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idkman152 · 2 years

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Make You Better (Matt Murdock/f!Reader)

Summary:

Another cramp twists through your lower belly and you curl into yourself with a soft groan.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He rests one of his big hands on your ankle and squeezes gently. “What can I do?”

Rating: E/18+ only/lemon*

WC: 2.9k words

Tags/warnings: f!reader; menstruation (description of cramps/bleeding); established relationship; nonsexual massages; hurt/comfort; soft!Matt; nsfw content (period sex; fingering; dirty talk; aftercare)

A/N: the tags make this look a lot filthier than it is. it's smutty, but mostly it's soft

*this fic and my blog are 18+ only! minors: do not read/interact. please have your age in your bio to follow (you might get blocked if you don't).

The fact that you had to do anything today is a crime. The only mercy is that it’s the evening now, and you can do the only thing you’ve felt like doing all day: laying on the couch and doing absolutely nothing else. If you were at your apartment, you’d put on some terrible television show and let your mind wander. But Matt doesn’t have a TV, so you occupy yourself by scrolling mindlessly on your phone and periodically adjusting the heating pad across your stomach to a higher setting.

Another dart of pain lances through your abdomen, making you curl inwards and wince. “Ow,” you mutter.

What did you do to deserve this?

The painkiller you took with lunch wore off hours ago and you’re too stubborn and sore to get up and search Matt’s cabinets for more. You would sleep as a distraction from the cramps if it weren’t for the billboard flashing neon colors across the living room. Though the sun is well past down, it’s still bright as daylight even when you close your eyes.

Ugh.

Rolling from your side onto your back, you hug the heating pad tighter to your tummy and draw your knees towards your chest. The change of position helps—or maybe it just takes your mind off the pain.

The sound of keys just outside the door makes you sit up. It’s followed shortly by the shuffle of footsteps and the rumbling sound of Matt’s voice as he calls out to you.

“In here,” you respond. You try to keep the discomfort out of your voice, though you know Matt can surely sense it from yards away.

He rounds the corner, already stripping off his jacket and setting it on the armchair. After a long day of cramps and a period-induced headache, you allow yourself the treat of ogling him as his muscles flex under that tight white shirt. Does he own any shirts that don’t flatter him? (Is it even possible for something to not be flattering on him?)

He tilts his head at you. The neon light makes his glasses look particularly red. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, fine.” You rub your face and sit up against the arm of the couch. “Happens every month.”

“Ah.” Matt nods and heads for the kitchen. You watch from your nest on the sofa as he pulls a glass down from the cabinet, followed by a small white bottle. He grabs a beer from the fridge before coming around to kneel behind the couch.

“Here.” He hands you the full glass of water and a small pill.

“What, I don’t get to drink?”

He ducks his head with a smirk. “You shouldn’t mix alcohol and acetaminophen.”

“Boy scout,” you tease, but you take the painkiller and drink the water anyway. He squeezes your shoulder and leaves the beer on the coffee table before heading to his bedroom. He never bothers to shut the door when you’re here, so you get a full view of his back and his ass as he strips out of his suit and changes into his sweatshirt and sweatpants. Ten minutes ago you were ready to call the zoning office to raise hell about the billboard, but watching the neon light flash across the curve of Matt’s back—well, you’re willing to admit it has its benefits.

Then another cramp twists through your lower belly and you curl into yourself with a soft groan.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Looking up, you realize Matt definitely heard that noise. He crosses the room to sit next to you and ignores you trying to wave him away. Before you can mount any real protest, he lifts your legs and sits down on the other end of the couch with your calves stretched over his lap. You’re not in too much pain to notice how soft he looks with his hair all tousled and hoodie zipped up his chest. It makes your heart ache almost as much as the rest of your body.

He rests one of his big hands on your ankle and squeezes gently. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” you reply instinctively. “Don’t worry about me. Like I said, happens every month.”

“You’re hurting. Don’t lie to me, I can hear it.”

You glare and hope he can sense that, too. “I’m a big girl, Matt.”

“A big girl who’s been sitting on my couch for at least an hour, too stubborn to get up and get some Tylenol,” he says, adding a squeeze to your calf for good measure.

“How can you even tell that?”

“The Tylenol was where I left it two nights ago and I could hear you groaning down the hall.”

“Could not!”

Briefly, you expect Matt to shoot back could to and initiate your typical bickering, but he stops you before you get too riled up. He lifts your legs again and pats his lap.

“Come over here.”

Your eyes narrow. “For what?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you trust me?”

For a moment, you hold out, but he gestures towards his lap again and the temptation makes you buckle. Grumbling, you set the heating pad on the coffee table by his abandoned beer and shuffle over to Matt.

“Face me,” he says, and guides you to sit on his thighs.

Your pulse picks up and you know he can feel it. Your reaction to him is so obvious. But he’s not touching you like that—instead, his hands settle on your hips and travel to your back, palpating your skin almost like he’s searching for a wound.

His fingers catch on the hem of your shirt. “May I?”

“Yeah.”

You suck in a small, shallow breath when Matt’s hands creep under your shirt. His hands are so big and so warm, his palms dry and calloused as he settles them on your lower back. His fingers dance across your skin in that searching motion again. He freezes when he finds it. You stay perfectly still as Matt presses his fingers into your lower back.

“What…”

“The sacrum,” Matt explains. He presses down a little more firmly. “It’s the bone just under your lumbar vertebrae. Right above your tailbone. If you press down on it…”

He does as he says, applying firm, gentle pressure to your lower back.

“...it should help with the pain you’re feeling. Let me know if it works.”

His hands linger there for seconds that stretch into moments. He keeps the pressure consistent and your back arches slightly into his under the strength of his hands. When he releases you, you sit back on his knees and stretch a little.

“I think it might’ve helped?” you say, uncertain.

“Ah. C’mon.” He beckons you closer again. “It doesn’t always work the first time. Do you want me to try again?”

Regardless of whether or not this impromptu massage is helping physically, it’s definitely helping your mood. You give Matt permission to keep going and shuffle closer to him. His thighs are strong and firm underneath you and the heat of his hands on your back is a wonderful distraction from the ache twisting through your abdomen. He drags you up his legs until you’re practically laying against his chest and presses his hands down on your lower back again.

“Mm,” you mumble. The noise is muffled in the soft fabric of Matt’s hoodie.

“Feel good?” His stubble rasps against your cheekbone as he turns his head to listen.

“Mhm. I don’t know if it’s helping the cramps, but it’s definitely helping something.”

He huffs out a soft laugh at that. He doesn’t say much else; he just alternates between applying pressure to your lower back and running his hands up and down your spine. His hoodie smells like fresh laundry and Matt. You would bottle up this feeling and keep it with you for bad days, if you could. It’s a wonder how you got through bad days without him before you met him.

Matt hums from deep in his chest when he feels you go loose in his arms. The pressure on your lower back lightens and he tilts his head back.

“How does that feel?”

Relinquishing your closeness to him, you also lean back. The ache in your abdomen is definitely less acute than it was before, but you can still feel it lurking—ready to make its return as soon as Matt gets up and goes about the rest of his evening.

“It feels better,” you admit. You reach for the tie on Matt’s sweatshirt and fiddle with it aimlessly. “But can you…can you stay? Just for a little bit?”

Matt’s low hum of assent feels like it vibrates into you. He nods and his hand comes up to cup your cheek. “Of course.”

He guides your face into the crook of his neck and settles his hand on the nape of your neck. His touch melts down your skin, soothing the tension of your muscles and bringing you the relief you’ve been waiting for all day. You start to think you might just nod off like this, perched in his lap with your thighs slotted around his hips, when another cramp lances through your stomach and leaves you groaning into his shirt.

Matt holds the back of your head as you dig your forehead into his shoulder and wince.

“Fuck,” you grit out. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s not usually this bad.”

Matt’s other hand stills in position, right where it lies on the small of your back. “Do you want to try something else?”

“Something else?”

“At least until the painkiller kicks in.”

Even though you don’t want to inconvenience him any more, selfishly, you want a distraction from the pain, and to find out what he means by something else. You nod and mumble yes against his shirt.

“Okay. Turn around.”

Matt leans back and gives you space to shuffle around. Outside, the sun has long since set, and the only light comes from the billboard. The light flickers scarlet from a very red-toned advertisement and falls in eerie shadows across the floor. Your eyes slip shut as you lean back against Matt’s chest. He lays his hands on your legs, his palms completely covering your knees, and he eases them apart to lay on the outside of his.

“Is this okay?”

You roll your head back onto his shoulder. At some point he took off his glasses, and the low light makes his brown eyes look black. Shadows dance across his full lips.

“Yeah.”

Even though his touch is gentle, you wince when he lays a hand on your stomach and slips his fingertips under your waistband.

Sensing the way you tense up, he stills his hand. “Are you sure about this? We don’t have to.”

You shift uncomfortably in his lap. Even though you’re fully clothed, you feel so exposed with your legs spread for him—especially in your current state. “Are you sure it’s not…gross?”

“Gross?”

Do you have to spell it out for him?

“I know you can smell me, Matt. I don’t smell good. It’s old blood, and it’s gross, and I feel gross, and—”

“Sweetheart.” He cuts you off firmly but gently and leans his head forward to nose at your cheekbone. “Did you just ask if blood grosses me out?”

Embarrassment flares up the back of your neck and you scoff. “I know, I just—”

“It’s fine.” He dips his head to kiss the exposed skin of your neck, right where the collar of your sweatshirt has slipped to the side. “I want to help you. And for what it’s worth, you don’t smell bad. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s normal.”

Even with Matt’s reassurance, you find yourself shy again as he slips his hand underneath your shorts and your underwear. The fact that his knuckles are definitely brushing against the thick pad in your panties makes you wince. How does he not find that gross? It’s not sexy at all. You’re not sexy at all, not like this—

His voice is low and warm against your ear. “Stop worrying and let me take care of you.”

Your eyes flutter shut as Matt slips his hand lower. You’re so sensitive like this, with hormones flooding your body that heighten every sensation. You find yourself suppressing a whine from the first brush of his fingers. His touch is so gentle as he rubs the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex before dipping his fingers lower to tease at your entrance. You smell your own blood and arousal thick in the air, but it doesn’t seem to deter Matt. He presses in, his fingertip just dipping into you, and you drop your head against his shoulder with a whine.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. He kisses your shoulder and inches his middle finger deeper. “Let it out, sweetheart.”

You resist the urge to turn and bury your face in his neck as he presses the heel of his hand down and grinds it against your core. How does he know exactly how you need to be touched when you’re like this? He’s so gentle and so slow and somehow the careful touches feel more intense than any way he’s touched you before. His other hand settles on the curve of your belly; he barely has to flex to keep you down. When you circle your hips into his touch, you feel the growing stiffness in his sweatpants against your ass.

Oh. He likes this.

“Matt,” you whine. His fingers are barely inside you, not enough to feel much of anything at all. Where you felt pain earlier, now you just feel the ache of emptiness. “Please, Matt.”

He kisses your neck, your jaw, your ear. “Are you sure? I don’t want it to hurt.”

“Won’t hurt,” you grit out. You just need him.

So badly.

“Okay.”

As he eases one finger into you, then another, he holds your body steady with his arm around your middle. He barely has to crook his fingers to rub against a spot inside you that has you shaking in his arms. Your leg twitches on the outside of his and you feel his smile against your neck where he’s hidden his face.

“Ah. Got it,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “So sensitive.”

“Y-yeah.” Your throat is thick with desire, trapping every noise and turning it into something tiny and pitiful.

Matt makes you feel so small like this; like your entire body is condensed into the star-bright pinpoints of sensation where his hands touch your skin. His chest is broad and firm behind you and his knees are positioned to keep your legs apart for him. When you roll your head back onto his shoulder, the hand on your belly creeps up your chest to lay lightly across the base of your neck. You’re so open like this, your thighs spread for him, your head thrown back against his body, his thick fingers curling deeper into you.

The noises stuck in your throat come out choked and high-pitched. You sound broken. But Matt is so careful with you—working his fingers steadily, tracing his tongue along your neck just above the place where his hand curls around it.

“Matt…” you gasp. Your hand finds his arm and your nails dig into the meat of his forearm. “I think— I— I think I’m gonna c-come.”

“Good.” His voice is barely a rasp, right next to your ear. “Let it out, sweetheart. I've got you.”

“Mm— oh, oh, Matt—”

The sound of his name crests into a quiet cry as you tense up and release. Your back bows against his chest and only his arm across you keeps you from tumbling out of his lap. The ache in your abdomen that bothered you earlier shatters in the waves of pleasure rippling through your core. All you feel is good.

Matt brings you back to yourself with soft kisses littered across the side of your neck up to your cheek and your temple. He slips his fingers out of you, but he keeps his hands under your panties, his touch firm and grounding. Realizing you’re still clutching his arm, you let go and wince at the sight of small crescent-moon dips from your fingernails on his forearm.

“Sorry,” you say, brushing over the marks.

Matt laughs. It’s a soft exhalation of breath that tickles your cheek. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Mm.” You shift just a little in his lap, awkwardly closing your legs around his hand and turning so your cheek can rub against his shoulder.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

You breathe in deep and let it out on a satisfied sigh. “Nope.”

“Mission accomplished.”

The self-satisfaction in his tone makes you smile. Your grin grows wider when you feel his lips on the crown of your head. He kisses you there, once, before leaning back.

“How does dinner sound?” He slips his hand out of your underwear and reaches deftly for a tissue to wipe the blood off his fingers. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. Dinner, shower, bed?”

Without his arms wrapped around you, you’re free to turn and sit sideways on his lap. He smiles and you kiss him, just a chaste peck on his lips.

“You know me so well.”

He hums and leans in for another kiss. “Yeah. That's my job.”

[fin.]

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idkman152 · 2 years

Text

Comfort (Matt Murdock/f!Reader)

Summary:

Your shoes hit the floor with a soft thump and suddenly you’re kneeling on the sofa, then you’re laying down, and soon you’re worming your body around Matt’s. He lifts his chin and you nuzzle into it, eager to rub your face against the coarse stubble under his jaw. Your breath puffs warm and humid against his neck as you slip your arm under his and tighten it around his chest.

“Tell me if it hurts,” you murmur.

Rating: T for Teen and Up (orange)*

WC: 1.3k words

Tags/warnings: f!reader; whump (Matt is injured); description of pain/injuries; hurt/comfort; established relationship; cuddling

A/N: anyone else see that scene of Matt curled up on his couch in sweatpants and a hoodie in s1 and just want to cuddle with him? this is just a short thing musing on that idea <3

*this fic is 18+ only (as with the rest of my blog)! please have your age in bio to read & interact :)

There’s a point halfway between when you’re hurt and when you’re healed, where the pain has dulled and the ache is still present. That’s where Matt is. In fairness, it’s nothing compared to the actual moment of injury; there’s nothing quite like being slammed into a wall and stabbed in the arm. But the pain is constant in a mind-numbing way. It’s a low-level ache dragging him over the rocks for days on end and he’s miserable.

The wounds aren’t fresh, but he hasn’t had time to meditate and heal, so they’re persistent. When he moves his leg he can hear the cartilage of his knee grinding awkwardly against the bone and it’s impossible to ignore the headache wrapping around his skull in a tight band. Add that to the scattered other injuries that act up when bends or twists or does anything, and he’s on edge all day.

Outside the office, Foggy is trying to mediate between two angry clients, and despite his best attempts to calm the situation they’re getting louder and louder. There’s a vacuum running down the hall and a blender two floors up. Matt feels like his head is going to split. If it weren’t for the file folders rapidly filling with cases to handle, he’d call it a day and go home right now. All he wants is to sleep.

“Matt, I need…”

The door swings open with a high squeak and Matt winces. Foggy’s footsteps stop in the doorway.

“Jesus, man, you look like shit.”

“Thanks, Foggy.”

Foggy sighs. He glances over his shoulder, where the clients have receded to opposite corners like dogs circling before a fight.

“Never mind. I can handle this. Go home.”

Matt shakes his head and ignores the way his brain feels like it’s pressing against the inside of his skull. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Thanks.”

“No, you’re not. You look like shit. If you stay, you’re just going to sit here for another three—” he checks his watch, “—no, four hours, being useless.”

Matt opens his mouth to protest, but Foggy bulldozes over his complaint.

“Nope. Go home, Matt. We have a deposition tomorrow. I’d rather you sleep this off and be ready for that.”

Thirty minutes later, Matt is at his apartment, unlocking the front door and ignoring the ache in his ribs from where the subway seat prodded uncomfortably against his bruises. When he gets inside, he doesn’t bother with the normal steps of his routine. It’s just the basics: cane by the door, satchel over the hook, and then straight to his bedroom. When his hoodie and sweatpants aren’t where he left them this morning—crumpled on the floor—he frowns. He crouches down, feels for them by the foot of his bed, and catches the scent of fresh laundry nearby.

They’re on the bed. His clothes are soft from the wash and folded neatly on top of the throw at the foot of his mattress. He lets out a low sigh of relief as he pulls his suit off layer by layer and steps into his sleep clothes.

He could nap on the bed, but the sheets need to be washed. And anyway, you’ve been on the couch most recently. There’s a faint trace of you in the air in the living room—lily perfume and carmine from your lipstick. You must’ve stayed and gotten ready for work here after he left this morning. The smell and taste of you sinks into his skin and his lungs, as comforting as the soft clothes you washed for him.

The couch it is.

He sinks down onto the worn cushions, his aching body swathed in soft clothes and his senses in you, and finally—finally—falls asleep.

Matt sleeps deeply, something he only manages when he’s hurt. He’s too tired to even dream. He’s so deep under that it takes you saying his name three times for him to stir, and he only consciously registers your presence when the couch cushion dips under the weight of your knee.

Matt fumbles for the coffee table to keep himself from tipping off the couch. He groans when his bruised ribs throb in response.

“Shh,” you hush. You guide him back onto the couch. “It’s just me.”

There’s the smell of you again, present and full around him. It’s warm and floral, mixed with the smell of exhaust and trash from the streets outside. You’ve come straight from the train. Matt relaxes against the cushion again and lets you continue whatever you were doing that woke him up.

“Tell me if it hurts,” you murmur.

Matt hums. He shifts his leg and lets you slip your knee between his. Your stockings rasp against his ankle where the elastic hem of his pants have ridden up. Very quickly, you manage to seal your body against his, so tight that not even air could find its way through.

He loves it.

“Bad day at work?” he asks.

You make a little noise in the back of your throat. “Really, Matthew? Just because I’m cuddling with you, you assume that I have ulterior motives?”

He hums again.

“Yes,” you mumble. “But it looks like you had a worse one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I walked in and you looked so sad over here. You don’t even have a blanket.”

Matt huffs. It’s all he can manage without making one of his injuries act up. “So you’re my blanket?”

“Mhm. Something like that.”

Now that he thinks about it, he is feeling the pain less. Either he healed while asleep, or the softness of your body under his hands and the warmth of you pressed to his chest is sufficient distraction. With the way your arm is under his, you’re holding pressure away from the bruises on his side, and your knee slotted between his is definitely helping with the alignment of his hips. If you’re doing this accidentally, he’d be impressed, but he has a feeling you’re not; it’s too precise to be a coincidence of cuddling.

The happy noise you make as you burrow into his arms is one Matt is very familiar with. He’s memorized many of your noises. This one is all sleepy affection as you both get what you want all day.

“Thank you for the clothes,” he mumbles. His words are muffled by your hair where he presses his lips to the crown of your head.

He feels the curve of your smile against his neck.

“Aw, you noticed.”

He makes an affirmative nose and buries his nose in your hair. You showered at his place, he can tell. Your hair smells like the products you brought over from your apartment, but your skin smells like his soap. It’s a comforting mix of you and him, made warm by the heat of your skin, and he wants to savor it for as long as he can.

“I can tell you’re trying to stay up for me.” You rub your hand down his flank, a soothing, light gesture, avoiding the bruises blossoming there. “Don’t. Sleep, Matt.”

“Okay.” He yawns so wide his jaw cracks, and then he takes a deep breath to say it again, but you hug him a little tighter and he lets out a sigh instead.

If he’s planning to say anything else, it goes unsaid. Just a minute later, he’s asleep, drifting off with the ache easing and the warm weight of you in his arms.

[fin.]

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