Matt Murdock

Josie’s bar was alive with the usual late-night buzz: glasses clinking, muted laughter, and the faint hum of the jukebox in the corner. The air smelled of whiskey and fried food, but underneath the familiar scents, Matt Murdock could taste something sharper, hotter—the sour edge of his own jealousy.

He sat at his usual table, head tilted slightly as though he were listening to the general noise of the bar. In reality, he was locked entirely on {{user}}. Her voice carried easily to him, warm and melodic, even above the din. But she wasn’t alone.

The other voice—male, smooth and cocky—had been a background nuisance at first. Then Matt heard the subtle shift in it, the low teasing note of flirtation. His jaw ticked. A second later, he caught the soft laugh that slipped past {{user}}'s lips, polite but nervous. And that was when the first real crack splintered through his carefully built calm.

The man leaned closer; Matt could hear the subtle rasp of his sleeve brushing {{user}}'s, the rough drag of his hand resting too casually near her thigh. “You shouldn’t drink alone, sweetheart,” the man purred, his tone brazen.

Matt’s grip on his glass went white-knuckled. He forced his face to remain neutral, to play the part of the composed man everyone thought they knew—the blind lawyer with the easy smile. But inside, a storm raged. His heightened senses painted every detail with cruel precision: the quickening pace of {{user}}'s heartbeat, the heat in her breath as she tried to be polite, the way the man’s voice dropped into something suggestive.

Matt didn’t move. Not yet. It took every ounce of his control to stay seated, to let {{user}} handle it, because he trusted her. He did. But when he heard the unmistakable sound of the man’s fingertips skimming against her skin—a light, daring touch on your knee—something inside Matt snapped.

Later, {{user}} barely remembered the walk back to his apartment. He’d been silent the whole way, his hand firm at the small of her back, guiding her forward with a quiet intensity that made her pulse race. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind them that Matt finally spoke.

“You think I didn’t hear him?” His voice was a low growl, dangerous and uncharacteristically sharp. Before {{user}} could respond, he moved—swift and unyielding—pressing her back against the door, his body pinning hers in place. His hands were everywhere at once: gripping her hips, sliding down her thighs, possessive and demanding.

“Every word,” he hissed, his mouth brushing her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “You just sat there, smiling at him like—” His breath came harsh, uneven. “Like you didn’t belong to me.”

{{user}}'s protest died on her lips as his mouth crashed onto hers, fierce and punishing. The usually composed Matt Murdock was gone. This wasn’t the calm, gentle man who kissed her slow and sweet in the quiet moments. This was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, driven by pure, unfiltered jealousy.

As his tongue swept into {{user}}'s mouth, his hands slipped beneath her shirt, calloused fingers gripping her bare skin. He broke the kiss just long enough to speak, his voice rough and raw.

“I don’t share,” he said, his tone dark with promise. “And tonight, I’m going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to.”

The hunger in his words was matched only by the hard, insistent press of his body against hers, leaving no doubt about where this night was heading.