded weeks ago. Leaning your back against the nearby counter, a smile drew itself across your lips. It was the first message you'd gotten this week and the sight immediately lifted your mood. The prospect of someone possibly being interested in you had your stomach excitedly jumping up into your chest.

You opened the message, beginning to excitedly read it over. Though the more you read, the faster your smile shifted into a frown. It was yet another sleazy sounding guy clearly trying to talk himself up in a way that sounded both fabricated and disrespectful. You cringed at the things he’d said about your photos–things he clearly thought were meant to be compliments but were vastly inappropriate and made you feel uncomfortable instead of flattered. Reaching the end of the brief message, you were shaking your head and closing out of the app before setting your phone back onto the counter with a roll of your eyes. It wasn't even worth your time responding back to the guy after a few of the things you'd read because he absolutely wasn't a match and you had no interest in ever meeting him.

With a sigh you made your way towards your fridge, your mind now focused on that unopened bottle of wine in there. It looked like you'd be having another night in with yourself tonight. But just as you'd opened the door to your fridge, your hand about to reach in and grab the bottle of red wine, there was a knock at your apartment door.

You paused, half-bent in front of your fridge as your eyebrows drew together in confusion at the interruption. Assuming it might’ve been Karen or Marci stopping by to go over something for wedding dress shopping which was planned for Saturday, you gradually stood back up and closed the fridge door. You figured that bottle of wine could wait a few more minutes.

Making your way out of your kitchen, you cut through your living room and over towards your door. Unlocking it, you pulled the door wide open without even glancing through the peephole first. Expecting to see either blonde woman standing there, you were stunned to instead find Matt standing in your hallway with a small smile on his lips.

Your heart lurched its way into your throat at the sight of him, your lips parting in surprise. Hand tightening around the handle of your door in a death grip, you fought your initial urge to just slam it in his face. What the hell was he doing here? Matt was the absolute last person you wanted to see standing at your door after your last interaction with him. It had been a few weeks since that nightmare of a night where you'd drunkenly kissed him and you still became insanely embarrassed at the memory of it. You certainly had no interest in talking to him about it further. You'd already apologized for just kissing him like you'd done, now all you wanted to do was never speak to him again. You figured he had to have gotten the hint already with how you’d been ignoring him.

So why was he suddenly at your apartment?

He said your name, that smile still on his mouth as he held up his right hand. Your face twisted into a look of confusion at the sight of a bouquet of beautiful flowers you hadn’t initially noticed he’d been holding.

“Can I take you to dinner this Sunday night?” he asked.

Teeth gritting down hard together, your eyes narrowed back at him as anger quickly ignited within your gut. You immediately remembered drunkenly confessing to him that you couldn’t remember the last time a guy had brought you flowers or asked you on a date. Now here he was doing both after he’d just very obviously and clearly rejected you. Did he think this was some way to break the ice between you both after what had happened? Some sort of way to turn everything into a joke?

“Do you think that's funny?” you asked sharply. “Making fun of me like this? As if I don’t feel like an absolute dumbass already, now you come here rubbing it in my face? You don’t like me like that, I got the message loud and clear already, Matthew. I don’t remotely find this funny.”

Matt's expression quickly morphed into one of shock and surprise at your reaction. He shook his head quickly, a crease forming between his dark brows.

“No, that’s–that’s not what I’m doing at all!” he exclaimed earnestly. “I guess I shouldn’t have led with that. Can I just come in and talk to you? Explain everything? Please?”

You were about to tell him no, wanting to hide your hurt, disappointment, and embarrassment behind a wall of anger instead of crying over Matt yet again, especially in front of him once more, but the solemn and desperate look on his face gave you pause. Matt and you had your jokes, but even this would’ve been a bit ridiculous for him to have planned out as a way to smooth things over between the pair of you after what had happened. He’d never seemed callous like that in the past. But the only other thing that would make sense was him actually coming here to ask you on a real date. Which also seemed equally absurd since almost seven weeks ago he’d already told you that you were just a friend.

“I swear if you let me explain, this will seem far less confusing,” he assured you. “Just–just give me five minutes?”

With an irritated sigh, you stepped away from the door. “Fine,” you relented. “Five minutes, Matt.”

An almost nervous smile spread across his lips as he made his way through the doorway and into your apartment. You closed the door behind him, your body a confusing mix of emotions that you were struggling to make sense of right now. You were upset about seeing him again after that embarrassing moment, your anger quickly giving way to discomfort. It didn't help that the tiniest spark of hope had reappeared in your chest at the prospect of him truly being here to ask you out on a date, but you immediately reminded yourself of what happened the last time you’d stupidly thought there was a chance Matt had feelings for you. You didn’t want to wind up misreading things with him a second time.

Turning back towards him, you were met with the bouquet of flowers in his extended hand. It was a stunning mixture of dahlias and greenery that couldn't have been cheap now that you were really looking at it.

“Dahlias are your favorite, if I’m not mistaken,” he said softly. “I remembered you mentioning that before at Josie’s when Marci had been talking about flowers for the wedding.”

Eyes darting up from the bouquet in his hands, they landed on his face. He still looked nervous and you weren’t entirely sure what to make of that. Matthew Murdock never outwardly got nervous. You also weren’t sure what to make of him remembering your favorite flower months after you’d brought it up around him just once.

Not knowing how to really respond, the confusing mix of emotions in your body only growing, you hesitantly reached a hand out and accepted the flowers. “Thank you,” you murmured.

In an attempt to keep your hands busy, and because you weren’t remotely interested in being the one to lead the conversation, you made your way back into your kitchen. You were aware of Matt following after you as you searched for the lone vase in one of your kitchen cabinets. Eventually you found it and began to fill it with water, impatient for Matt to say something as you kept your back to him.

“About that night,” Matt began cautiously, “when I’d invited you to stay over and you kissed me?”

Turning off the kitchen faucet, your eyelids slowly lowered. Your body tensed, bracing yourself for whatever was coming next. Keeping your back to him, you knew you couldn’t bear to look at him right now with whatever he was about to say. The jumbled, drunken memory of that evening came flooding back to you and you were immediately hit with a wave of embarrassment, tears stinging at your eyes behind closed lids. You remained silent though, waiting for him to continue.

“I hadn’t anticipated that, if I’m being honest,” he finally continued, still speaking in a measured tone. “My intention had been to make sure you made it somewhere safe that evening because I knew you’d drank a bit more than usual. I couldn’t stand the thought of you walking home alone drunk at night in the rain. So I’m sorry if I was giving off signals to you that were other than that at the time because they weren’t intentional.” He paused, clearing his throat lightly. “And it–it wasn’t exactly until this afternoon that I realized maybe some of them were subconscious because I hadn’t quite realized what I actually felt until today.”

Your hands tightened around both the vase and the bouquet of flowers as you held your breath. That flicker of hope had grown just marginally in your chest without your permission, and now it was teetering on the edge of growing larger or diminishing itself entirely. You felt like you couldn’t take another breath as you waited for him to clarify what he meant.

“It’s been weeks since we’ve talked,” Matt said, pain in his voice. “Weeks since you’ve come to Josie’s or stopped by the office. Or answered one of my phone calls. And everyday has just felt off because of it. Because I miss you. And I thought for the longest time it was just because I was missing one of my best friends, but then Karen and Foggy apparently caught onto something that I hadn’t even noticed in myself.”

With shaking hands, you opened your eyes and slipped the bouquet of flowers into the filled vase. Nervously you turned around, reaching your hand out to set them onto the counter next to you before your gaze finally landed back on Matt. He was standing at the other end of your small kitchen now, and it was almost as if he knew your eyes were on him as a gentle smile began pulling up the corners of his lips.

“If we’re being honest,” Matt confessed, “I’ve always tried to avoid relationships. I haven’t had the best of luck with them, and well, there are things someone actually dating me would need to be made aware of–something I generally don’t open up about. But I think I’d be ready to discuss that with you after dinner Sunday night if you’d let me take you out.”

He paused, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet as he gripped his cane tighter between both of his hands. Briefly you wondered what things he meant, but he was speaking again before you’d had long to contemplate that comment.

“The truth is, I didn’t truly realize what you meant to me until you were no longer a constant in my life,” Matt admitted. “And I can’t stand not having you around. Not just because you’re my friend, but because I have feelings for you, too. Feelings that are more than friendly that I’d like to explore further if you’d still be willing to as well.”

Heart skipping a beat entirely in your chest, you exhaled a quivering breath at the admission. Matt liked you. You . He’d really come here to bring you flowers and to ask you on a date, not to mock you or make light of your currently sad and lacking situation of a love life. You heard him let out a nervous laugh as your mind continued to race at everything he was saying.

“I uh, really wish you’d say absolutely anything right now,” he continued, “because your silence is scaring the hell out of me. I can’t tell if you’re still mad or just trying to process everything.”

Swallowing hard, you tried to find the words to express how you were feeling. You could barely understand your own mind right now after he’d dropped all that on you. You'd gone so long never believing he'd be interested in you like that, and then after what had happened weeks ago when he'd blatantly rejected you, you really figured you'd never be anything more to him. But now here he was telling you the opposite and you could hardly believe it.

“I’m still sort of processing,” you replied, voice just above a whisper. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to hear you ever say any of that. Certainly hadn’t been expecting to hear any of this tonight.”

A sheepish smile tugged at his lips just before he hung his head, nodding lightly. “Yeah, it sort of surprised me earlier, too,” he told you. “I’m shocked I wasn’t quite as aware of my own feelings as Karen and Foggy seemed to be, but uh…that probably has a little something to do with some other things going on in my life.”

Chewing your lip nervously, you continued to take in the sight of him standing across from you in your kitchen. He was still dressed in his dress clothes from work, clearly having finished late and having come straight here to see you afterwards. The nerves in your stomach gradually intensified as you took in the smile on his handsome face that you could somewhat make out despite the way he’d ducked his head. Seconds later his covered gaze rose up, falling back on you. You only gnawed on your bottom lip faster, something electric feeling like it was sparking between you both in the small space all the sudden. A feeling that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

“So I suppose now I’m curious to know if you’d let me take you to dinner Sunday night, since I know you’ve got plans for Saturday?” Matt asked hopefully. “Would that…be something you’d like?”

“Yes,” you whispered, nodding immediately.

Matt took a few steps forward, the smile that had been lighting up his face growing warmer. His hands reached up, removing the glasses from his face before he slipped them into the inside pocket of his suit coat as he continued to make his way towards you. You leaned further back into the counter behind you, your hands landing on either side of the countertop as you tried to steady yourself. You weren’t entirely sure what he was doing, but there was a glint in his eye that had your breath coming in sharper than usual.

“And in that case,” Matt continued, his voice dropping a few octaves to something sultry and soft, the sound increasing your pulse as he continued to close the gap between you both, “would it be alright if we had a redo of our first kiss? This time with both of us sober and actually anticipating it?”

Breath still coming in shallow, it was difficult for your brain to send the signal to your mouth to actually formulate a sentence. You’d managed a quiet noise in response as he came to a stop just in front of you, his body mere inches from yours as he set his cane to the side. You could practically feel something sparking between the pair of you as he just stood there, his eyes focused along your chin. His head tilted to the side as if in silent question when you hadn’t given him a verbal confirmation.

“I–yes,” you finally answered.

He leaned in, moving so painfully slow as he came to rest his forehead against yours. His hand was suddenly on your neck, delicately gliding his fingertips upwards until the palm of his hand cupped your cheek, cradling it in his warm hand. His thumb rested just beneath your jaw, somehow knowingly tilting your mouth up further towards his at just the right angle. You felt lightheaded beneath his touch and the close proximity, your body involuntarily sinking forward into his when the tip of his nose just barely brushed against yours.

Matt shifted just the slightest bit before you felt his lips finally land on yours. Your eyelids immediately fluttered shut, a faint sigh sneaking out of your throat at how soft his lips were–softer than you recalled them. With the way he carefully began to move them against yours, you felt your knees going weak. Hands releasing the grip you had on the countertop, they darted forward and grabbed fistfuls of his dress shirt, just beneath his suit coat.

As you held onto him like a lifeline, his mouth pressed more firmly against yours. Fingers curling into his dress shirt, you pulled him roughly into your body. He stumbled forward into you, a rumbling growl coming from his chest in response. The delicious weight of him against the front of you only pressed you farther into the counter behind you as his other hand landed on your hip, gripping it tight.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that Matt gently broke away, his own breath heavy as he rested his forehead back to yours. Your tongue darted out, licking your damp lips as you tried to catch your breath. You could still taste him on you, the realization causing you to actively have to stop yourself from leaning forward and kissing him again.

“Well there's–there's certainly something there,” Matt said with a breathy laugh. “But uh, maybe we should leave things there until after Sunday night?”

You nodded, though it was hard to fully agree when his hips were still pressing you back into your kitchen counter and his mouth was mere inches from yours. Especially knowing how damn good of a kisser he was now, you wondered what else he did well.

“Right,” you breathed out.

He shifted against you, burying his face against the crook of your neck as he wrapped his arms around you. You couldn't fight the smile on your face at how he clearly didn't want to pull away from you, instead getting closer to you. You'd never seen him this affectionate with anyone else before.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your neck.

Tentatively your hands released their grip on his shirt, your own arms snaking their way around his waist and drawing him closer. You came to rest your forehead against his shoulder, eyes closing as you relaxed into him.

“I missed you, too,” you admitted. “And I'm sorry for getting drunk and kissing you like an idiot and then ignoring you for weeks.”

“Well, I admit it wasn't great being ignored by you,” he said, his lips tickling you as he spoke. “But at the same time, if you hadn't done either of those, I might never have realized how I felt about the woman who'd always been right in front of me the whole time.”

Your smile grew, your arms holding him a bit tighter. “I suppose that makes me feel a little less embarrassed, then.”

Matt nuzzled his face further into your neck, the bit of stubble on his cheeks pleasantly tickling you. You couldn't fight the giggle that slipped out of you in response. Seconds later you swore you felt his mouth pulling into a smile against your skin.

“So Sunday night,” Matt began slowly, “if I show up with flowers for you again, you're not going to yell at me, are you?”

You couldn’t resist the laugh that fell out of you. Burying your face further against his shoulder in slight embarrassment, you replied, “No, I'm definitely not going to yell at you for bringing me flowers again.”

“Good,” he said, amusement in his tone. “Because that was admittedly a terrifying experience.”

The pair of you fell into a fit of laughter in your kitchen, arms still wrapped around each other as you did. As the pleasant sound filled your apartment, the pair of you holding onto each other tightly like neither wanted to be the first to let the other go, you couldn't help but think about what a turn everything had taken all because you'd drunkenly misread a situation and kissed your friend.

#fic reccomendations #fic recommendation #fic recs #fic rec #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock angst #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x you #daredevil

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myficreccs · 1 month

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lover - p. parker

a/n: hi guys so sorry it's been a while i meant to finish this a million times and im still not thrilled with the ending but oh well! i want to make a quick note that as someone whose hard of hearing i am aware that being hoh/deaf has a lot of rheotric around it and there's a lot of positive associations with being hoh/deaf but reader in this fic is not always happy with being hoh because being deaf/hoh has a LOT of complciated emotions associated with it! just keep that in mind as we go forward. warnings: hoh!reader, cursing probably, suggestive behaviors, lots of kissing, lots of fluff, a poorly written ending, gn!reader, reader having a lot of complex emotions about their hearing, talks of weddings, and reader has a mom and a step dad who love them. AUTISTIC PETER BTW ITS ONLY MENTIONED ONCE BUT IT IS IMPORTANT TO ME word count: 4.0k summary: peter parker is quite literally the most amazing boyfriend ever. even when you realize you're hard of hearing. pairing: tasm!peter parker x hoh!reader now playing: lover - taylor swift "my heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue/all's well that ends well to end up with you/swear to be over-dramatic and true to my/lover"

Going to the grocery store is a nightmare.

Especially when you go on a Saturday in New York City, on a relatively nice day out.

You’re pushing the cart through the grocery store, trying to focus on what’s right in front of you as Peter comes up behind you, placing a box of cinnamon toast crunch in the bag before you check it off your list.

This is your system—Peter runs around grabbing your assorted groceries for the next two weeks as you check it off the list, then there is two people making sure you have all your groceries. This pretty much eliminates the possibility of having to run out to the store during the week.

And usually, you do this very early on Sunday mornings—Like, you and Peter are the first patrons at the store.

But you’re out of just a few things that are essential—Toothpaste, Milk, coffee—You pretty much just decided to get it out of the way for the next two weeks.

The problem now, is that you’re in this crowded store, full of people talking, machines beeping and carts wheeling.. You’re struggling to focus. That’s what you pass it off as, at least.

Peter’s hand lands gently on your arm as he says your name gently.

“Huh?” You tilt your head to look at him.

“I just wanted to know what was next on the list.” He smiles at you. You glance down at the list,

“Uh, Bread.” You tell him, planning on making grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” He hums, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile softly. You’re not the biggest fan of PDA but Peter can recognize when you’re feeling upset and just need a reminder of your worth.

A few minutes later, as you’re struggling to ground yourself in the middle of this Trader Joe’s, Peter spooks you when he comes up behind you, his hand resting on your upper arm.

“Fucking Christ—” You gasped, “You terrified me!”

“I’m sorry, Baby.” He says gently. “I called your name a few times, was yapping all the way down the aisle.”

“Oh..” Your face softens. You don’t really know how to say all the things you’re feeling.

“Hey, I’ll—I’ll finish up here, how bout you step outside for a few minutes? Wait for me by the carts?”

Your list is almost finished up so you nod, smiling gently before leaving the grocery store, finally getting some peace and quiet. You lean against the wall of the grocery store, watching people pass the grocery store. About twenty minutes later, Peter walks out of the grocery store, holding your grocery bags. He hands you two bags but carries about four. Your boyfriend is Spider-man, and as much as you hate taking advantage of that.. You can’t’ deny how nice his strength is for situations like this.

He shifts the bags around to pull two candy bars out of his pocket—

A Snickers for him, and a standard Hershey bar for you.

You eat your candy as you make the short trip home, not saying much. The candy bar helps, but this looming truth lingers in the air, and you don’t want to be the one to say anything about it. So the pair of you make your way into the apartment, putting away your groceries wordlessly. But in the quiet of your apartment, you stop, suddenly plagued with a new trouble.

“My ears are ringing.”

“What?” It’s not something he’s asking because he did not hear you, but the statement catches him off guard.

“My ears are ringing.” You repeat. He gently takes the oranges out of your hands, scared that you might dig your fingers into them and destroy them half an hour after he picked them out.

“Okay,” he says softly, putting them to the side. “Why don’t you go sit down in the living room while I make some tea and put the groceries away?” He gently prods. Too busy wanting to literally claw off your own ears, you nod and head over to your couch.

Peter’s by your side a few minutes later with a mug of tea on the coffee table. However, it goes quickly forgotten as you climb on top of him, cuddling into him. His hands rub your back gently. You sit like this for a while, until he decides to ask—

“How long have you had trouble with your hearing?” His voice is soft. You reflect for a little while, before responding with a soft,

“A long time, now..” You remember being a teenager and having trouble hearing your friends in the lunchroom and lectures being a nightmare during college. “I think I’ve been just ignoring it for a few years..”

He had a feeling that’s what your answer would have been—you’re rather in tune with yourself, and something like this would’ve been something you picked up on a long time ago. But he doesn’t blame you for ignoring something like this.

“You know we should probably go to an audiologist, right?” He asks.

“Yeah, I know..” You sigh, cuddling into him further, as if you can hide away from the entire world.

“I’ll take you,” he says gently, not wanting you to worry about going alone or being anxious. You’ll be anxious anyways, but maybe he could help. And he will help, his fingers always brushing against your skin, making sure you remember that he’s there and not going anywhere. It’s the best way he can help-- By making sure you’re not alone.

“Thanks..” Your voice breaks, and he frowns, his hand coming to find your cheek, pulling you into his view. The sight of you crying makes his heart squeeze.

“What’s the matter, baby?” He asks softly, his thumb wiping your tears.

“I don’t..” You bite your lip, trying to form the words. You’re not an idiot. You have done some research on Deaf culture. You knew that it was an enhancement, something to be proud of. And that was phenomenal—You had done a lot of courses in college on disability rhetoric, and you knew how important it was to reinforce positive associations with disabilities, as well as the fact that most deaf and hard of hearing people did not consider themselves disabled.

And all that pride lived inside of you—But you couldn’t help your struggle about the subject. It would take time to adjust to, and Peter.. Peter deserved an easy life. He was Spider-Man for Christ’s sake!

“I don’t want you to have to worry about me if it turns out I do have trouble hearing. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

He frowns at this, tilting his head.

“Hey,” he tilts his head, looking at you with admiration. “Did you know when I was adopted by my aunt and uncle they told them I would be a challenge to raise? That my autism and lack of social skills would make me.. harder to love..?”

“You’re not hard to love.” You immediately say, and he smiles.

“I know. My aunt and uncle proved that to me, they went into raising me knowing that I would just have different struggles as other kids my age. Even if you are heard of hearing or deaf—You’re not hard to love. You just have different experiences and struggles from other people our age. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want every part of that journey.” He leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. It makes you smile a bit. “Now, no more tears. Let’s watch a movie, and we’ll start our research tomorrow, okay?” He hums.

You nod and grab the throw blanket behind him, pulling it across the pair of you as he grabs the remote and turns on your favorite movie. His hands stay on you, rubbing comforting patterns into your skin.

He turns the subtitles on without you asking.

• • •

The audiologist office has lights that are too bright. You and Peter sit side by side, as you look around at the other patients. Your chest tightens as you realize you are surrounded by people in their 70’s and 80’s—Except for you, a twenty something year old, a young boy, around seven, and a teenage girl. You all share similar looks of discomfort, but in your anxiety, you notice that there’s a sense of.. familiarity in seeing people your age here.

You decide to put a pin in your thoughts, as Peter’s hand finds your thigh, and you glance back over to him. In the past two weeks, He’s been giving more physical cues to get your attention, a small way he’s trying to make you feel more comfortable.

“Stop bouncing your leg,” he says softly, “You’re just working yourself up.” He says gently. You nod, and then your name is called, so you gather your things, and before you go, Peter grabs your wrist, before throwing up the sign in ASL for ‘I love you’. You grin and throw it back, before following the nurse into the back.

Peter waits, for around half an hour, making sure not to draw too much attention to himself. He makes pleasant conversation with two of the older ladies who are there, after finding out that they all grew up in Queens.

After that half hour, you come back out of the back rooms of the office, and Peter grins at you as he says a quick, respectful goodbye to the two older women, before handing you your jacket.

The pair of you stay quiet until you’re out of the office, and only when you’re a few steps away does he slip his jacket on before asking,

“How’d it go?” And with this, he clumsily signs along. The pair of you have been practicing ASL—Short phrases here and there.

You hesitate for an answer, going into your bag and fishing out a small ASL dictionary. Inside, in his sort of messy handwriting, Peter has written you a note that you take a glance at every time you open it. It reads, ‘Don’t forget I love you’, and it never fails to make you smile.

Another challenge you’ve been facing in your journey to learn ASL is your facial expressions—You’ve never been good at properly matching your face to your emotions or words, so it’s been a struggle.

“Fine,” You speak and sign. Then you pause. “Actually, not fine.” You sign, and then you drop the signing, because you’re only a beginner. “It’s sort of what we expected—My hearing is.. bad, and will probably get worse as I age.” His hand finds yours.

“Okay.. What did he say about hearing aids?”

“That If I felt like I needed them to schedule a follow-up.” You tell him. “But they’re expensive and I’ll need to do research to see what sort of health insurance coverage I have.”

He nods gently, his thumb rubbing your knuckles gently.

“Well, we’re gonna cross that bridge when we get there, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He throws up the sign for ‘I love you’. You throw it back. And it might seem stupid, but every time Peter holds up that sign, your heart melts a little bit. Maybe it’s a low bar or something like that—And it’s true. But Peter is learning a whole new language for the sake of making sure you’re comfortable and for your comfort. No one has ever done anything close to that for you.

• • •

Peter has become in tune with your body. Which is a weird way to say it, but it’s true. Those heightened senses of his come in handy, and mostly, he watches for tension in your shoulders and your jaw, perfect indicators that your ears hurt.

Usually, it’s this painful ringing, and usually, Peter just tries to make you as cozy as possible while you ride that out.

But tonight, you’re at a family party, celebrating your sister’s birthday. She’s getting married in a few months, and she’s been so busy with that you haven’t seen a lot of her. Peter holds your gift for her in one hand, and your hand in his with the other.

The party goes well for the most part, you’re just relaxing and hanging out with your family. It’s a nice party, and you’re grateful for your entire family. Your mom holds your nephew in her lap, your sister laughs with your aunts and her fiancé, and your brother and uncle are yapping about some football game.

You, Peter, and your stepdad stand in the kitchen, talking about all sorts of things. Your sister’s wedding, the cruise he just took your mom on, Peter’s recent promotion, and of course..

“Have you considered hearing aids?” Your stepdad asks.

“Yeah, they’re just.. expensive.” You laugh, nervously.

Your stepdad gently taps his own ears, “Well, you’d be part of an elite club.” He grins.

You roll your eyes playfully, before your attention is grabbed by a tugging on the leg of your pants. You glance down, and see your young nephew, gazing up at you with wide eyes.

“What can I do for you, little man?” You ask, a hand coming up to brush hair from his face. He says something you can’t quite make out, so you put your drink on the counter and crouch down to hear him properly, tapping right below your ear, “One more time, bud.”

“Can Peter come play?” He asks, still a little shy around the man you’ve been dating for a while now. You grin and nod,

“Of course he can.” You glance up to Peter, then to your nephew. “What do you wanna play?”

“Dinosaurs.” He requests. So, you pick him up and turn to Peter.

“Peter, our friend here would like to play dinosaurs with you.” You grin.

The way your hair falls into place, the way you hold your nephew close, the way your smile pinches your eyes together.. Peter wishes he could freeze this moment forever because you look perfect.

“Dinosaurs?” he repeats, before grabbing your nephew from you, and then positioning him so that he’s riding on Peter’s back. “Dude, I love dinosaurs!” that’s the last thing you can make out as Peter carries him off to the living room to play dinosaurs. You watch with an affectionate smile, taking small sips of your drink.

“So… Nice kid..” Your mom says as she walks into the kitchen.

You assume she’s talking about your nephew, so you shrug, “He is a good kid.”

“No, I’m talking about Peter.” Your face flushes as you realize where this is going.

“What about Peter?” You hum, looking over to her.

“I’m just saying, I think—”

“You two are gross together.” Your stepdad chimes in, but there’s no malice behind his comment. In fact, you only laugh because it’s something you used to say to them when they started dating.

“Yeah, I know,” You hum. “I really love him.” You confess, before shrugging.

“You know, with your sister’s wedding coming up, I’ve been thinking a lot about—” Your face flushes, as you finish your drink.

“When Peter and I are ready to get married, you two will be the first to know.”

“Oh, so you do wanna marry him.” Your mom smiles. Your face is warmer now.

“I’m gonna go mingle, you two should try minding your own business.”

You find Peter rather quickly, and he just smirks at you, before signing, ‘Talking about marriage?’

You roll your eyes, signing back, ‘Shut up.’ He just puckers his lips and blows a kiss at you. He wants to marry you too.

• • •

After dinner and cake, you sit in your old bedroom, rubbing your ears as you try and come up with an excuse to leave.

Peter finds you a few minutes later and sits next to you on your bed. You lean into him, your eyes heavy from dealing with the ringing you’ve been dealing with.

He gently prompts you to pick your head up before signing, ‘Ringing again?’

You just nod.

“Pete, I wanna go home.” You tell him. Your brother and nephew left a little while ago, and downstairs, your aunts and uncles are getting ready to head home.

“I know, baby. Let’s get you home.” He hums softly. He gently rubs his hand up and down your arm, before pressing a sweet kiss to your neck. Then, one at the base of your ear.

• • •

A few days later, you’re just doing chores around the apartment when your phone buzzes. When you take a minute to glance at it, you find yourself grinning.

It’s the link to an article, sent to you by your mom—Besides Peter, she has been the greatest support through your journey in figuring out you’re hearing. And she knows you have a bias towards Spider-man as far as vigilantes go (wonder why).

The link leads you to a photo of Spider-man, who is swinging across the city, holding up the sign for ‘I love you’. A grin breaks out on your face, just in time for Peter to crawl back into the apartment.

You find him with his mask off as he starts to calm down from a long day, and before he can do much else, you make your way over to him and pull him in for a long kiss.

He hums, his hands finding your waist as your arms wrap around his neck. When you pull away he grins.

“Hi.” He hums.

“Hey..” you smile. “I didn’t know Spider-man knew sign language,” You tease, and he just laughs, a light pink dusting of blush across his cheeks.

“He knows it for you.”

“For me?”

“For you, baby,” he leans in and kisses you gently. His hands begin to travel from your waist to the hem of your shirt, and then up, resting his gloved fingers against the skin of your sides.

• • •

Your hearing aids come in just in time for your sister’s wedding.

You pick them up and hold them in your hands as you go back and forth, worrying. Worrying about Peter not liking them, worrying about breaking them, worrying about everything, really.

But you stand in front of the mirror, and put them on carefully, before turning them on. You take a moment to adjust to how certain sounds are now. The drip of the faucet is more pronounced, and the sounds don’t just melt together like they usually do.

You can even hear Peter shuffling around outside, giving you as much time as you need to process the look and feel of them. When you finally step out, you’re nervous, and he must be able to tell.

“Look at you,” he grins, peering at the hearing aids. “Can we get a spin?” You immediately let out a nervous giggle, and then do a little twirl for him, and he just laughs and claps.

“You like them?” You ask nervously, and he nods.

“Absolutely.” He tells you. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, right next to your hearing aids. “I have something for you.” he tells you, before handing you a small black box. For a moment, you freak out. He probably senses the panic and shakes his head, “Just open it.”

You do, and when you realize what you’re looking at, your heart absolutely melts. It’s a gold star earing that has a chain that hooks onto your hearing aid, and another chain with more star pendants that dangle. It’s gorgeous, and you wonder what you did to deserve him. You lean in and kiss him gently.

“Thank you.” You say softly, and he can tell you’re going to get emotional, so he kisses you again.

“I think you look very pretty.” He hums, “Complete.” You grin and lean in for another kiss.

You’re beginning to feel it, too.

• • •

The morning of your sister’s wedding, you’re texting Peter as your sister gets her makeup done. You’re pretty much all ready, you’re just inclined to stay with her until she needs you.

‘Bug Boy