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Matt Murdock never thought his apartment could feel this loud when the city was quiet.
The rain against the fire escape was steady, soft—like a hand brushing over skin—but underneath it, New York was still humming. Tires hissing through puddles, the metallic groan of the subway, someone slamming a door three buildings down. He could map it all out in his mind. The city didn’t sleep; it only changed tempo.
Usually, he’d be out there, moving with it. Keeping time. Catching the breaks in the rhythm before they became tragedies.
But tonight, like the past six months, he stayed seated on the couch, one hand spread over the swell of his stomach.
A different rhythm pulsed there—a slow, steady whump-whump-whump, tinier than any heartbeat had the right to be. It filled him in a way the city’s chaos never could. It was constant, pure.
And it was why, for the first time since he was twenty-two, Daredevil had gone dark.
The guilt was relentless. Every scream he didn’t answer cut through him sharper than a knife. He could almost see them —muggings in back alleys, a gang initiation two blocks over, a woman’s breath quickening as she realized the footsteps behind her were keeping pace. He knew some would walk away. Others wouldn’t. That was on him.
And yet—he didn’t move. Because the smaller heartbeat under his hand shifted, followed by a flutter of movement so light it might have been mistaken for a trick of his senses. But it wasn’t. He felt the baby roll, adjusting in the fluid, the tiny bones brushing against him like a whispered hello.
He let out a shaky laugh. It was absurd—this constant, private ultrasound. He could hear the blood rushing through the umbilical cord, feel the flicker of toes pressing against him. The moment the baby stirred, he knew. The moment the baby slept, he could hear the breathy, dreamlike hush of their stillness.
Sometimes, he thought he could even sense emotion—not words, not thoughts, just… presence.
It made the guilt worse, in a way. The city needed him, but this—this tiny life—needed him more.
And for once, Matt Murdock was allowing himself to choose selfishly.
Still, when a siren wailed in the distance, he bowed his head, murmuring a half-formed prayer. Not for forgiveness—he wasn’t sure he deserved that yet—but for the people out there, the ones who didn’t have a red-suited guardian tonight.
His free hand tightened on the couch cushion, but the baby shifted again, pressing outward like a reminder.
“You win,” he whispered with a rueful smile. “At least for now.”
Outside, the city kept breathing. Inside, so did they.
That night, Matt lay in bed with the lights off— not that it mattered.
The rain had stopped, leaving the city sharp-edged and brittle. The traffic hum was thin at this hour, the kind of quiet where his own thoughts could get too loud.
He traced slow circles over his stomach, feeling for that faint, constant heartbeat. Strong. Steady.
By 3 a.m., Matt had given up on pretending he’d sleep.
The baby had been at it for hours—kicks, rolls, the occasional sharp jab to what felt like his bladder. Any other night, the soft ticking of his wall clock or the warm rush of steam from the radiator would be enough to lull him into rest. But tonight, his entire focus was turned inward, toward the flurry of motion beneath his ribs.
He’d heard pregnant women joke about sleepless nights thanks to their restless babies. What they didn’t know was that for him, there was no such thing as “tuning it out.” His senses picked up everything—the faint shift of amniotic fluid, the whisper of tiny joints moving, the fast flutter of that heartbeat every time they kicked like they’d just won a boxing match.
It was maddening. And perfect.
For years, his world had been dictated by out there—sirens, footsteps, the rise and fall of strangers’ breaths in the dark. Every second of his life was spent tracking what existed beyond his skin. But now, for the first time, something was pulling his attention inward.
Something was alive in him. Moving in him.
It was disorienting in a way fighting the Kingpin never was.
He lay flat on his back, hands folded over his stomach, smiling like an idiot every time another kick landed.
“You know,” he murmured, “most people wait until they’re born before they start throwing punches.”
A particularly strong jab answered him, and he laughed. He could feel every tendon stretch, every little shift of bone, like his body was reporting the details straight to his brain in high-definition. It was overwhelming—so much information in such a small space—but he didn’t want it to stop.
The clock was creeping past 3:30 when Matt finally decided there was no point lying there. Sleep was a lost cause, and his brain was too wired to even pretend.
He eased himself up from the bed with a small grunt, stretching his arms overhead until his back popped. Six months in, even simple movements felt different—like his body was constantly reminding him it had more than one occupant now.
The bathroom was only a few steps away, modest and familiar, but tonight it felt like a retreat. He turned the shower knob, letting the pipes rumble to life, and waited until the steam reached his face before stepping in. The water hit him in a thousand tiny bursts. To anyone else, it might have been a vague, pleasant sensation. To him, it was a storm of details—each droplet mapping the topography of his body as they slid down.
Over the years, that map had become crowded. Jagged lines from blades, faint circles from bullets, ridges from broken bones that hadn’t healed clean. He’d spent years tracing those marks with shame, remembering the fights that caused them, the people he’d failed to save along the way.
Tonight, though, the water didn’t linger there. His awareness was drawn forward, to the gentle curve of his stomach. Six months and impossible to ignore.
He rested both hands over it, letting the spray wash down his chest and over the swell. His skin there was tighter now, stretching slowly day by day. He could feel where it was starting to pull, where new marks would form—faint at first, then permanent. Another kind of scar.
Once, that might have bothered him. Another mark he’d carry forever. Another reminder of change he couldn’t undo. But these wouldn’t be from a fight in an alley or a rooftop gone wrong. They’d be from this. From them.
He could feel the baby shift under the water’s warmth, a slow, lazy roll that made him smile.
For the first time in many years, his scars weren’t the loudest thing about his body. And for once, he was glad to let them fade into the background.
When Matt finished his impromptu shower, his skin felt loose and warm, his mind quieter than it had been in weeks. He wrapped a towel low around his waist, absently running a hand over his stomach as the last of the steam curled into the cooler air.
That’s when he felt it—before he even really understood it.
A subtle change in pressure, high in his chest. A gentle warmth spreading outward, followed by the faintest trace of moisture against his skin. And beneath it, a scent—mild, almost sweet, like fresh cream with something softer threaded through it. New, but undeniably his.
He stilled, one hand half-raised, the realization slotting into place before he even touched the dampness on his skin.
Breast milk. Already.
A small, startled laugh slipped out of him. Of all the strange sensations his body had been throwing at him these past months—the kicks, the pulls of stretching skin, the steady thump of another heart—this one felt… different.
It wasn’t the push of someone inside him demanding space. It was his own body offering something outwards, as if preparing to meet a need before it was ever spoken.
He pressed his fingertips lightly against his chest, feeling the heat there, the steady pulse beneath. He breathed in again, letting the new scent layer itself into his internal catalog of the world.
It was strange. Intimate.
And—like so many of these moments lately—it made him feel more connected to the life growing inside him than any rooftop vigil ever had.
Matt swiped a thumb across his chest, collecting the bead of warm liquid before it could trail down his skin. He turned his hand slightly, curious, his heightened senses parsing every detail—the faint tackiness, the soft, creamy scent. Another strange, personal milestone in a string of them.
But then his senses shifted.
The steam in the air no longer masked the outside world. His hearing narrowed, the background hum of the city dissolving until one sound stood stark against it: the deliberate, slow tread of boots across his apartment floor. No hesitation, no fumbling. Someone who knew exactly where they were going.
And then—laughter. Low, sharp, crawling up the walls like a bad memory.
Matt didn’t need to smell the faint tang of gun oil on leather, or hear the steady, controlled breathing, to know who it was.
“Bullseye.”
He didn’t bother hiding the bite in his voice. He yanked a towel tighter around his waist and crossed the small bathroom, his free hand closing around one of the billy clubs he kept mounted by the door.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?”
“Oh, relax,” Bullseye said, the smirk audible in every syllable. “Not here to fight. If I wanted to, we’d be halfway through round three by now.”
Matt angled his head, tracking the slight shift of weight, the faint scrape of metal at Bullseye’s belt. No overt threat yet, but the man was coiled like a snake.
“Then why?”
“Message delivery. Kingpin sends his regards,” Bullseye said, mock-formal, before his tone dropped into something more dangerous. “Now that you’re… out of the picture, he’s gonna be arranging an early release from his little stay in state accommodations.”
Matt’s grip on the billy club tightened.
Bullseye chuckled again, clearly savoring every second. “City’s gonna be wide open for him, Murdock. And you? You’re just gonna be here… nesting.”
Bullseye took his time pacing the edge of the living room, boots whispering against the worn hardwood.
“You know what’s funny?” he said, almost conversational. “All those years bustin’ your ass to put Fisk away. The Fisk Case, they called it—your magnum opus. You finally took him down the good old-fashioned way, with gavels and closing statements. Thought you’d won.”
He stopped, leaning just close enough that Matt could hear the faint rasp of leather over his sleeve.
“Now? All that’s about to mean squat. Court’s gonna fold like wet cardboard, and Kingpin gets the last laugh.”
Matt’s jaw clenched. “You’re lying.”
Bullseye snorted. “Please. If I was lying, you would’ve known.”
And damn it, he did know.
The moment the words left Bullseye’s mouth, the memory punched through the fog of months. The courthouse had been chaos that day—the air full of shouted questions, camera shutters snapping like gunfire. Matt had been overwhelmed by it; half-deafened by the heartbeat of the crowd, riding the adrenaline of hearing the verdict read aloud. Fisk in cuffs, his pulse a cold, steady thud of fury beneath the surface.
Then—just as they’d hauled him down the courthouse steps—someone in the crowd had broken through the line of police. A quick rush of air. A faint hiss. And then…
The sweet, cloying burn of something wrong flooding Matt’s nose and mouth. A gas, sharp and oddly floral, coating his tongue, seeping into his lungs before he could react.
He’d staggered, but it had been over in seconds. The assailant gone, the cops shouting, the news vans rolling on.
He’d written it off at the time—another desperate, meaningless jab from Fisk’s people. No lasting damage.
But now—now the truth slotted into place like the final piece of a cruel puzzle.
Fisk had known. He had dug into the details of Matt’s childhood accident—the chemicals that had stolen his sight, twisted his senses into something inhuman. Chemicals that had, apparently, done more than that. They’d altered him on a fundamental level, reshaping what his body could do.
What his body could be.
The gas had been the trigger. A concoction designed to take advantage of that hidden mutation.
Matt’s hand tightened around the billy club.
“He knew you wouldn’t be able to help yourself,” Bullseye went on, voice dripping with mockery. “You get knocked up, you play doting daddy, and boom—Hell’s Kitchen loses its guardian. Fisk gets the run of the place without you breathing down his neck. Genius, really. He didn’t have to kill Daredevil. Just… retire him.”
Matt’s pulse roared in his ears. He wanted to lunge, to smash Bullseye’s smug grin into the floor, but the smaller heartbeat against his ribs reminded him why he couldn’t.
Fisk had taken his city before. Now he’d taken his freedom. And in a way Matt hated to admit—he’d done it without ever firing a shot.
Matt’s knuckles went white around the billy club, the other hand instinctively settling over the curve of his belly. He straightened to his full height, the damp towel still slung low at his waist, steam curling in the air between them.
“You tell Fisk,” he said, voice low but edged like broken glass, “that I’m still Daredevil. If he thinks he’s taken me out of the picture, all he’s done is give me a bigger, stronger reason to fight.”
Bullseye shifted his weight, and Matt caught the smirk in the small exhale through his nose.
“You also tell him this,” Matt pressed on, stepping forward until there was barely a yard between them. “If he—or any other piece of scum in this city—comes after my child, they’ll regret it. That goes for you too.” His voice roughened into a growl. “You’ve taken enough from me, Bullseye. You won’t take my baby.”
For a beat, the room was silent except for the twin heartbeats pounding in Matt’s range. Then Bullseye let out a short, mocking snort.
“Big words,” he drawled. “Hope you can back ’em up, now that you’re fat as a cow.”
Matt’s jaw tightened, but his voice was steady. “Blindness never stopped me.” He tightened his grip on the billy club until the leather bit into his palm. “This won’t either.”
For just a second, Bullseye’s heartbeat ticked up—an instinctive reaction to the conviction in Matt’s tone—before he masked it again with a scoff.
“Guess we’ll see.”
Bullseye’s footsteps receded down the hall, each one growing softer until the door clicked shut. The air in the apartment seemed to loosen with him gone.
Matt let out a long, slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The tension in his shoulders eased, but not completely. His grip on the billy club slackened until it hung loosely at his side.
He reached down, resting his palm over the curve of his stomach. The baby shifted faintly under his touch, as if responding to his voice before he’d even spoken.
“Sorry you had to hear that,” he murmured.
He stayed there for a moment, eyes closing, tuning out the city and the lingering scent of gun oil Bullseye had left behind. In the quiet, he turned his senses inward. The thump-thump-thump of the smaller heartbeat was steady, strong. His mind traced it like a sketch—spine curled, tiny limbs tucked in, the slow rhythm of their breathing-like motions in the amniotic fluid.
“I need you to know something,” Matt said softly. “You’re not a mistake. You’re not a weapon used against me. No child should be guilty for the way they came into this world.”
The baby kicked once, light but insistent. Matt’s lips quirked in a faint smile.
“You’re my baby,” he continued. “And I love you. I’m going to make sure you grow up safe. Happy. But to do that…” His jaw tightened. “…I have to put an end to Kingpin. For good.”
The weight of that truth settled heavily on him. He traced slow, absent circles over his stomach.
“I just hope,” he said quietly, “you can forgive me for dragging you into this before you’ve even had the chance to see the world.”
For a while, he stood there in the hush of his apartment, one hand steady on his belly, the other hanging at his side. The city outside kept breathing. Inside, so did they.
Matt sank back onto the mattress, the weight of the confrontation settling into his bones like a slow ache. He curled inward, folding himself over his belly like it was the only anchor keeping him from drifting apart. His hands came up instinctively, cradling the swell as if it held every piece of steadiness he needed.
He didn’t see that “pregnancy glow” people talked about. He wasn’t the type to catch the mirror and smile at soft light on his skin. But he could smell it—something earthy and sweet, a new fragrance blooming quietly around him like a secret whispered into the air.
His fingers trailed slowly down, over his hips, and he paused. They’d changed. The subtle widening, the shift in curve—proof that his body was reshaping itself for this new life inside.
It was strange and foreign, and yet somehow… right.
There was also another scent, one that he was actually familiarized with. Arousal. He was horny.
He wasn’t too surprised, as he had heard from somewhere how some pregnant women tend to get an increased libido. Turns out, it wasn’t actually a myth like he originally thought.
He was usually good at handling his urges, but it seems the pregnancy augmented this particular itch. Matt sighed heavily, almost in defeat. Okay, he could do this real quick…
Grunting with effort, he turned around until he was laying on his knees— ass upwards, and also giving enough space between the mattress and his belly so to not damage his baby. He then grabbed the billy club he was holding from the earlier confrontation, which he had previously left on his bedside.
He didn’t had any lube right now, so he’ll just have to do this the old fashioned way.
Matt stuck the billy club inside his mouth, sucking it vigorously like one would do a lollipop. His drool started coating his weapon, thick and shiny. He barely noticed the taste, the pregnancy hormones overriding his heightened sense of taste and instead replacing it by how pleasurable this felt.
“Mmmm…” He moaned beneath his breath, closing his eyes and indulging in his billy club as he thrusted it further down his throat.
He choked slightly after getting more than halfway there, and that's when he finally pulled it completely out of his mouth. The rod seemed to be sufficiently lubricated, so after a few more sucks and licks for good measure, he brought it closer to her hole.
Matt’s asshole was tight and pink and already winking despite no one being there to fill it. He briefly wondered if it was because of the pregnancy, or due of himself. He admitted that he hasn’t been “getting it on” as they said for a while, even before Fisk’s men doused him with that gas. He shook his head lightly, now wasn’t the time for that.
Biting his lower lip, Matt used one hand to spread one of his pale cheeks, revealing his hole even more. And then, he finally thrusted the billy club in. He didn’t wasted any time on foreplay or teasing, his body felt too hot and needy for that.
All he could think right now was finally scratching that itch.
“Oh fu—!” Matt couldn’t even finish that curse word when a loud moan burped out of his throat. Tears began forming in his unseeing eyes as he clenched them shut, his face twisting into an expression of pleasure-pain.
He’d never had something so big down there before. This wasn’t really something he was into, and his pregnancy just made his entire body a lot more sensitive than usual.
“Ahhh…” Matt gasped as he began thrusting the billy club further inside, slowly. The red weapon stretched open his tight entrance for all that’s worth, with his hole eagerly clamping around it as if it never wanted to let it go.
He spread his legs a little wider, and continued thrusting the billy club in. At this point, he had at least the one fourth of it inside. Maybe more.
It was so shameful. The Daredevil, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, the Man Without Fear himself, using his billy club like a dildo— the same one that give criminals permanent concussions. All because he couldn’t handle his basic urges. He could feel his face blushing.
But… Matt didn't deny that this was also exciting.
He thrusted the billy club deeper, and that’s when its blunt end touched a spot that made him gasp breathlessly. Biting his lip as if to suffocate his whining, he thrusted the billy club again and again against that spot until he couldn’t muffle them any more.
“Ah! Ah! Ahhhhh!”
He was merciless in his assault, much like he was with the criminals that polluted the streets. His eyes filled with more tears as he began to circle his billy club inside of his ass, before continuing thrusting it against his pleasure point like a drill.
His cock, which had been completely neglected during this whole ordeal, began twitching erratically in place as its mushroom head poured small useless droplets of precum. Matt didn’t need heightened senses to know he was close.
He push back the billy club back up until only the end cap remained inside him. Matt then plummeted it back onto the full length with zero to no grace, straight to that pleasure spot.
“GHAAACK!!” The sound that came out of his strength was almost inhumane as he finally came; an explosion of white raining down his bedsheets.
He kept coming for what he guessed was a whole minute, then he stayed like that. Panting heavily. Ass up, billy club still completely inside. Only the striking end could barley stick out, his asshole almost nearly swallowed it whole.
Finally, Matt turned around and plummeted into his mattress; still struggling to catch his breath. His eyes couldn’t really be unfocused like most people after such a huge orgasm, but his senses did became fuzzier. Not even his countless nights of vigilantism could leave him this breathless.
He carefully started removing his weapon from his ass, grunting as he did. Once it was out, he didn’t need enhanced senses to know it reeked.
“I definitely have to clean it later…” He muttered to himself, then threw it unceremoniously off the bed.
He rested a hand on his belly. Thanks to his senses, he knew that he didn’t accidentally harmed the baby. It just mildly began shifting in protest, or maybe annoyance over having been rudely awakened.
“I’m sorry for waking you up, dear.” He murmured, tracing faint circles over his stomach, “Though, you are kinda responsible for it.”
As if on cue, the baby delivered a sharp kick to his gut as if it were trying to scold him, making Matt chuckle fondly.
No matter what came next, he would protect the life inside of him with everything he had.