Kønga999

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

AN: I’ve had a celebratory drink, and I’m in my feels—so here’s a drabble treat.

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He finds he looks forward to the part after the bar, than the bar. Even if your arm moves from around him, your head slipping from his shoulder as you slide on your coat.

It’s cute you protest that you don’t need him to walk you home. As if Matt would ever be able to live with himself if he didn’t.

Plus, the walk from the bar to yours is a nice one.

Not too long, not too short. It means that no matter the weather, you never hail a cab, and he has the pleasure to walk with you. A moment in time where he’s gets you all to himself—even if tonight, he’s had more of your attention than normal.

Tonight, you’ve been closer. His hand brushing against yours initially in the booth; then your head on his shoulder later. Then, your arm around him, and him fighting the grin which was set to burst when it happened.

Now, your arm is looped around his. And as much as he likes it, as much as he wants it—he knows he shouldn’t.

You laugh at the part in the story you’re telling, and his lips curl up into a grin even if he’s not listening. Because your laugh is becoming the perfect soundtrack to his life. Not that he’ll ever complain, not that he even is.

He adores it.

His body does too. He knows that because he grins when he’s around you. Because his face hurts when you excuse yourself for the bar or the bathroom. And he’s left, wondering when you’ll return, already hearing the remarks from Foggy and Karen for the lion on his face.

But still, Matt worries about letting go. Of letting himself fall, for you, for the two of you.

Because he’s done this before. The walk to someone’s place. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it doesn’t. But it always ends with him kissing whoever he’s walked with; his heart steadily beating, trying to suppress all thoughts of carrying them upstairs.

But you’re different. He knows that too.

Matt likes that you don’t push him, you don’t expect things. You’re willing to leave your window open a bit just in case he needs a refuge; you’re not mad, just worried when he’s hurt—even if you bottle it.

He’s sure how he feels, you mirror. Not that he’ll ask, because you know him. All of him. You know about his activities, about the struggles; you’re a friend outside of the world of law and devilish-duties. You’re a person that centres him—and he knows he’ll mess it up.

He can’t lose you.

He’s not sure he knows how to breathe if he did.

Your feet halt at the steps, your hand slowly loosening as you come to face him. “I don’t like the idea of you going home alone.”

Smirking, he laughs. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“You could just come up—I can make the—“

“I can’t come up.”

The soft oh that leaves your lips is heartbreaking. He should have expected that, but nothing could prepare him for the sound of your heart falling to the floor. Landing in a mess at both of your feet, everything in your draining.

He hears you reach for your keys in your bag, a sorrowful skip of your heart punching his ears. “Well, goodnight then, Murdock—can you let me know when you’re home. I won’t be able to sleep.”

And he’s smiling again.

Both at your kindness, and how you misunderstand him.

You have to be for your body to react the way it’s doing when his is reacting in an entirely different way around you.

He’s not sure how you don’t know he’s crazy for and about you. Because Matt is sure he floats, he’s invincible—hell, he’s not even sure he needs to eat, sleep or drink. Because you’re enough. You’re it.

You’re beginning to move from him, and his heart thunders in his chest. His fingers reaching out, purposefully brushing your arm. Halting you; baffled that you don’t know.

“I can’t come up, because if I do, I’ll never leave.”

He doesn’t need to touch your lips to know they rise, he can tell from everything else. From the energy around you, from your pulse, from the way your eyes feel on him.

Matt’s become good at that. Being able to tell what you’re feeling from the way your eyes rest on him. Sometimes they’re playful, sometimes they’re lingering on him, just like this.

You step closer. “Murdock… I know how important Hell’s Kitchen is, you don’t have to explain your reasons to me.”

And Christ, he’s sure he’s just fallen more in love with you. Something he didn’t know was possible.

The fact even now, you’re not understanding him. Thinking about other things rather than yourself. As if you can’t be a sole reason for someone to stay—for him to stay.

So he closes the gap, it barely taking any steps at all to do. His hand finding your hip, hearing the distinct intake of breath as he slowly lets his fingers grasp your waist. Your hip becoming flush with his.

And he hates the rain usually finding the scent of it overwhelming; worse than that, the sound so loud, it muffles things at times. But he wishes for it now, for it to fall down on the two of you, so he can peel you from your clothes; so he can spends hours keeping you warm.

“I care about the city—“

“—I know you do—“

“Let me finish. Please?” Because this is hard enough. And, thankfully, you go silent. “I care about the city, but it isn’t the cities fault as to why I can’t come up.”

He hears you swallow as the winds blows your perfume more into his nose—a scent he’ll never bore off. A scent that never feels too much. It’s heavenly, but dark. It’s heavy, and yet flowery.

Your lips brush together, a soft, low laugh meeting the air. “You worried you’ll fall in love with me, Murdock?”

You say it playfully, like you don’t think he could. Like you don’t think he already has. And, it’s only a second, but so much happens in it.

He swallows, his throat to go dry, hearing your body realise, slowly one by one each part acknowledging his quick silence.

And he doesn’t let go. If anything he holds on tighter, even if he knows he shouldn’t.

“That’s… That’s precisely what I’m worried about, Sweetheart.”

You hold your breath.

And his spare hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the soft skin above it. “I’m worried if I come upstairs and I’m alone with you, I’ll kiss you. And if you kiss me back, I’ll never, ever stop loving you.”

Swallowing, you clear your throat. “And wh-what’s wrong with that?”

do you not care deeply about them and understand that they are complex human beings who experience a range of emotions?

your friend being vulnerable with you is not trauma dumping. you don’t have to be a grief counselor to be there for your friend while they cry about a loved one dying. or just a rough time they’re having.

i mean, do you only have deep discussions with a therapist and not friends or family? if so, that’s weird tbfh and not utilizing therapy properly.

Mads Mikkelsen and Malin Buska in 

Hello! It was this one!

Okay, cue my squealing, because I commissioned the lovely and talented @miranhas-art​ to draw not one but two of my fic pairings. Yesterday I showed you Ezra and Tinker, and today it’s my OG pair, my Mandalorian and Jedi fusion.

He nods in assent and you lift, placing a deep kiss onto his mouth before whispering against it, “Ni akarya'a at gar.”

I am yours. I belong to you.

The Darksaber kicks in his hand, blazing with an electric looking current up and down its length. You both watch it hum and spark, he can feel it almost vibrating in his hand as much as your words vibrate through his being.

“Din Djarin,” you breathe. “I think you love me.”

He watches the blade pulse and swirl, charged with power, almost writhing like a living thing in his grip. If he knew it could do this…. […]

He nods. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

–Losing My Religion

I do not know how to express how much I love this. How much I love them. How much I love Mira and her thicc Pedro boys, how she made a man in hard armor soft and yielding and full of yearn.

When she sent me the first draft, I nearly cried.

FORGIVE ME FATHER, FOR I HAVE SINNED (insp.)