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@peterftpercy
🪻 My Masterlist
I'm back to writing, so here's what I'm revising from old drafts or stories I published in the past. <3
you must know: i'm not a native english speaker, so you might find some mistakes. i apologize if that happens.
fluff: ✮ smut: ᨳଓ angst: ꩜
One Shots:
matt murdock:
investigating the devil ᨳଓ (a little)
the harlequin play ᨳଓ (a little bit of bullseye)
what remains of him ✮
divorce papers ꩜
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Sugar, Please - Chapter Thirteen
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: you and matt have an important conversation the morning after the gala.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 2.5k
so yeah... i've finished editing the second part of investigating the devil. i might upload it later 😇
Divorce papers
matt murdock x reader
summary: things between you and matt hadn't been good for a long time… and time was always cruel, so it was time to meet at a cafe to sign the divorce papers. papers that matt conveniently forgot.
warnings: angst and… just angst? i guess.
content: feelings of neglect. matt and his own penance. guilt.
word count: 4983
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
Divorcing Matt was proving to be significantly harder than marrying him.
And marrying him had involved ninjas.
You stared at the coffee growing cold between your hands and wondered, not for the first time, how your life had somehow arrived here.
The answer should have been simple.
People drifted apart.
Marriages ended.
Love changed.
That was what everyone said.
The problem was that none of those things had happened.
You still loved him.
Which was, unfortunately, the entire problem.
The little café was nearly empty at this hour. A few students occupied a corner table. Someone worked quietly on a laptop near the window. The soft murmur of conversations blended with the distant sounds of Hell’s Kitchen outside.
You hated this place.
Not because there was anything wrong with it.
But because it had become neutral ground.
Because this place meant nothing to either of us. There were no memories in this café. No dates, no quick errands before walking to work together, no popping in to buy some sweet treat that caught your eye.
This place meant nothing in the grand scheme of things that were you and him.
A place chosen specifically because neither of you could accuse the other of having home field advantage.
The realization alone felt depressing.
Once upon a time, Matt had been your home.
Now he was someone you scheduled meetings with through lawyers. Or well, your lawyer and Matt. Because it was obvious that Matt would take care of his own divorce.
Your stomach twisted.
The bell above the entrance rang.
You didn’t need to look up.
You knew.
You always knew.
Even before hearing the tapping of his white cane against the floor.
Even before the chair across from you scraped against the floor.
Even before he sat down.
Even before that familiar scent reached you.
Coffee. In recent years he drank more than before.
Leather.
Matt.
The combination nearly ruined you.
“You look tired” he said.
You hated him. You hated him because his voice still did that to you.
Because it still sounded like home.
Slowly, you lifted your eyes.
Matt looked… older. Not old.
Just older.
The lines around his mouth had deepened. There were a few gray strands in his brown hair. The exhaustion lingered beneath everything. As if life had spent the last few years taking pieces of him and never bothering to return them.
Something painful squeezed inside your chest.
You looked away first.
“I could say the same thing.”
“Fair.”
His answer came easily.
Too easily.
Like this was a normal conversation.
Like he wasn’t about to hand you papers that would legally dismantle fifteen years of marriage.
The thought made you nauseous.
Your eyes drifted toward the briefcase resting beside his chair.
There it was.
The reason he had come.
The reason you had agreed to this meeting.
The reason your lawyer had spent the last three weeks sending increasingly passive-aggressive emails.
The divorce papers.
You swallowed.
Then forced yourself to ask.
“So, did you bring them?”
For a moment, Matt didn’t answer.
A beat passed.
Then another.
His head tilted slightly.
Almost thoughtfully.
Almost innocently.
Which should have been your first warning.
“Actually,” he said.
Oh no.
You knew that tone.
You knew that tone.
That tone had ruined your life at least seven hundred times.
“Actually,” Matt repeated, “I forgot them.”
Silence.
Complete.
Absolute.
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“I’m sorry?”
“I forgot them.”
“You forgot the divorce papers.”
“Seems that way.”
Your stare sharpened.
Matt remained completely unbothered.
Or at least pretended to be.
Which was somehow worse.
“Matthew.”
“Yes?”
“The divorce papers.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You forgot them.”
Another pause.
Then, to your horror, a grin appeared.
Not a big grin.
Not even a nice grin.
One of those infuriating little smiles that always meant trouble.
“Since we’re both here,” he said casually, “we could have something to eat. I haven't had my lunch yet.”
You stared at him.
The café disappeared.
The city disappeared.
Reality itself briefly disappeared.
Because surely you had hallucinated that.
Surely.
“You forgot,” you repeated, trying to understand. Was this a joke?
“Yes,” he said, maintaining that charming but irritating smile.
“The papers.”
“Yes.”
“For our divorce.”
“Correct.”
“And your solution is… lunch” you said slowly.
“Seems reasonable,” he said, shrugging lightly, as if he were downplaying it.
The smile widened.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
You wanted to throw your coffee at him.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Frequently.”
“Matt.”
“Yes?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Something flickered across his face.
Gone almost immediately.
Gone so quickly you nearly missed it.
Pain. Raw. Unfiltered.
Then the smirk returned.
The bastard.
“I figured we could eat first,” Matt said, still smiling. “When you don’t eat. . . you’re kind of aggressive.”
Your laugh came out sharp.
Broken.
Dangerously close to something else.
“You figured.”
“Yes.”
“You figured.”
“Still yes.”
The chair scraped loudly against the floor as you stood.
Several people glanced over.
You didn’t care.
Months.
Months of crying. Months of lawyers. Months of pretending this was happening. Months of waking up in an empty bed. Months of reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
And this man.
This impossible, infuriating man.
Had the audacity to sit in front of you and suggest… a lunch!
As if you were discussing weekend plans.
As if your marriage wasn’t bleeding out on the table between you.
“You don’t get to do that.”
The words escaped before you could stop them.
Matt froze.
For the first time since arriving. Actually froze.
Yes, the man who in recent times acted as if the world was not dissolving around him.
Your chest heaved.
“You don’t get to decide this is easy. You can’t turn this into… into something trivial.”
His jaw tightened.
The smirk vanished.
Good.
Let it vanish.
You were tired of pretending.
Tired of being reasonable. Tired of being the mature one.
“You don’t get to show up after six months and act like we’re friends.”
His heartbeat stumbled.
You heard it. Or maybe you imagined it. You didn't have his skills, but you knew him better than anyone.
Or well, at this point, you weren't sure.
“You don’t get to look at me like that.”
Matt’s expression changed.
Barely.
But enough.
Because suddenly he wasn’t looking at you like a lawyer.
Or an ex-husband.
Or a man delivering paperwork.
He was looking at you like a drowning man.
And somehow that hurt even more.
Because for one terrible second, you remembered exactly why this divorce was destroying both of you.
Neither of you wanted it. You just didn’t know how to stop it.
The realization settled between you like shattered glass.
Dangerous. Sharp. Impossible to ignore.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Matt remained seated.
You remained standing.
The distance between you wasn’t large.
A few feet at most.
Yet it felt bigger than entire cities.
Bigger than oceans. Bigger than the years you’d spent sharing a bed.
His eyes remained fixed somewhere near your face.
Not looking.
Never looking.
But always finding you anyway.
You hated that.
You hated that after all this time he still knew exactly where you were.
You hated that your body still recognized him before your mind did.
You hated that part of you still loved him enough for any of this to hurt.
“Sit down” he said.
The words came quietly.
You laughed.
A sharp, disbelieving sound.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Matt flinched.
Tiny.
Almost invisible. But it was there. For once, you wanted him to feel it too.
“You don’t get to sit there and act like this is normal.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know it isn’t.”
“Do you?”
The question escaped before you could stop it.
Months of grief surged upward. Months of anger. Months of loneliness. Months of swallowing words because every conversation had ended the same way.
With silence.
With avoidance.
With one of you leaving.
Usually him.
“Because sometimes I genuinely don’t think you understand what you did to me.”
The café had gone quiet.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough that you noticed people pretending not to listen.
Enough that you noticed neither of you cared.
Matt swallowed hard.
“What I did?” his words were careful. Dangerously careful. Like he was stepping through a minefield.
You almost laughed.
Because now he wanted to be careful.
Now. After years.
“Don’t.”
His expression hardened.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that lawyer thing” you said.
“What lawyer thing?”
“That thing where you repeat my words back at me like you’re cross-examining a witness.”
Silence.
A beat later, his gaze dropped.
And somehow that hurt more.
Because it meant he knew exactly what you were talking about.
“You left me alone,” you said, in a whisper that seemed to weigh more than your own body.
There. You’d said it.
The thing neither of you had wanted to touch. The thing sitting in the center of the room. The thing slowly poisoning everything.
Matt’s breathing changed immediately.
You heard it. You always heard it, even before he spoke.
“I didn’t leave you” his response came instantly. Too instantly.
Like he’d rehearsed it. Like he’d been waiting months to say it.
Your eyes burned.
“That’s funny.”
His shoulders tensed.
“Because I remember sleeping alone,” you said, gathering courage with each word.
A pause.
“I remember eating dinner alone.”
Another.
“I remember anniversaries.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line.
You kept going because if you stopped now, you would cry.
And you refused to cry.
“I remember wondering whether my husband was alive.”
The words landed hard. This time the flinch wasn’t subtle. It was immediate.
Visible.
Pain crossed his face so quickly it almost startled you.
Good.
Let him hear it. Let him hear what it sounded like.
“I remember getting phone calls at three in the morning.”
Your voice shook and you hated that.
“I remember having to stay up until dawn or wake up in the middle of the night to go wherever you decided to fall so that you could be healed.”
Matt closed his eyes, just for a second.
You kept talking anyway.
“I remember blood,” you whispered.
The café disappeared.
The years disappeared.
Suddenly you weren’t standing here.
You were somewhere else.
A tiny apartment.
A bathroom floor.
Matt unconscious.
His mask was discarded nearby.
Your hands covered in his blood.
Terrified. Again. Always terrified.
The memory made your chest tighten.
“You know what the worst part is?”
His throat moved.
Once.
“No.”
A bitter smile appeared on your face as you sat down again. You rested your arms on the table, glancing first at some prying eyes to tell them to mind their own business, and then you returned your gaze to him.
“The worst part isn’t that you kept getting hurt.”
Silence.
“The worst part is that every single time I asked you to stop…,” your voice cracked, almost as if you were looking for air in the middle of the sentence “…you looked at me like I was asking you to stop breathing.”
Matt looked away.
That hurt too.
Because it was true. And he knew it.
For years you’d fought the same fight.
The same conversation. Different words. Different nights. Same ending.
Every time.
You asking him to choose himself. Him choosing Hell’s Kitchen.
You asking him to come home. Him promising he would.
And then not coming home.
Again. And again. And again.
Until one day you stopped asking.
Matt’s heartbeat sounded wrong. Uneven. Faster now. The way it always became when he was upset.
“You think that’s why this happened?”
His voice was quiet. Dangerously quiet. You stared at him.
“What?”
“You think he’s the reason we’re here” he said. You noticed that he measured every word, his tone.
He. Him. Daredevil.
A hollow laugh escaped you.
“No.”
His eyebrows furrowed.
“No?”
“No, Matthew,” you whispered, as if the words weighed heavily on you.
The use of his full name made him go still.
“He was never the reason we ended up here” you said.
Your eyes burned.
Because now you were finally approaching the truth.
The ugly truth. The one that hurt.
“He’s not the reason we’re here,” you whispered.
Your voice softened.
And somehow that made everything worse.
“We’re here because I spent years begging you to let me in.”
The silence that followed felt endless.
You swallowed.
Trying to force the lump from your throat.
“You kept getting hurt.”
A breath.
“You kept getting scared.”
Another.
“You kept carrying everything by yourself.”
Matt wasn’t moving.
Not even breathing.
“I wasn’t asking you to stop being him.”
Your eyes met his.
“I was asking you to stop shutting me out.”
Something broke across his face.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Something worse.
Recognition.
Because suddenly he understood. Not intellectually. Not as an argument. As a wound. A real one.
A latent wound. Painted a vivid red that stung with every small movement, with every touch, with every effort.
“I was your wife” your words came out barely above a whisper. “And somehow I still spent half our marriage standing outside locked doors."
Matt looked like you’d struck him.
Maybe you had. Maybe the truth sometimes felt exactly like that.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then finally—
Finally—
His voice cracked.
The first crack you’d heard all afternoon.
“I didn't know how” he whispered.
And there it was.
Not an excuse. Not a defense. Not a justification.
Just a broken confession.
Small. Pathetic. Human.
“I didn’t know how to let someone carry it with me.”
And somehow that hurt even more than if he’d yelled.
The confession settled heavily between you. For years, you had wanted to hear those words. Back when there had still been something to save. Back when arguments ended with apologies instead of silence. Back when your side of the bed was still warm.
Now? Now they only made you tired.
Your eyes drifted toward the window. Rain had begun falling outside, tiny droplets racing down the glass that seemed to match the inner sadness that had resided within you for quite some time.
Hell’s kitchen looked blurred. Distant. Like a memory, like the two of you.
“You never even tried.”
Matt inhaled sharply.
The sound was quiet. But you heard it. Of course you did.
You had spent years learning the language of his silences. To be with Matt Murdock, you had to know how to read his every move.
“You think I didn’t try?” his question sounded genuinely wounded.
And somehow that made you angry.
Not because he was wrong, because he wasn’t. That was the tragedy. Neither of you were wrong.
Not entirely.
You laughed softly. There wasn’t any humor in it.
“No.”
Your fingers tightened around your coffee cup.
“I think you tried.”
His heartbeat stuttered.
You looked down, unable to keep staring at him.
“I think you loved me.”
The words hurt. They hurt.
Because they were still true.
Present tense. Not past.
You love me.
Not loved.
Love.
Still.
Even now. Even here. Even with divorce papers waiting somewhere in a briefcase that Matt didn't bother to bring.
“I think you loved me so much it terrified you.”
Silence.
You swallowed hard.
“I think every time something bad happened, your first instinct was to protect me.”
Another pause.
“And eventually” your voice cracked. “...you started protecting me from yourself.”
Matt froze. Completely.
The memory surfaced before you could stop it.
A dark room. Ten years ago. Broken ribs. Concussion. Blood everywhere. You sitting beside a bed, or what was supposed to be a bed.
Exhausted. Terrified. Refusing to leave.
Matt waking up. He was overwhelmed, he didn't even know himself, but as soon as he regained his senses, he looked for you. Your name was the first thing he whispered, followed by a torrent of apologies.
Apologizing. Not for lying. Not for getting hurt. Not for disappearing.
Apologizing for making you worry.
The memory nearly made you sick. Because now you understood. It was the weight of worry that Matt didn't want to give you, a profound guilt that prevented him from fully opening up, that prevented you from seeing him like that, from suffering because of seeing him suffer.
Pure guilt and pure love. That's why Matt had to close the door, because you didn't deserve to die worrying over a man who chose everyone but himself.
“I remember when you stopped calling me.”
His jaw tightened.
“What?”
“When patrols got bad,” you said, your grip on your mug tightening. “I remember when you stopped calling.”
Matt looked confused.
Which somehow made it worse. Because he genuinely didn’t know. Didn’t remember. Didn’t realize.
“You used to call,” you said, as a sad smile touched your lips. “Do you remember?”
His expression shifted slowly. Like pieces falling into place, or like the walls of a perfect defense collapsing.
“You’d call from rooftops.”
His breathing became uneven.
“You’d call when things got dangerous.”
Another pause.
“You’d call when you were scared.”
Matt looked away.
You kept going.
Because now that the wound was open, you couldn't stop. It was like a train that had lost its tracks and was just hurtling down a valley without being able to stop.
“Then one day” your throat tightened “...you stopped.”
The memory was painfully clear.
At first you hadn’t noticed and then you had.
And then you couldn’t stop noticing.
No calls. No messages. No vulnerability. Nothing.
Just reassurances. Just promises. Just—
“I’m fine,” you said, remembering every single word. Repeating them.
You laughed bitterly.
“There it is.”
Matt’s face fell.
“’I’m fine’.”
You shook your head.
“...’Don’t worry about it’,” another shake. “’I’ve got it handled’.”
The tears finally began gathering in your eyes.
You hated yourself for crying. Over the years, you had learned to hold back much of your tears, either because you had hardened yourself or because you didn't want to see the expression etched on Matt's face.
Because Matt always looked devastated when you cried. Always.
Even now. Especially now.
“I spent years begging you to stop saying that” your voice trembled.
“’I’m fine’.”
You looked directly at him.
“’I’ve got it handled’.”
The tears escaped.
One.
Then another.
“’Don’t worry’.”
Matt looked like he couldn't breathe. Hearing you repeat his almost rehearsed lines was like a well-deserved, but unwelcome, penance, since anything involving your suffering was not something Matt desired, even if it meant punishing himself.
Good.
Maybe now he understood. Maybe now he could finally see it.
“It wasn’t the injuries.”
Your voice broke.
“It wasn’t him.”
You wiped angrily at your face.
“It was waking up every day beside someone who wouldn’t let me know him anymore.”
The words left you shaking.
Years of grief compressed into a single sentence.
Matt didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even attempt to interrupt. Because for once, there was nothing to argue against. Nothing to defend. Nothing to explain away.
The worst part? You weren’t finished. Your chest felt hollow. Your hands were trembling. And somewhere deep down, beneath all the anger and heartbreak and exhaustion, there was still love.
Stupid. Persistent. Undying love.
Which made the next words infinitely harder.
“You know what finally broke me?” you asked, sniffing.
Matt’s heartbeat stumbled.
You could almost hear it.
“No” his voice sounded rough. Like sandpaper.
You nodded slowly.
Then laughed through your tears.
A pathetic sound. A broken sound.
“The day I realized I wasn’t your partner anymore.”
Silence.
“I was your emergency contact.”
The color drained from his face.
And suddenly—
Suddenly—
You saw it.
The exact moment the words reached him. The exact moment they landed.
Because Matt Murdock could survive broken bones.
Could survive gunshots. Could survive grief. Could survive almost anything.
But that? That shattered him.
Because somewhere along the way, he’d convinced himself he was protecting you. And he’d never realized that every wall he built between you had transformed you from the person beside him...
Into the person waiting beside a bed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until there was almost nothing left of your marriage except waiting.
“I was the person Foggy called when you were so messed up you couldn’t even pretend to be okay in front of me. You made me the person Karen, Foggy, even fucking Frank would call if something was wrong and you didn’t want to tell me.”
You laughed, a bitter laugh that almost scraped your throat.
“God. Once you chose to fall into one of Frank’s hideouts rather than… rather than come to me,” you whispered, swallowing hard.
You were trying to soothe at least your suddenly dry throat, but there was nothing that could ease any of the pain that tormented you.
Matt couldn’t breathe.
Not because the words were cruel. Not because they were unfair. Because they were true.
God. They were true.
And that was worse.
For years, he had told himself a story.
He reassured himself that way, always keeping in mind that you were being protected, that it was for the best, that this way you wouldn’t sink into stress that shouldn't be yours… even when marriage means just that: sharing the good and the bad. The heavy and the light. The painful and the pleasurable.
A story.
A comforting one.
A story where he was doing his best.
A story where he was protecting you.
A story where every sacrifice meant something.
Where every lie had a purpose. Where every night spent bleeding in an alley somehow justified the fear he brought home with him. But sitting here, listening to your voice shake as tears gathered in your eyes, he suddenly saw everything from the other side.
Not his side.
Yours.
And it was unbearable.
Because you hadn’t married Daredevil.
Not really.
You had married Matthew Michael Murdock.
The man beneath the mask.
The man who promised to share his life with you.
The man who promised to let you in.
And somehow…
Somehow he had spent years locking doors without even realizing it.
His throat tightened.
The memory came suddenly.
Violently.
A Tuesday night. Seven years ago. You sitting on the kitchen counter while he cooked dinner. Laughing about something Foggy had done. The apartment filled with music. Your bare feet swinging against the cabinets. You had looked happy.
So happy.
And he remembered thinking: I’ll tell you later. I can’t tell you now.
Later.
The most dangerous word he’d ever known.
Later, when things calm down. Later, when Fisk is dealt with. Later, when the city is safer. Later, when patrols aren’t so bad. Later when the wounds no longer hurt so much.
Later, when I’m less tired.
Later.
Later.
Later.
Later.
The realization hit him like a punch to the ribs.
There had always been a later.
And now there wasn’t.
His chest ached. A pain that seeped beneath his defenses, seeking to burn in the deepest recesses of his profane soul, as if to remind him that this suffering was the work of his own blood-stained hands.
It was a bone-chilling pain, a pain akin to mourning.
He remembered every single moment. Not individually. Not perfectly. But enough.
Enough to know what he’d done. Enough to know what he’d ignored. Enough to know when he’d started losing you.
The worst part? He had noticed
He remembered the first time.
You had stopped waiting up for him.
Such a small thing. Such a tiny thing.
For years, no matter how late he came home, you’d be awake. Reading. Working. Watching television. Waiting.
Then one night he’d returned at three in the morning.
Exhausted. Bleeding. Ready to apologize… and you’d been asleep.
The lamp turned off. Your side of the bed occupied. Peaceful.
He remembered standing there feeling something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Not because you’d done anything wrong. Because you’d finally stopped.
Stopped waiting.
Stopped sacrificing sleep.
Stopped rearranging your life around his absence.
He should have understood what that meant. Instead, he’d told himself you were taking better care of yourself.
The memory made him sick.
Then there had been the arguments. The ones that slowly disappeared. At the time, he’d felt relieved.
Relieved.
Jesus Christ.
The realization almost made him laugh. You stopped fighting and he’d thought it was progress. He’d thought things were getting better.
Less tension. Less conflict. Less pain.
What an idiot.
You hadn’t stopped fighting because things improved. You’d stopped because you were tired. Because eventually people run out of strength.
Eventually they run out of hope. They stop believing they’ll be heard.
Matt swallowed hard.
His eyes burned.
Across the table, you were still looking at him.
Still waiting.
The irony nearly destroyed him.
Because that’s what you’d always done.
Waited.
Waited while he healed.
Waited while he lied.
Waited while he disappeared.
Waited while he chose everyone except himself.
And somehow...
Somehow he’d convinced himself you would wait forever.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“You know what the worst part is?” his voice barely sounded like his own.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
Matt laughed softly. A miserable sound.
“I saw it happening.”
Your expression changed. Just slightly.
Confusion. Pain. Hope.
He wasn’t sure. Maybe all three.
“I saw it.”
His gaze dropped. Facing the weight of your gaze was something he didn’t feel capable of, not now.
“I saw you getting tired.”
The confession scraped against his throat.
“I saw you stop asking where I’d been,” he had to swallow to continue speaking. "I saw you stop arguing. I saw you stop waiting up."
His voice cracked. For real this time.
No hiding it. No fixing it. No pretending.
It hurt.
“I knew,” the words shattered on the way out. “I knew I was losing you.”
Silence.
Rain tapped softly against the windows. Someone moved across the café. A coffee machine hissed somewhere in the distance. The world continued.
Cruelly.
Indifferently.
Matt’s entire life was collapsing and the world kept moving.
“I knew.”
His hands trembled. Just enough.
“You’d look at me sometimes…” his throat closed “...and I could feel it."
The distance. The sadness. The loneliness. All of it. Even when you never said a word.
He’d felt it. Because he knew you. He’d loved you for so many years that your silence had become louder than anyone else’s voice. And still—
Still he’d done nothing.
“I kept thinking I’d fix it.”
A tear slipped free.
He hated it.
“I thought I’d figure it out.”
Another laugh. Bitter like the coffee he drank every morning before preparing for a day where the melody of your laughter wouldn't accompany him.
“I thought there’d be time.”
That was it. That was the entire tragedy. Not lack of love. Not betrayal. Not cruelty.
Time.
The arrogant certainty that tomorrow would always exist.
That next month would exist.
That next year would exist.
That marriages could survive indefinitely on promises of ‘later’.
Matt finally lifted his head and looked directly at you. Really looked. Not with his eyes. With everything else.
The way he’d always found you. The way he always would.
And for the first time that afternoon, he stopped pretending.
The facade of the arrogant lawyer was over, the man who seemed not to care, who was always calm and ready to irritate you (because God knew that he enjoyed seeing you irritated; he always wanted to shower you with kisses when you were irritated).
“I never stopped loving you.”
The words fell between you.
Love wasn’t the problem. That was the cruelest part. Love had never been the problem. Love had been there every single day. It was the only certainty between you two.
Matt loved you. He loves you. He would until his last breath, even after that; if God were kind enough to admit a devil to heaven, Matt would still love you.
You were his person. You were everything to him. Love was never the problem because he had so much to give you.
And somehow… aquí estaban ambos.
Across from one another.
Talking about the corpse of a marriage neither of them had wanted to kill.
Matt swallowed.
His voice dropped to almost nothing.
“I’m just afraid I loved you badly,” he murmured. “That I dragged you into my darkness, that you lost who you were by marrying someone like me.”
And that—
More than the divorce. More than the lawyers. More than the signatures waiting on forgotten papers. That was the thing that finally broke him.
He heard you swallow. You were distraught, that much was clear. Your hands were trembling; your cheeks were hot from the flush that spread across your face when you cried; tears kept streaming from your eyes; your leg was bouncing up and down with anxiety.
Matt didn't bother to listen to your heart. He couldn't bear the weight of those heartbeats that screamed in pain. He knew you were suffering. He condemned his trained senses for being so aware of it.
“I…” you said, your sweet voice trembling. “I… I can’t… I can’t do this,” you whispered. “You can’t do this to me… I… I was supposed to… today…” you breathed shakily. “You can’t do this to me. I can’t do this,” you repeated.
Matt closed his eyes tightly as he let a few tears escape.
You stood up quickly. Your face was wet with tears that bore his name, and you walked away, this time without looking back.
Matt didn’t stop you.
Not because he didn’t want to. Heaven knew he did.
But because he had lost that right the moment he excluded you. Not from his heart, but from a part of it that should have included you. His dark side, the one you never wanted to run from.
The lack of love was never the problem, but rather the way he expressed it.
notes: so… yes… i hope it had the expected angst!!!
i wanted to emphasize how matt pushes people away under the guise of protecting them, especially his wife, his most precious being.
i wanted to make matt a little bitchy at first; i feel like it's an aspect of him that's sometimes forgotten. he's a brat at heart… oh, i also decided that the last pov should be matt's because i felt it was the right thing to do (?)
i don't know if i'm happy with the ending or not, although i'm not sure if i'll do a second part… or maybe i will? i don't know yet. if anyone wants a second part, let me know!! i appreciate the support.
anyway, if you read this far: i hope you liked it!!!
A Guide to Charlie Cox's Kissing Method:
1) It will look like he's starving and wants to consume you
2) It will involve the grabbing of necks and chins
3) At times, involves tongue
@ace-degenerate-13
he's so hot ૮⸝⸝´ρ`⸝⸝ა
I’ve seen this post easy 30 times and it never fails to send a SHOT down my spine i need himmmmm
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i just finished the matt one-shot angst story i had in mind… divorce, him not handling the paperwork… but i'm not convinced yet… aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Sugar, Please - Chapter Twelve
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: you and matt return to his penthouse.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 3.6k
The privacy divider had gone up the second the town car pulled away from the curb, sealing you both into the dim amber-lit backseat with the soft hum of Manhattan outside the windows.
Neither of you spoke at first. Because after that dance and the way Matt had looked at you, words suddenly felt dangerous. You sat beside him trying to steady your breathing while city lights flashed gold across the windows.
Matt sat rigidly calm next to you. One hand rested against his thigh. The other around a crystal glass of whiskey the driver had apparently stocked specifically for him. But his jaw was tight.
And every few seconds you caught the subtle flex of his fingers. Like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you again. Your pulse fluttered violently. The silence stretched. Heavy. Then finally, Matt exhaled slowly through his nose and set the glass aside.
And his hand found your thigh again. Warm. Large. Certain. Your breath caught immediately. The slit in the red dress had already ridden higher when you sat yourself down for the car ride, leaving bare skin exposed beneath the dim lighting.
Matt’s palm settled there instinctively. Not tentative anymore. Like touching you had become second nature tonight. His thumb stroked slowly once against your skin. You nearly shivered. Oh, god.
Neither of you spoke. Matt just sat there beside you with his hand on your thigh, breathing slightly too heavily for a man usually so controlled. Your heart hammered harder.
Apparently you’d decided survival was optional tonight, because you placed your hand gently over his. Matt inhaled sharply beside you. You felt it. The exact second his body went taut.
Slowly, watching his expression the entire time, you guided his hand higher beneath the slit of the dress. Further up your thigh. The reaction was immediate. Matt’s head dropped slightly. A rough breath leaving him as he muttered a quiet curse.
Heat flooded your entire body. His fingers flexed hard against your thigh now. Not moving away. Definitely not moving away. Your pulse climbed higher and higher while the city lights flickered across his face.
“You’re dangerous tonight,” Matt said roughly.
You tried to smile but your lip trembled. “I learned from you.” Matt laughed once under his breath. The sound was wrecked. Then his hand slid higher on its own this time.
Slow and resolutely possessive. The movement wasn’t obscene. Just intimate enough to make your entire body spark.
Matt’s thumb dragged along the sensitive skin of your thigh and you physically felt him lose composure beside you when your breathing hitched. “Princess,” he murmured low.
A warning.
A plea.
You couldn’t tell anymore.
You turned toward him fully then. And that was a mistake. Because seeing Matt like this was something else. Dark tuxedo, his bow tie hanging loosely now drawing your eyes down the length of his torso. The whiskey warm on his breath and his jaw was clenched in restraint. His glasses hid his eyes but somehow made everything worse.
Your fingers still rested over his hand. And when you shifted slightly closer Matt made a quiet rough sound under his breath that went straight through you. Your stomach flipped violently.
The car slowed. Your pulse somehow climbed higher. No. No way you were already there.
Matt seemed to realize it at the exact same moment because his hand tightened once against your thigh before slowly retreating. The loss of contact felt devastating immediately.
The town car pulled into the underground garage smoothly. Silence again. Heavy now. Hanging thick between you both.
Then the driver’s door opened outside. Reality returning all at once. Matt adjusted his cuff once mechanically like he was trying to reassemble himself into a functional human being. It did not help. Not when his jaw still looked tense enough to crack. Not when you could still feel the ghost of his hand high on your thigh.
Matt stepped out first once the door opened for him. Then immediately turned back toward you. His hand found yours the second you emerged from the car. Firm grip. Claiming enough to make your pulse jump again.
The elevator ride up somehow felt even worse. Smaller. Quieter. No driver now. No ballroom noise. No distractions left. Just you, Matt, and the unbearable awareness between you.
The elevator doors slid shut softly behind you. You barely made it two seconds before Matt’s hand found your waist again. And then suddenly your back was against his chest.
A startled breath escaped you. Matt’s arm wrapped around your middle instinctively, pulling you flush against him while the elevator climbed. Oh my god.
His body heat surrounded you immediately through the thin fabric of the dress. Broad chest against your back. One hand spread possessively across your waist. The other braced lightly beside himself against the elevator wall as if he was having trouble holding himself upright.
You could feel his breathing now. Uneven. Your own heartbeat thundered. And then Matt lowered his head slowly against your neck. Not kissing. Worse. He was just breathing you in. The feeling nearly made your knees buckle. A rough exhale left him against your skin.
“Always smell incredible,” he murmured quietly. Your eyes fluttered shut.
His nose brushed slowly along the side of your neck. Dragging upward at an almost glacial pace. Desperate. You couldn't stop the whine that shivered out, fractured and breathless.
And the worst part? Matt sounded affected. Truly affected. Like this was undoing him as badly as it was undoing you. His hand tightened against your waist when your head tipped back instinctively against his shoulder.
The elevator doors slid open directly into silence. Soft warm lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows glowing with the city lights beneath them. The familiar quiet luxury of Matt’s penthouse, usually it felt calming coming here. You couldn't say the same tonight as you stepped inside.
The second the doors closed behind you , Matt’s restraint finally snapped. His hand tightened sharply at your waist and he turned you toward him so fast your breath caught. Then his mouth crashed against yours.
Oh. Oh finally. The kiss hit like fireworks after months of tension. Not gentle or cautious. Hungry. Matt kissed like a man who’d been denying himself for far too long.
One hand cupped your jaw while the other pulled you flush against him, your body colliding hard with his chest as a startled sound escaped you into his mouth. And the noise it dragged out of Matt, my God.
A rough, needy grunt low in his throat like he physically couldn’t help it anymore. Your hands flew instinctively to his shoulders, clutching the lapels of his tuxedo while Matt kissed you deeper immediately. You'd barely parted your lips before he hungrily slipped his tongue into your mouth. No hesitation left now.
All the control he’d held together all evening was gone. And somehow that was the hottest thing you’d ever experienced. Because he still moved with confidence. Still guided you effortlessly. But now there was desperation underneath it. Need.
One of his hands slid into your hair while the other spread low against your back, pulling you tighter against him until there was almost no space left between your bodies.
Matt broke the kiss only long enough to pant against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. Like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to. Your pulse thundered while his mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then lower.
And the second his mouth brushed your neck you actually whimpered. Matt went still for half a second. “Jesus Christ.” The words sounded pained. His grip tightened hard enough against your waist to make your stomach flip violently.
“Matt-”
He kissed you again instantly. Silencing you completely. The kiss turned messy fast after that. Too much wanting to be neat about it. Your hands slid into his hair and Matt let out another rough grunt against your mouth that nearly made your knees buckle. His hands slid sensually down your waist and over the smooth silk of your dress.
And the second your fingers tugged slightly on the peppered strands, Matt lost whatever remained of his composure.
His arms hooked beneath your thighs suddenly. You gasped softly as he lifted you effortlessly against him. You heard the sharp sound of fabric ripping. Well, looks like the slit is higher now.
“Oh my god.”
Matt’s forehead dropped briefly against yours, breathing rough now. “You are killing me tonight.”
Heat flooded your entire body. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist while Matt carried you deeper into the penthouse without breaking the kiss for more than a few seconds at a time.
And God, he knew exactly what he was doing. That became painfully obvious immediately. The way he touched you and the confidence in every movement.
Nothing awkward or uncertain. Just devastatingly controlled experience finally unleashed.
Your back was pressed briefly against a wall somewhere in the hallway and Matt used the opportunity to kiss you deeper, both hands gripping your thighs beneath the torn slit of the dress while your breathing turned embarrassingly uneven.
“Matt,” you whispered again. This time it came out breathy.
A rough inhale. His fingers flexing hard against your thigh. “You cannot say my name like that right now.” Your stomach twisted hot.
The penthouse blurred around you while he carried you toward the bedroom. All you could think was, finally.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
After months of moderation and restraint and almosts. You wanted him so badly it physically hurt. Wanted the tuxedo gone. Wanted his hands everywhere. Wanted to feel what all that terrifying self control would become once he actually let go.
Matt pushed open the bedroom door without setting you down. Silk sheets. Dim warm lighting he'd flicked on for your sake. That massive bed waiting beyond him.
And the look on Matt’s face when he finally lowered you onto the edge of the mattress. Holy shit. Like he was hanging by threads. Like he was going to eat you alive.
He laid you back onto the mattress carefully. Like despite the way he’d just kissed you senseless against the penthouse wall, despite the fact that his breathing was still uneven and your lipstick was definitely ruined, some part of him still required he handle you gently.
The silk sheets were cool beneath your skin. Matt stood between your knees for one dangerous second just looking wrecked.
Tuxedo jacket thrown somewhere behind him, and the loosened bow tie had fallen off somewhere in the hallway. His dark hair slightly disheveled from your hands. He reached a hand up and removed the glasses, tossing them aside as if they were just a nuisance at this point.
His hands slid slowly up your thighs where the slit of the dress had torn open completely now. Your pulse jumped hard.
“Do you have any idea,” he murmured roughly, “what you do to me?”
Your breath caught. Matt leaned down over you again before you could answer, one hand braced beside your head while the other slid slowly along your thigh beneath the dress. Gentle enough to make your entire body arch toward him instinctively.
Matt made a low sound under his breath at the movement.
"Yea, you do.” he murmured softly.
Heat flooded your face immediately. His mouth found yours again. Slower this time. Still hungry, but layered now with something affectionate underneath all the heat. Like he couldn’t stop kissing you once he started.
Your fingers slid up into his hair again automatically and Matt’s composure visibly cracked further. “Princess,” he breathed against your mouth. The nickname sounded almost painful now.
Your heart hammered while Matt kissed and nipped down your jaw slowly, his hand tightening gently at your thigh every time you made another soft sound for him. And apparently you were making a lot of them now.
Matt chuckled quietly once against your neck and muttered a curse. You turned your head instinctively to give him more access to your throat and he made another rough rumbling sound low in his chest.
His forehead pressed briefly against your shoulder like he was trying to steady himself. Which honestly only made you want him worse.
Your hands slid down his chest slowly over the crisp white dress shirt stretched across broad shoulders and firm muscle underneath and Matt inhaled sharply. Then your fingers brushed the buckle of his belt.
He caught your wrist immediately. Gentle but immovable. Your pulse fluttered hard and you looked up at him breathlessly. Matt’s head raised slightly. “Careful.”
You swallowed hard. “Matt…”
His eyes closed briefly. Then he kissed you again before you could say anything else. It stole the breath from your lungs and you melted into it instantly.
Matt’s mouth sucked gently on your throat while his hand slid beneath the slit of the dress again, gripping the top of your plush of your hips hard enough to make you squirm beneath him.
“You feel so good under me,” he muttered roughly against your skin. Your entire body flushed hot. The tone. You could barely think anymore. All you wanted was more. Your fingers curled desperately into his shirt.
“Please,” you whispered.
Matt went still instantly. A dangerous stillness. Then slowly he lifted his head from your neck. His breathing was rough now. Completely uneven.
And suddenly you saw it. The exact moment his brain finally turned back on. Oh no. Matt exhaled once shakily and dropped his forehead against yours.
“Fuck,” he muttered quietly.
Your stomach dropped immediately. “No,” you breathed. “Matt-”
He kissed you again instantly like he physically couldn’t help himself. One more deep devastating kiss. Then another softer one against the corner of your mouth. Like he was trying to convince himself to stop and failing.
“Princess,” he said quietly. You already hated the tone. “You know I want you.”
Your eyes burned slightly. “Then why are you stopping?”
Matt made a rough sound under his breath. Because clearly stopping was the last thing he wanted to do right now. His hands were still shaking slightly against your waist where he'd moved them.
“You’ve had a lot to drink, and we're both emotional. And I am hanging by a fucking thread right now.”
Heat climbed into your face. “I don’t care.”
“I do.” The answer came immediately. Firm. Matt brushed his thumb slowly along your jaw. “So much.”
God. You hated him. You whined softly in frustration and pulled him down for another kiss anyway.
Matt actually let you for a second. Which was the problem. Because immediately your mouth opened against his and your fingers tugged lightly at his hair again. He groaned quietly into the kiss and nearly lost the argument entirely.
“Matt,” you whispered desperately against his mouth. “Please.” Another kiss. Another rough breath. You were absolutely pleading now. “I want you so bad.”
His forehead dropped against yours again while he breathed hard through his nose. “Jesus Christ.” Your hands slid desperately against his chest. When he spoke it sounded gruff. “You have me, I promise.”
The silence afterward felt massive. Matt kissed you again. Once. Chaste and almost aching. Then finally, with obvious physical effort, he pulled back. Far enough that you couldn’t chase his mouth anymore. Your heart broke a little instantly.
Matt cupped your face carefully between both hands. “You deserve more than me losing control after a party and half a bottle of whiskey.”
Your throat tightened. “And if we keep going tonight,” he admitted quietly, “I’m not going to stop.”
You groaned softly in frustration and buried your face dramatically into his chest. Matt actually laughed. A tired wrecked laugh. Then his arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you close against him while he pressed a lingering kiss into your hair.
“You are cruel,” you mumbled against his shirt. Matt laughed again quietly.
Then softly, “Not tonight, princess.”
Firm this time. Final. Even though his heart was pounding violently beneath your cheek.
You remained curled against his chest dramatically suffering while he held you there, one large hand wrapped around your back while the other was rubbing slow circles against your side like he was soothing both of you at once.
“You’re very smug for someone who just ruined my life,” you muttered into his shirt.
Matt laughed softly above you. The sound vibrated warm beneath your cheek. “I’m hanging on by my fingernails right now.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“It became an us problem around the time you dragged my hand under your dress in the car.”
Heat crawled immediately into your face. “…That was one thing.” Matt kissed the top of your head. “One thing that nearly killed me.” Your stomach fluttered stupidly.
You were still lying tangled together on top of the silk sheets, your hair a mess from his hands. And Matt still hadn’t really let go of you. Like now that he’d finally kissed you, some invisible barrier had shattered completely.
You tipped your head back slightly to look at him.
His glasses were gone. And even though his unfocused eyes still looked somewhere just past you instead of directly at you, the vulnerability of seeing him without them always hurt in the most wonderful way.
Your fingers brushed lightly along his jaw. Matt leaned instinctively into the touch. Then after a moment he exhaled quietly and pressed one lingering kiss to your forehead before carefully helping you sit up. “Come on.” Your pulse fluttered softly again at the tone. Gentler now. Grounded again.
Matt guided you toward the connected bathroom and closet space, hands lingering at your waist like he still needed reassurance you were there.
The penthouse lighting stayed dim and warm around you both. Quiet. Intimate. Matt opened one of the drawers automatically. Your chest tightened immediately when you remembered what was inside. Clothes for you. Things that belonged to you now. Or at least, things Matt had quietly prepared for you. Your throat felt oddly tight.
Matt opened another drawer and pulled out one of his soft black sleep shirts. “This might be more comfortable.”
You took it quietly. And before you could say anything emotional and embarrassing about it, Matt’s hands lifted slowly toward your cheek. He tucked a stray piece of hair away when his fingers brushed against the strand.
“Feels like you still have pins in.”
Your breath caught softly. “Oh.”
You’d almost forgotten. The stylist had pinned part of your hair back earlier for the gala, one side had been carefully secured away from your face.
Matt stepped closer carefully. Then his fingers slid gently into your hair. And suddenly the entire room felt unbearably intimate again. Not hot this time. Tender.
His fingertips moved slowly, carefully finding the hidden pins by touch alone. You stayed perfectly still while he worked. One pin slipped free. Then another.
Matt’s knuckles brushed your neck accidentally once and both of you inhaled softly at the same time. You could feel how careful he was being. How much attention he paid to every touch. Another pin loosened slowly between his fingers. And then quietly, almost to himself, Matt murmured. “There we go.”
Your heart actually hurt. Your hair fell fully undone now. Matt’s hands lingered there for a moment afterward. Buried softly in your hair. Then his fingers brushed slowly down the length of it once before falling away.
You turned toward him immediately. And before he could step back, you leaned up and kissed him softly. Matt melted instantly.
His hand cupped your jaw automatically. When the kiss ended, his forehead rested briefly against yours. “Get changed before I reconsider all my good decisions.”
You laughed quietly despite the heat rushing through you again. Matt stepped back with obvious effort while you disappeared into the bathroom to change.
The red dress pooled onto the counter a few minutes later. You stared at yourself briefly in the mirror afterward. Swollen lips. Flushed cheeks. Hair completely wrecked. You looked thoroughly kissed. The realization made butterflies erupt all over again.
The oversized black shirt slid softly against your skin when you pulled it on. It smelled like him. Warm cotton and cedar, expensive cologne and something distinctly Matt underneath it all.
By the time you stepped back into the bedroom, your pulse had settled slightly. Until Matt turned toward you. He’d changed too.
Low black sweats hung loose on his hips. Broad bare chest exposed now. Messy dark hair still slightly tousled from your hands earlier. And the scars. Your breath caught softly. There were more than you remembered. Thin pale lines crossing his torso and ribs in ways that didn’t make any sense.
Your eyes traced them automatically. Matt must’ve noticed the silence because one corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “You okay?”
You swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
Matt stepped closer slowly. And then, very gently, he hooked two fingers beneath the hem of his shirt you wore. A soft exhale left him. “You feel good in my clothes.”
Your entire body warmed instantly. Then without thinking, you leaned up and kissed him again.
By the time you finally climbed into bed together, the city outside had gone quieter. Matt shut off the last lamp before sliding beneath the sheets beside you.
You shifted closer instinctively, and Matt immediately wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him. Like it was automatic now. Your head settled against his bare chest while one of his hands slid slowly up your back beneath the oversized shirt. Warm skin. Steady heartbeat. Soft silk sheets. You melted against him immediately.
Matt exhaled quietly above you. Content. His lips brushed your forehead once. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth in another lingering sleepy kiss. Neither of you seemed capable of stopping anymore.
Your fingers drifted absently across the scars along his ribs while sleep slowly tugged at you. Matt went still for half a second beneath your touch. Not tense. Just aware. Then his hand resumed its slow soothing path along your back.
Outside the windows, Manhattan glittered below. Inside the bedroom, Matt held you impossibly close. Your sleepy heart squeezed painfully, and you fell asleep to the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.
notes: i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i know we all wanted them to fuck already but 🤷🏻♀️ old man matt is a gentleman okay? what can i say. i hope the payoff after this very long buildup to them finally kissing was satisfying.
i am VERY excited about the next couple of chapters, i think you all will enjoy them
taglist: @rowancp @princess-aurora-varient @quicksilver21 @superherosdystopiafreak @sa1ky @peterftpercy @miriamckle @margaret811 @cheleanortruther @gothy-froggy @mrmeowzalot @that1weirdweebgirl @moth-murdock @iamdarknessiamdeath @arigoldsblog @xjyuto @fallen-nine @muffinbrown @hellskitchenswhore @adelaidehawthorne17 @khonshuswill @sotragedynut @thegirlwiththeeyes1297 @whyareyoulookinguphere @sharksausages
this is literally me after finishing the chapter
Sugar, Please - Chapter Twelve
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: you and matt return to his penthouse.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
word count: 3.6k
The privacy divider had gone up the second the town car pulled away from the curb, sealing you both into the dim amber-lit backseat with the soft hum of Manhattan outside the windows.
Neither of you spoke at first. Because after that dance and the way Matt had looked at you, words suddenly felt dangerous. You sat beside him trying to steady your breathing while city lights flashed gold across the windows.
Matt sat rigidly calm next to you. One hand rested against his thigh. The other around a crystal glass of whiskey the driver had apparently stocked specifically for him. But his jaw was tight.
And every few seconds you caught the subtle flex of his fingers. Like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you again. Your pulse fluttered violently. The silence stretched. Heavy. Then finally, Matt exhaled slowly through his nose and set the glass aside.
And his hand found your thigh again. Warm. Large. Certain. Your breath caught immediately. The slit in the red dress had already ridden higher when you sat yourself down for the car ride, leaving bare skin exposed beneath the dim lighting.
Matt’s palm settled there instinctively. Not tentative anymore. Like touching you had become second nature tonight. His thumb stroked slowly once against your skin. You nearly shivered. Oh, god.
Neither of you spoke. Matt just sat there beside you with his hand on your thigh, breathing slightly too heavily for a man usually so controlled. Your heart hammered harder.
Apparently you’d decided survival was optional tonight, because you placed your hand gently over his. Matt inhaled sharply beside you. You felt it. The exact second his body went taut.
Slowly, watching his expression the entire time, you guided his hand higher beneath the slit of the dress. Further up your thigh. The reaction was immediate. Matt’s head dropped slightly. A rough breath leaving him as he muttered a quiet curse.
Heat flooded your entire body. His fingers flexed hard against your thigh now. Not moving away. Definitely not moving away. Your pulse climbed higher and higher while the city lights flickered across his face.
“You’re dangerous tonight,” Matt said roughly.
You tried to smile but your lip trembled. “I learned from you.” Matt laughed once under his breath. The sound was wrecked. Then his hand slid higher on its own this time.
Slow and resolutely possessive. The movement wasn’t obscene. Just intimate enough to make your entire body spark.
Matt’s thumb dragged along the sensitive skin of your thigh and you physically felt him lose composure beside you when your breathing hitched. “Princess,” he murmured low.
A warning.
A plea.
You couldn’t tell anymore.
You turned toward him fully then. And that was a mistake. Because seeing Matt like this was something else. Dark tuxedo, his bow tie hanging loosely now drawing your eyes down the length of his torso. The whiskey warm on his breath and his jaw was clenched in restraint. His glasses hid his eyes but somehow made everything worse.
Your fingers still rested over his hand. And when you shifted slightly closer Matt made a quiet rough sound under his breath that went straight through you. Your stomach flipped violently.
The car slowed. Your pulse somehow climbed higher. No. No way you were already there.
Matt seemed to realize it at the exact same moment because his hand tightened once against your thigh before slowly retreating. The loss of contact felt devastating immediately.
The town car pulled into the underground garage smoothly. Silence again. Heavy now. Hanging thick between you both.
Then the driver’s door opened outside. Reality returning all at once. Matt adjusted his cuff once mechanically like he was trying to reassemble himself into a functional human being. It did not help. Not when his jaw still looked tense enough to crack. Not when you could still feel the ghost of his hand high on your thigh.
Matt stepped out first once the door opened for him. Then immediately turned back toward you. His hand found yours the second you emerged from the car. Firm grip. Claiming enough to make your pulse jump again.
The elevator ride up somehow felt even worse. Smaller. Quieter. No driver now. No ballroom noise. No distractions left. Just you, Matt, and the unbearable awareness between you.
The elevator doors slid shut softly behind you. You barely made it two seconds before Matt’s hand found your waist again. And then suddenly your back was against his chest.
A startled breath escaped you. Matt’s arm wrapped around your middle instinctively, pulling you flush against him while the elevator climbed. Oh my god.
His body heat surrounded you immediately through the thin fabric of the dress. Broad chest against your back. One hand spread possessively across your waist. The other braced lightly beside himself against the elevator wall as if he was having trouble holding himself upright.
You could feel his breathing now. Uneven. Your own heartbeat thundered. And then Matt lowered his head slowly against your neck. Not kissing. Worse. He was just breathing you in. The feeling nearly made your knees buckle. A rough exhale left him against your skin.
“Always smell incredible,” he murmured quietly. Your eyes fluttered shut.
His nose brushed slowly along the side of your neck. Dragging upward at an almost glacial pace. Desperate. You couldn't stop the whine that shivered out, fractured and breathless.
And the worst part? Matt sounded affected. Truly affected. Like this was undoing him as badly as it was undoing you. His hand tightened against your waist when your head tipped back instinctively against his shoulder.
The elevator doors slid open directly into silence. Soft warm lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows glowing with the city lights beneath them. The familiar quiet luxury of Matt’s penthouse, usually it felt calming coming here. You couldn't say the same tonight as you stepped inside.
The second the doors closed behind you , Matt’s restraint finally snapped. His hand tightened sharply at your waist and he turned you toward him so fast your breath caught. Then his mouth crashed against yours.
Oh. Oh finally. The kiss hit like fireworks after months of tension. Not gentle or cautious. Hungry. Matt kissed like a man who’d been denying himself for far too long.
One hand cupped your jaw while the other pulled you flush against him, your body colliding hard with his chest as a startled sound escaped you into his mouth. And the noise it dragged out of Matt, my God.
A rough, needy grunt low in his throat like he physically couldn’t help it anymore. Your hands flew instinctively to his shoulders, clutching the lapels of his tuxedo while Matt kissed you deeper immediately. You'd barely parted your lips before he hungrily slipped his tongue into your mouth. No hesitation left now.
All the control he’d held together all evening was gone. And somehow that was the hottest thing you’d ever experienced. Because he still moved with confidence. Still guided you effortlessly. But now there was desperation underneath it. Need.
One of his hands slid into your hair while the other spread low against your back, pulling you tighter against him until there was almost no space left between your bodies.
Matt broke the kiss only long enough to pant against your mouth before kissing you again immediately. Like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to. Your pulse thundered while his mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then lower.
And the second his mouth brushed your neck you actually whimpered. Matt went still for half a second. “Jesus Christ.” The words sounded pained. His grip tightened hard enough against your waist to make your stomach flip violently.
“Matt-”
He kissed you again instantly. Silencing you completely. The kiss turned messy fast after that. Too much wanting to be neat about it. Your hands slid into his hair and Matt let out another rough grunt against your mouth that nearly made your knees buckle. His hands slid sensually down your waist and over the smooth silk of your dress.
And the second your fingers tugged slightly on the peppered strands, Matt lost whatever remained of his composure.
His arms hooked beneath your thighs suddenly. You gasped softly as he lifted you effortlessly against him. You heard the sharp sound of fabric ripping. Well, looks like the slit is higher now.
“Oh my god.”
Matt’s forehead dropped briefly against yours, breathing rough now. “You are killing me tonight.”
Heat flooded your entire body. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist while Matt carried you deeper into the penthouse without breaking the kiss for more than a few seconds at a time.
And God, he knew exactly what he was doing. That became painfully obvious immediately. The way he touched you and the confidence in every movement.
Nothing awkward or uncertain. Just devastatingly controlled experience finally unleashed.
Your back was pressed briefly against a wall somewhere in the hallway and Matt used the opportunity to kiss you deeper, both hands gripping your thighs beneath the torn slit of the dress while your breathing turned embarrassingly uneven.
“Matt,” you whispered again. This time it came out breathy.
A rough inhale. His fingers flexing hard against your thigh. “You cannot say my name like that right now.” Your stomach twisted hot.
The penthouse blurred around you while he carried you toward the bedroom. All you could think was, finally.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
After months of moderation and restraint and almosts. You wanted him so badly it physically hurt. Wanted the tuxedo gone. Wanted his hands everywhere. Wanted to feel what all that terrifying self control would become once he actually let go.
Matt pushed open the bedroom door without setting you down. Silk sheets. Dim warm lighting he'd flicked on for your sake. That massive bed waiting beyond him.
And the look on Matt’s face when he finally lowered you onto the edge of the mattress. Holy shit. Like he was hanging by threads. Like he was going to eat you alive.
He laid you back onto the mattress carefully. Like despite the way he’d just kissed you senseless against the penthouse wall, despite the fact that his breathing was still uneven and your lipstick was definitely ruined, some part of him still required he handle you gently.
The silk sheets were cool beneath your skin. Matt stood between your knees for one dangerous second just looking wrecked.
Tuxedo jacket thrown somewhere behind him, and the loosened bow tie had fallen off somewhere in the hallway. His dark hair slightly disheveled from your hands. He reached a hand up and removed the glasses, tossing them aside as if they were just a nuisance at this point.
His hands slid slowly up your thighs where the slit of the dress had torn open completely now. Your pulse jumped hard.
“Do you have any idea,” he murmured roughly, “what you do to me?”
Your breath caught. Matt leaned down over you again before you could answer, one hand braced beside your head while the other slid slowly along your thigh beneath the dress. Gentle enough to make your entire body arch toward him instinctively.
Matt made a low sound under his breath at the movement.
"Yea, you do.” he murmured softly.
Heat flooded your face immediately. His mouth found yours again. Slower this time. Still hungry, but layered now with something affectionate underneath all the heat. Like he couldn’t stop kissing you once he started.
Your fingers slid up into his hair again automatically and Matt’s composure visibly cracked further. “Princess,” he breathed against your mouth. The nickname sounded almost painful now.
Your heart hammered while Matt kissed and nipped down your jaw slowly, his hand tightening gently at your thigh every time you made another soft sound for him. And apparently you were making a lot of them now.
Matt chuckled quietly once against your neck and muttered a curse. You turned your head instinctively to give him more access to your throat and he made another rough rumbling sound low in his chest.
His forehead pressed briefly against your shoulder like he was trying to steady himself. Which honestly only made you want him worse.
Your hands slid down his chest slowly over the crisp white dress shirt stretched across broad shoulders and firm muscle underneath and Matt inhaled sharply. Then your fingers brushed the buckle of his belt.
He caught your wrist immediately. Gentle but immovable. Your pulse fluttered hard and you looked up at him breathlessly. Matt’s head raised slightly. “Careful.”
You swallowed hard. “Matt…”
His eyes closed briefly. Then he kissed you again before you could say anything else. It stole the breath from your lungs and you melted into it instantly.
Matt’s mouth sucked gently on your throat while his hand slid beneath the slit of the dress again, gripping the top of your plush of your hips hard enough to make you squirm beneath him.
“You feel so good under me,” he muttered roughly against your skin. Your entire body flushed hot. The tone. You could barely think anymore. All you wanted was more. Your fingers curled desperately into his shirt.
“Please,” you whispered.
Matt went still instantly. A dangerous stillness. Then slowly he lifted his head from your neck. His breathing was rough now. Completely uneven.
And suddenly you saw it. The exact moment his brain finally turned back on. Oh no. Matt exhaled once shakily and dropped his forehead against yours.
“Fuck,” he muttered quietly.
Your stomach dropped immediately. “No,” you breathed. “Matt-”
He kissed you again instantly like he physically couldn’t help himself. One more deep devastating kiss. Then another softer one against the corner of your mouth. Like he was trying to convince himself to stop and failing.
“Princess,” he said quietly. You already hated the tone. “You know I want you.”
Your eyes burned slightly. “Then why are you stopping?”
Matt made a rough sound under his breath. Because clearly stopping was the last thing he wanted to do right now. His hands were still shaking slightly against your waist where he'd moved them.
“You’ve had a lot to drink, and we're both emotional. And I am hanging by a fucking thread right now.”
Heat climbed into your face. “I don’t care.”
“I do.” The answer came immediately. Firm. Matt brushed his thumb slowly along your jaw. “So much.”
God. You hated him. You whined softly in frustration and pulled him down for another kiss anyway.
Matt actually let you for a second. Which was the problem. Because immediately your mouth opened against his and your fingers tugged lightly at his hair again. He groaned quietly into the kiss and nearly lost the argument entirely.
“Matt,” you whispered desperately against his mouth. “Please.” Another kiss. Another rough breath. You were absolutely pleading now. “I want you so bad.”
His forehead dropped against yours again while he breathed hard through his nose. “Jesus Christ.” Your hands slid desperately against his chest. When he spoke it sounded gruff. “You have me, I promise.”
The silence afterward felt massive. Matt kissed you again. Once. Chaste and almost aching. Then finally, with obvious physical effort, he pulled back. Far enough that you couldn’t chase his mouth anymore. Your heart broke a little instantly.
Matt cupped your face carefully between both hands. “You deserve more than me losing control after a party and half a bottle of whiskey.”
Your throat tightened. “And if we keep going tonight,” he admitted quietly, “I’m not going to stop.”
You groaned softly in frustration and buried your face dramatically into his chest. Matt actually laughed. A tired wrecked laugh. Then his arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you close against him while he pressed a lingering kiss into your hair.
“You are cruel,” you mumbled against his shirt. Matt laughed again quietly.
Then softly, “Not tonight, princess.”
Firm this time. Final. Even though his heart was pounding violently beneath your cheek.
You remained curled against his chest dramatically suffering while he held you there, one large hand wrapped around your back while the other was rubbing slow circles against your side like he was soothing both of you at once.
“You’re very smug for someone who just ruined my life,” you muttered into his shirt.
Matt laughed softly above you. The sound vibrated warm beneath your cheek. “I’m hanging on by my fingernails right now.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“It became an us problem around the time you dragged my hand under your dress in the car.”
Heat crawled immediately into your face. “…That was one thing.” Matt kissed the top of your head. “One thing that nearly killed me.” Your stomach fluttered stupidly.
You were still lying tangled together on top of the silk sheets, your hair a mess from his hands. And Matt still hadn’t really let go of you. Like now that he’d finally kissed you, some invisible barrier had shattered completely.
You tipped your head back slightly to look at him.
His glasses were gone. And even though his unfocused eyes still looked somewhere just past you instead of directly at you, the vulnerability of seeing him without them always hurt in the most wonderful way.
Your fingers brushed lightly along his jaw. Matt leaned instinctively into the touch. Then after a moment he exhaled quietly and pressed one lingering kiss to your forehead before carefully helping you sit up. “Come on.” Your pulse fluttered softly again at the tone. Gentler now. Grounded again.
Matt guided you toward the connected bathroom and closet space, hands lingering at your waist like he still needed reassurance you were there.
The penthouse lighting stayed dim and warm around you both. Quiet. Intimate. Matt opened one of the drawers automatically. Your chest tightened immediately when you remembered what was inside. Clothes for you. Things that belonged to you now. Or at least, things Matt had quietly prepared for you. Your throat felt oddly tight.
Matt opened another drawer and pulled out one of his soft black sleep shirts. “This might be more comfortable.”
You took it quietly. And before you could say anything emotional and embarrassing about it, Matt’s hands lifted slowly toward your cheek. He tucked a stray piece of hair away when his fingers brushed against the strand.
“Feels like you still have pins in.”
Your breath caught softly. “Oh.”
You’d almost forgotten. The stylist had pinned part of your hair back earlier for the gala, one side had been carefully secured away from your face.
Matt stepped closer carefully. Then his fingers slid gently into your hair. And suddenly the entire room felt unbearably intimate again. Not hot this time. Tender.
His fingertips moved slowly, carefully finding the hidden pins by touch alone. You stayed perfectly still while he worked. One pin slipped free. Then another.
Matt’s knuckles brushed your neck accidentally once and both of you inhaled softly at the same time. You could feel how careful he was being. How much attention he paid to every touch. Another pin loosened slowly between his fingers. And then quietly, almost to himself, Matt murmured. “There we go.”
Your heart actually hurt. Your hair fell fully undone now. Matt’s hands lingered there for a moment afterward. Buried softly in your hair. Then his fingers brushed slowly down the length of it once before falling away.
You turned toward him immediately. And before he could step back, you leaned up and kissed him softly. Matt melted instantly.
His hand cupped your jaw automatically. When the kiss ended, his forehead rested briefly against yours. “Get changed before I reconsider all my good decisions.”
You laughed quietly despite the heat rushing through you again. Matt stepped back with obvious effort while you disappeared into the bathroom to change.
The red dress pooled onto the counter a few minutes later. You stared at yourself briefly in the mirror afterward. Swollen lips. Flushed cheeks. Hair completely wrecked. You looked thoroughly kissed. The realization made butterflies erupt all over again.
The oversized black shirt slid softly against your skin when you pulled it on. It smelled like him. Warm cotton and cedar, expensive cologne and something distinctly Matt underneath it all.
By the time you stepped back into the bedroom, your pulse had settled slightly. Until Matt turned toward you. He’d changed too.
Low black sweats hung loose on his hips. Broad bare chest exposed now. Messy dark hair still slightly tousled from your hands earlier. And the scars. Your breath caught softly. There were more than you remembered. Thin pale lines crossing his torso and ribs in ways that didn’t make any sense.
Your eyes traced them automatically. Matt must’ve noticed the silence because one corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “You okay?”
You swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
Matt stepped closer slowly. And then, very gently, he hooked two fingers beneath the hem of his shirt you wore. A soft exhale left him. “You feel good in my clothes.”
Your entire body warmed instantly. Then without thinking, you leaned up and kissed him again.
By the time you finally climbed into bed together, the city outside had gone quieter. Matt shut off the last lamp before sliding beneath the sheets beside you.
You shifted closer instinctively, and Matt immediately wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him. Like it was automatic now. Your head settled against his bare chest while one of his hands slid slowly up your back beneath the oversized shirt. Warm skin. Steady heartbeat. Soft silk sheets. You melted against him immediately.
Matt exhaled quietly above you. Content. His lips brushed your forehead once. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth in another lingering sleepy kiss. Neither of you seemed capable of stopping anymore.
Your fingers drifted absently across the scars along his ribs while sleep slowly tugged at you. Matt went still for half a second beneath your touch. Not tense. Just aware. Then his hand resumed its slow soothing path along your back.
Outside the windows, Manhattan glittered below. Inside the bedroom, Matt held you impossibly close. Your sleepy heart squeezed painfully, and you fell asleep to the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.
notes: i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i know we all wanted them to fuck already but 🤷🏻♀️ old man matt is a gentleman okay? what can i say. i hope the payoff after this very long buildup to them finally kissing was satisfying.
i am VERY excited about the next couple of chapters, i think you all will enjoy them
taglist: @rowancp @princess-aurora-varient @quicksilver21 @superherosdystopiafreak @sa1ky @peterftpercy @miriamckle @margaret811 @cheleanortruther @gothy-froggy @mrmeowzalot @that1weirdweebgirl @moth-murdock @iamdarknessiamdeath @arigoldsblog @xjyuto @fallen-nine @muffinbrown @hellskitchenswhore @adelaidehawthorne17 @khonshuswill @sotragedynut @thegirlwiththeeyes1297 @whyareyoulookinguphere @sharksausages
Is there a possibility that Investigating the Devil will have a part two? 🥺
i'm working on part two!! some things don't convince me, but that's because i'm quite insecure about what i write haha
What remains of him
older!matt murdock x older!reader
summary: matt is jealous because you're going to a bachelorette party and will be surrounded by much younger men. insecurity is creeping in for your husband, and hidden feelings are starting to surface.
warnings: none! maybe a little, just a tiny bit, of angst? but nothing to worry about.
content: matt's insecurity and jealousy. everything is deeper than it seems.
word count: 4903
special mention to @lilacmurdock, since the serie they're writing (sugar, please) inspired part of matt's struggle in this one-shot (accepting that it's time to let go of daredevil). i'm sure you're reading their story, but if not, do it!
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
You and Matt had been married for twenty-six years. Jealousy existed during those years, of course it did; more on your part than his, but he wasn't exactly made of stone either.
As you grew older, the jealousy became less frequent. You became more confident, more self-assured, and the bond you shared with Matt deepened.
Matt Murdock had never considered himself a jealous man, although you both knew he could be quite jealous, especially during that time you were separated and you decided to pour your tears out on Frank. It was awful for Matt, disastrous.
Being a jealous man was unthinkable for Matt. The thought alone felt ridiculous, especially now.
He was fifty-two years old, semi-retired, married to the love of his life, and far too tired these days to waste energy on insecurities that belonged to younger men.
At least, that was what he liked to tell himself whenever Foggy teased him about becoming soft in his old age.
Unfortunately, that argument was becoming increasingly difficult to defend.
Especially tonight.
The apartment smelled faintly of your perfume and the dinner the two of you had shared an hour earlier. Somewhere in the background, jazz music drifted lazily from the speakers in the living room, mixing with the familiar sounds of your evening routine. Matt sat on the couch, one arm stretched over the backrest, trying very hard to focus on the audiobook playing through his headphones.
Trying being the important word.
Because every few seconds, his attention wandered back to you.
You were getting ready for your friend’s bachelorette party.
Normally, that wouldn’t have bothered him.
People got married. Friends threw parties. Life went on.
The problem was that your friends were considerably younger than you.
Which meant the party would be full of people who were considerably younger than him.
And apparently, according to a conversation he'd accidentally overheard three days ago, they were planning to spend the evening hopping between expensive bars somewhere downtown.
Matt didn't hate bars, but over time they lost their appeal for him. He preferred the intimacy of being with you or his friends. Now, the only bar worth his time was Josie's.
Perhaps he became grumpier, but the thought of being surrounded by loud noises and the smell of cheap cologne or cigarettes made him clench his jaw too tightly (a habit you broke him of; you didn't want him to develop bruxism!).
The audiobook continued speaking in his ear.
He couldn’t remember a single word.
A laugh escaped from the bedroom.
Your laugh. Warm, bright and familiar.
His chest tightened immediately.
It still happened.
After nearly thirty years together, it still happened.
You could be doing absolutely nothing and somehow he’d find himself falling in love with you all over again. Your smile, the low morning humming, your sweet hands tracing his bare back or scars; your scent so present, so simple but so yours.
The sound of hangers sliding against each other reached his ears.
A drawer opening.
Closing.
Opening again.
You were probably changing your mind about an outfit.
Again.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Five minutes later, you stepped into the living room.
“I don’t know what to wear, I’m having a crisis,” you said.
You were carrying two dresses, both silk, like almost everything in your wardrobe except for your casual clothes.
“What do people usually wear to bachelorette parties these days?” you asked, looking at both dresses and then at him.
Matt removed one side of his headphones and extended a hand so you could show him your two options.
They weren’t extravagant. You weren’t trying to impress anyone.
They were both simple. Elegant. The kind of thing you’d worn a hundred times. The kind of dress you’d wear when you had your night without Matt with Karen (she said it was to keep things going).
Yet somehow it took his breath away to imagine your body beneath that sweet silk.
“You’ll look beautiful in either dress.”
A small laugh escaped you.
“Matt, that’s not helpful.”
“It’s true.”
“You were supposed to help me decide between these two dresses.”
“Are you seeking my approval, my love? I didn’t know you valued my fashion sense so much,” he said, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. “Either dress will do.”
You groaned dramatically.
“See? This is why I never ask you.”
“Because I’m right every time?”
“Because you’re biased.”
Matt smiled.
Maybe he was.
Actually, he definitely was.
As far as he was concerned, you could have shown up wearing a potato sack and he’d still think you were the most beautiful being in New York.
You disappeared back into the bedroom before he could say that out loud.
Probably for the best.
The teasing would have been relentless.
A few minutes passed.
Then your phone buzzed somewhere on the kitchen counter.
Matt wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.
He never had to try.
“Hurry up!” one of your friends’ voices chirped through a voice message. “And wear that black dress. The hot bartender from last time is going to be there and I want him to look in our direction. I want to feel extra hot tonight! All of us!”
Silence.
Matt's eyebrow twitched.
The hot bartender.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
A second voice immediately followed.
“I need everyone to be hot today, no exceptions, I don’t care that you’re married! We’ll all show off!”
Matt sat very still.
Then very carefully removed his headphones.
The bedroom door opened again.
You walked out carrying a pair of earrings and immediately froze.
The expression on his face must have given him away.
“What?”
Matt tilted his head.
Nothing.
“What?” you repeated.
“There was a bartender mentioned.”
You stared at him.
Then at the phone.
Then back at him.
A grin slowly spread across your face.
“Sarah named him, yes,” you said, staring at him with a certain gleam in your eyes that Matt could perfectly imagine.
“Apparently he’s hot.”
“Matthew.”
“He seems to have quite the reputation.”
Your grin widened.
Oh, this was not going the way he’d hoped.
“You listened to my messages?”
“They were loud.”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“I was existing in my own home.”
You laughed so hard he could practically feel the warmth radiating from your smile.
And suddenly, despite all his grumbling, despite the stupid bartender and the crowded bars and every irrational insecurity he hadn’t felt this hard in years, Matt realized what was actually bothering him.
It wasn’t the party.
It wasn’t the younger people.
It wasn’t even the bartender.
It was the fact that he still loved you so much that the idea of spending an evening without you made him feel vaguely miserable. Ridiculous, right? His dependence had grown over the years.
The realization was embarrassing enough that he immediately regretted having it.
Unfortunately for him, you knew him far too well.
Your footsteps approached slowly.
Then the couch dipped beneath your weight as you sat beside him.
One of your hands found his jaw. Soft, warm.
The wedding ring he had slipped onto your finger decades ago brushed against his skin.
“You’re jealous,” you said softly.
Matt sighed.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He turned his face toward yours, already knowing from the rhythm of your heartbeat that you were smiling.
“The worst part?” you asked, your thumb brushing over the stubble along his jaw. “You sounded delightedly miserable.”
Matt let out a low groan.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
A laugh escaped you before you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
Normally, that would’ve been enough to distract him.
Tonight, it wasn’t.
Because the warmth faded too quickly.
Because the silence that followed settled heavily between you.
Because despite the teasing, despite your smile, despite the ridiculousness of the entire situation, the knot in his chest remained exactly where it was.
Your heartbeat shifted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Concern.
You knew him too well.
The realization made him simultaneously grateful and annoyed.
“Matt.”
“Hm.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
His mouth twitched.
“Maybe a small lie.”
You waited. Patiently. The way you always did when he wasn’t ready to talk.
Outside, distant traffic drifted through the windows. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn sounded. The city continued moving around them while the apartment remained wrapped in comfortable silence.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Matt sighed.
“You ever wonder when it happened?”
You frowned slightly. Your fingers moved from his jaw to his hair, gently burying them in the mix of dark and gray strands.
“When what happened?” you asked, patient.
He hesitated.
The answer should have been easy.
Instead, the words felt strangely heavy.
“When we got old.”
The sentence hung in the air.
Your hand paused.
“Oh.”
Matt immediately regretted saying it out loud.
It sounded pathetic.
Worse.
It sounded true.
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know that’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
A soft snort escaped you.
The sound almost made him smile.
Almost.
“I don’t feel old most days,” he admitted. “Not really.”
Because most days were easy. Most days he could ignore it. Most days he could pretend.
Then there were days like last month.
Days when his knee gave out halfway up the apartment stairs.
Days when an old injury in his shoulder refused to stop aching.
Days when he woke up sore despite having done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
Days when he remembered that twenty years ago he could throw himself off rooftops without thinking twice.
Twenty years ago he could fight until sunrise.
Twenty years ago he could get stabbed on Friday and somehow convince himself he was perfectly fine by Monday.
Now?
Now a bad landing could put him out of commission for weeks. Now his body demanded payment for every stupid thing he’d ever done.
And it was collecting interest.
“It’s different,” he said quietly.
Your fingers intertwined with his.
“What’s different?”
“Everything.”
The word escaped before he could stop it.
A bitter laugh followed.
“I used to patrol all night and still show up to court the next morning.”
You remained silent.
Listening.
“I used to know exactly what my body could do.”
His throat tightened.
“And now I don’t.”
The confession surprised even him.
Because that was the real fear.
Not the gray hairs. Not the aches. Not retirement.
The uncertainty.
For most of his life, his body had been the one thing he could trust completely. He didn’t have his sight, but he had everything else. His body was ready, his body responded to his demands.
Every movement. Every reaction. Every punch. Every jump. Every risk.
Now there were limits.
Real limits.
Limits he couldn’t ignore anymore.
“I hate it,” he admitted.
The words were barely above a whisper.
“I hate needing more time to recover.”
His grip tightened around yours.
“I hate that Foggy looks at me like I’m made of glass whenever I mention patrols.”
A humorless smile crossed his face.
“I hate that Karen and Kirsten have apparently formed some kind of secret coalition dedicated to keeping me alive.”
That finally earned a laugh from you.
A small one. Gentle.
But Matt wasn’t finished.
Because once the words started coming, they wouldn’t stop.
“And I hate that every time you go somewhere without me, some stupid part of my brain remembers that there are younger men everywhere.”
You blinked.
There it was.
The real wound.
Matt swallowed.
“Younger men who aren’t held together by scar tissue.”
Your expression softened immediately.
“Matt—”
“Younger men who don’t need to take a pill every day to get through the rest of the day.”
“Matthew,” you said, this time more firmly, but he continued.
“Younger men who don't sound like their joints are declaring war every time they stand up.”
That made you laugh. Actually laugh.
Matt frowned.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
His expression remained stubborn. Yours grew impossibly fond and somehow that was worse.
Because he knew that look.
The look that meant you were seeing straight through him.
Straight through the jealousy. Straight through the pride. Straight into the insecurity he’d been carrying for years.
The one he’d never quite found the courage to say aloud.
Your hand moved to his chest.
Directly over his heart.
The steady rhythm stumbled beneath your touch.
“Matt.”
His name sounded unbearably soft. The sweetness of your voice had always managed to quicken his pulse, to soften all his instincts accustomed to fighting.
“You really think I fell in love with you because you could jump off buildings?”
His silence answered for him.
A sigh escaped you.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The endearment hit harder than any punch he’d ever taken.
And suddenly he couldn’t face you, or his own feelings.
Because part of him already knew he was wrong.
He just didn’t know how to stop feeling that way.
“Do you think I only fell in love with Daredevil?” you said.
Your hand remained steady on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, his warmth, his tense posture.
“I fell completely in love with Matthew Michael Murdock. Everything about you, from the arrogant lawyer to the vigilante who saved my life,” you said, looking into his eyes. “And I fell in love with you a hundred times over. I fell in love with every facet of you, even this one where we’re both old and not what we used to be, but we’re still ours.”
You shifted more comfortably on the couch, the space between you closing, and your hand moved up to cup his face.
“I…” His Adam’s apple trembled in his throat. “I don’t know how much of me is still worthwhile.”
The confession ushered in a new silence between them. It was real, it was what he had built up over the last few years. His body wasn’t what it used to be, and that had broken something inside him.
Before, Matt was capable of carrying Hell’s Kitchen. Hurt, bleeding, unable to sleep, but he could.
Lately, he felt he couldn’t anymore, that the weight was wearing him down more and more.
And if he let go of that responsibility, what would be left of him?
A blind, old, and grumpy man? You didn't deserve that, you deserved… you deserved that man you knew, who could handle anything and anyone, who was willing to hold back the evil of the night so that others could sleep peacefully.
“I don’t know if what’s left of me is worthy of what’s left of you,” he said, his voice uncertain.
Of course, age had caught up with you too.
But you were still someone to admire. You were the editor-in-chief of your own publishing house. Fighting injustice with words, publishing them, ensuring people knew their rightful truth.
You had even helped Peter Parker in his early years, and he was still your best photographer (you had Spider-Man working for you—wasn’t that amazing?).
And he… he was tired. Matt was tired, but the fear of letting go of something that was part of his very being, of a responsibility that no one seemed willing to take on, filled him with fear.
Is what remains of him worthy of you?
You swallowed, trying to soothe the ache in your heart. It hurt, not because he hurt you, but because knowing Matt had carried something like this for, perhaps, years, broke you.
“Oh, Matt,” you whispered, cradling his face in your hands.
Your gentle hands were warm, and he couldn't help but close his eyes as you held his whole being. Not just his face, but him completely, as you had for years.
“Darling…” you whispered.
Your hands remained over his face, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
Not because there were no words. Because there were too many.
You felt him gently tilt his head against your palm, unconsciously seeking more of your touch. As if something inside him were exhausted. As if he had been carrying an impossible weight for so long that he no longer remembered how to let go.
Your heart broke a little more. Because you know this man. You know every one of his scars. The visible ones and the hidden ones. You know the boy who lost his father far too soon.
The young man who turned grief into a mission.
The man who decided to carry an entire city on his shoulders because no one else seemed willing to.
And you also know this. This fear. This exhaustion.
This sadness that had been building up for years, silently settling between his ribs.
“Matthew Michael Murdock,” you said softly.
His mouth curved slightly.
Even after all these years, hearing his full name always made him react.
“I have a question for you.”
“Hm.”
“Who taught you that your worth depends on how much you can endure?”
The silence was immediate.
Heavy. Painful. Because they both knew the answer.
No one. And everyone.
Hell’s Kitchen. Daredevil.
The years of violence. The years of sacrifice. The years of hearing that a hero should always give more.
More blood. More broken bones. More of himself.
Until there was nothing left.
Matt swallowed.
“That’s not it...” he defended himself, because he's still a lawyer and it's in his nature to argue.
“Yes, it is.”
“No.”
“Matt.”
Your voice was firm this time. Not harsh. Just firm.
“You’re talking to me as if the only good thing about you was your capacity for self-sacrifice.”
He opened his mouth.
He closed it.
Because he didn’t have an answer.
Because a part of him knew you were right.
Your thumb slowly caressed his cheek.
“Do you think what I loved most about you was seeing you come home hurt?”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
“You think I admired you when your ribs were broken?”
“No… you hated it… you hate it.”
“When you went forty hours without sleep?”
“No.”
“When I found you unconscious in our bathroom because you wouldn’t tell me a fucking dagger managed to pierce your suit?”
Matt let out a small groan.
“God, you still bring that up.”
“Because it was a monumental stupidity!”
“I survived.”
“You fainted while trying to brush your teeth before bed!”
For the first time in the entire conversation, a laugh escaped his throat.
Small. Rasty. But real.
And you took advantage of that crack.
Because that's exactly what it was.
A crack. An opening in the armor.
You moved closer, until your forehead was pressed against his.
“Listen to me, Matthew.”
Matt remained motionless.
Listening. Like I always did with you.
“I did fall in love with Daredevil, like I already told you.”
His breath caught in his throat.
“I fell in love with his courage.”
Another pause.
“But I didn’t stay for Daredevil.”
Matt’s hand found yours. Instinctively. Like he needed something to hold onto.
“I stayed for the man who makes terrible cappuccino every morning.”
A smile appeared on his lips.
“My cappuccino isn’t awful.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s not.”
“Matt, it’s a crime.”
The smile widened.
“I stayed for the man who cried when our cat Daisy died and swore he had allergies so no one would make fun of him.”
“That was slander...”
“I stayed for the man who still looks for me in bed when he has nightmares and wakes up when I have mine.”
The smile vanished.
Not from sadness.
From excitement. Because he knew exactly what you meant.
“I stayed for the man who still reaches for my fingers to brush against his. The man who carries me in his arms when I'm stubborn and want to keep working. The man who massages my aching feet and doesn't laugh at my Crocs because he knows they're more comfortable than those infernal heels,” you chuckled softly. “Because he knows I don't have the same strength I used to. I'm not the young reporter who could go wherever she wanted, nor could I wear high heels for hours at a press conference.”
Your voice cracked slightly.
Just a little.
“I stayed for you.”
The apartment fell completely silent.
Not the cars. Not the music. Not the city. Nothing seemed to exist.
Only the two of you.
And when Matt spoke again, his voice was small. Smaller than you'd heard it in years.
“What if one day I can’t do it anymore?”
You frowned.
“Do what?”
“Everything.”
The word came out broken. Naked.
“Patrol.”
He swallowed.
“Fight.”
Another pause.
“Protect people.”
His breath trembled.
“What if one day I simply can’t be him anymore? What will be left of me?”
You finally understood. It wasn't fear of aging. Not really. It was grief.
Matt was mourning the loss of a version of himself that hadn't completely disappeared yet.
But that he could see slipping away.
Slowly. Inevitably. And that terrified him.
With infinite tenderness, you rested your forehead against his.
“Then you’ll stop being him.”
Matt remained motionless.
The answer was clearly not what he expected.
“And you’ll still be you.”
His breath caught in his throat. Because that was it. What he hadn’t understood for years.
Perhaps Daredevil was part of Matt Murdock. But Matt Murdock had never been solely Daredevil.
And perhaps. Just perhaps.
That had always been enough for you.
Matt didn’t respond. For a few seconds, he remained completely still. You could feel the conflict coursing through him.
Years of guilt. Years of responsibility. Years of convincing himself that his worth was directly related to how much he was willing to sacrifice.
It wasn’t something that could disappear with a single conversation. Not even with you. But that was okay.
You weren’t trying to fix it. You just wanted to hold on to him. Like he had held on to you hundreds of times before.
Slowly, you settled more comfortably on the sofa and gently tugged on one of his hands.
“Come here.”
Matt frowned slightly.
“What?”
“Come here.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Matthew.”
That tone.
The tone that meant you weren’t going to argue.
A resigned sigh escaped his lips. Even so, he let himself be led. He always let himself be led by you.
You shifted one leg beneath you and created space between your legs.
The realization came to him almost immediately.
“Seriously?”
A smile appeared on your face.
“Seriously.”
“You're treating me like a wounded animal.”
“Because you’re acting like one.”
“That’s rude.”
“Come here.”
Matt mumbled something that was probably a protest.
But he ended up obeying.
Because he’d been obeying for thirty years when you used that voice. Because he was tired.
Because, deep down, he wanted to.
With an almost timid slowness, he let you adjust him until his head rested on your lap.
The tension left his body so quickly it almost broke your heart.
As if he’d been waiting for permission.
As if he’d forgotten he didn’t need to be strong all the time.
Your fingers immediately sank into his hair. The dark strands were still there, shorter now, with a few gray hairs that gave him a sexy look. He still stole your breath, heavens, he did.
You loved him. You loved everything about him. Age had perfectly accentuated him, and you envied how good he looked. But he was yours, all yours to enjoy.
Matt let out a deep sigh, one of those sighs that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
And for the first time all night, he truly relaxed.
Your nails gently scratched his scalp.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The reaction was instantaneous. His shoulders slumped. The tension in his jaw vanished.
And an almost sleepy expression appeared on his face.
“Cheater,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” you said, pleased. Your fingers felt like silk to him, his favorite texture.
“You're distracting me.”
“Good.”
“No, seriously.”
Your fingers continued tracing his hair. Slowly. Patiently. Lovingly.
Matt closed his eyes. Not because he needed to. But because the gesture still felt natural after so many years. Because it allowed him to focus solely on you.
On your hands. On your perfume. On the steady rhythm of your breath. On the beat of your heart against his.
He had always loved that. He still did.
Long before you married him. Long before you fell in love. Long before there was even a you and him.
The sound of your heartbeat had been one of his favorite places. And it still was. It would be until all his senses left with his sight. It would be until he was gone completely. Even after that.
“You know you’re an idiot, right?” you asked gently.
Matt let out a small laugh.
“Frequently informed.”
“Do you know what I hear every time you speak?”
“Hm?”
“I hear a man who believes the only thing of value about him is what he can do, what he can sacrifice.”
Your fingers trailed down to caress the line of his jaw. His stubble brushed against your skin.
“But it was never like that.”
Matt remained silent.
Listening.
Because he always listened when you spoke like that. As if every word carried weight. As if he wanted to hold onto them all.
“You know what I see?”
A pause.
“No.”
“I see the man who brings me tea when I’m working too much.”
Your fingers slowly traced one of the scars near his temple.
“I see the man who keeps ordering my favorite dessert after long days at work.”
Another caress. Another touch. Another reminder that you were there.
“I see the man who calls Peter every time he hears something strange in his voice because he worries like a father.”
A smile appeared on Matt’s lips.
Small. Involuntary.
“That's different.”
“No, sweetheart.”
Your voice softened even more.
“It isn’t.”
Silence returned.
But this time it wasn’t painful.
It was warm. Safe. Like you: warm, safe, present.
Matt turned his face slightly, pressing his cheek against your stomach.
Seeking closerness. More contact. More of you.
The gesture was so unconsciously vulnerable that it almost made you cry.
“Do you know what’s funny?” you asked.
“No.”
“Every time you talk about the man I fell in love with, you’re still describing yourself.”
Matt swallowed.
Your fingers continued moving through his hair.
Slowly. Steadily. Like a promise.
“The man who could carry Hell’s Kitchen on his shoulders?”
You kissed his forehead.
“The man who would do anything for the people he loves?”
Another kiss.
“The man who never stops trying?”
Another one. Softer. Longer.
“The man who made me feel safe?”
Your nose brushed against his hair.
“The man I chose?”
Your lips remained against his forehead.
“He’s still here.”
For the first time since the conversation began, Matt felt something loosen inside his chest.
Something he’d held tight for too long. Something he’d mistaken for strength.
And, as he lay there, his head in your lap, your fingers tracing his hair as if mending every invisible crack in his heart, he allowed himself to believe it.
Even if only for a moment.
He allowed himself to believe that maybe he was still worthy of being loved.
Because if you loved this version of him? This old, weary version? Then it meant that what remained of him was worthy of everything you were.
What remained of him was also a part of you, and there was nothing more heavenly than that.
“I love you,” you said, with a certainty that took his breath away.
He whispered your name.
“I love you too,” he said, not in a whisper, but with certainty, because it was the most certain and sacred thing he knew.
His love for you.
Matt settled in and buried his face in your stomach, inhaling your intoxicating scent. A soft moan escaped his lips, and he wrapped an arm around your waist.
“Don't go to the bachelorette party,” he whispered.
And he earned a laugh from you that made his heart leap with joy.
“Oh, God, jealous old man!” you said, and he laughed at that.
“There was no need to call me old. I'm a year younger than you, my love.”
“Fuck you, Murdock.”
Matt smiled against your stomach and closed his eyes.
“Hm, you love doing it.”
You huffed, hitting his arm.
“Oh? Now you’re feeling brave, aren’t you? You were crying a few seconds ago!” you said, pinching one of his cheeks.
Matt laughed. That husky laugh that made your thighs clench.
“I wasn’t crying,” he said simply, as if nothing had happened.
“Sure you were! Age has made you a sensitive old man,” you said, laughing at him.
Matt's grin widened, and with astonishing speed, the position shifted: suddenly, your husband was on top of you, pinning you against the couch.
"Sensitive old man, huh?" Matt said, burying his nose in your cheek.
"Get off me!" you exclaimed. "My body can't handle your old ass like it used to!"
“Nah.”
His nose trailed down from your cheek to your neck.
“I’m perfectly fine here,” he whispered, nibbling at your sensitive skin.
“Matt! I haven’t even picked out a dress yet!”
“I don’t care.”
Yes, Matt Murdock definitely was, is, and always will be the owner of all your love.
Just as you were, are, and always will be the owner of his entire being.
notes: i really wanted to write something like this! older matt touches a nerve with me, and i needed to get it off my chest.
i hope the fluff is what you expected (?) i generally specialize in writing sad things or immoral characters, so you could say this is unfamiliar territory for me.
if there are any mistakes, i'm sorry! i didn't sleep because i needed to get this out of my head…
i'm finishing editing the second part of Investigating the Devil in case anyone read that (supposed) one-shot and wants me to tag them when i upload it (?)
Anyway, thanks for reading <3
"his body demanded payment for every stupid thing he'd ever done. and it was collecting interest"
oh my godddd so good!! <3 ty for the tag
thank you for the inspiration and for reading<3<3
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Take Me Home
Husband!Frank Castle x Wife!Reader
SUMMARY: After a horrendous family gathering, Frank snaps only slightly only to then have to prove to you, that you don't need a big shitty family to feel loved.
Ingredients: 18+ MDNI, angst, fluff, brief smut, brief violence (Frank punches Reader's uncle), no use of y/n, pet names used (gorgeous, wifey, sunshine, pretty girl and honey), Reader has two sisters (+nieces and nephews), reader's family is like pretty shit, Frank is a big softie for the Reader, making-out scene, lots of fluff and comfort from Frank, soft smut, not proof read
Calories: 2.9k
Chef's Note: I came across the gif and immediately said, "Me at the family gatherings be like..." and then this was born. Enjoy :D
You'd been dreading it all week. As soon as the fucking phone call came through you nearly broke down right then and there. Frank didn't really mention it, but you knew he was dreading it as well. Probably a better word for it was... Internally raging about it. He knew your family was very big, "Family is everything when together." type of group. You seemed to be the only person against that sentiment, and maybe one of your cousins. That was it.
The last function you were guilt-tripped into going to, Frank decided to not go with you. And he regretted that as soon as you came home that night in tears. But this one, you both decided it would be the final one. It was a dinner to celebrate your grandparents' however many years anniversary, Frank didn't pay attention to how long. Cause he really didn't care.
"Frankie, do you think you could help with the laundry?" You were stalling, the two of you needed to leave in 15 minutes, but again, he'd gladly stall with you.
I NEED HIM IN MY LIFEEEEEEEEEEE !!!!!!!!!! god, i love thisssss
older man who says, “sure, kid, whatever you say,” with a grin plastered on his face. puts you through the mattress right after
bucky barnes doing this...
What remains of him
older!matt murdock x older!reader
summary: matt is jealous because you're going to a bachelorette party and will be surrounded by much younger men. insecurity is creeping in for your husband, and hidden feelings are starting to surface.
warnings: none! maybe a little, just a tiny bit, of angst? but nothing to worry about.
content: matt's insecurity and jealousy. everything is deeper than it seems.
word count: 4903
special mention to @lilacmurdock, since the serie they're writing (sugar, please) inspired part of matt's struggle in this one-shot (accepting that it's time to let go of daredevil). i'm sure you're reading their story, but if not, do it!
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
You and Matt had been married for twenty-six years. Jealousy existed during those years, of course it did; more on your part than his, but he wasn't exactly made of stone either.
As you grew older, the jealousy became less frequent. You became more confident, more self-assured, and the bond you shared with Matt deepened.
Matt Murdock had never considered himself a jealous man, although you both knew he could be quite jealous, especially during that time you were separated and you decided to pour your tears out on Frank. It was awful for Matt, disastrous.
Being a jealous man was unthinkable for Matt. The thought alone felt ridiculous, especially now.
He was fifty-two years old, semi-retired, married to the love of his life, and far too tired these days to waste energy on insecurities that belonged to younger men.
At least, that was what he liked to tell himself whenever Foggy teased him about becoming soft in his old age.
Unfortunately, that argument was becoming increasingly difficult to defend.
Especially tonight.
The apartment smelled faintly of your perfume and the dinner the two of you had shared an hour earlier. Somewhere in the background, jazz music drifted lazily from the speakers in the living room, mixing with the familiar sounds of your evening routine. Matt sat on the couch, one arm stretched over the backrest, trying very hard to focus on the audiobook playing through his headphones.
Trying being the important word.
Because every few seconds, his attention wandered back to you.
You were getting ready for your friend’s bachelorette party.
Normally, that wouldn’t have bothered him.
People got married. Friends threw parties. Life went on.
The problem was that your friends were considerably younger than you.
Which meant the party would be full of people who were considerably younger than him.
And apparently, according to a conversation he'd accidentally overheard three days ago, they were planning to spend the evening hopping between expensive bars somewhere downtown.
Matt didn't hate bars, but over time they lost their appeal for him. He preferred the intimacy of being with you or his friends. Now, the only bar worth his time was Josie's.
Perhaps he became grumpier, but the thought of being surrounded by loud noises and the smell of cheap cologne or cigarettes made him clench his jaw too tightly (a habit you broke him of; you didn't want him to develop bruxism!).
The audiobook continued speaking in his ear.
He couldn’t remember a single word.
A laugh escaped from the bedroom.
Your laugh. Warm, bright and familiar.
His chest tightened immediately.
It still happened.
After nearly thirty years together, it still happened.
You could be doing absolutely nothing and somehow he’d find himself falling in love with you all over again. Your smile, the low morning humming, your sweet hands tracing his bare back or scars; your scent so present, so simple but so yours.
The sound of hangers sliding against each other reached his ears.
A drawer opening.
Closing.
Opening again.
You were probably changing your mind about an outfit.
Again.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Five minutes later, you stepped into the living room.
“I don’t know what to wear, I’m having a crisis,” you said.
You were carrying two dresses, both silk, like almost everything in your wardrobe except for your casual clothes.
“What do people usually wear to bachelorette parties these days?” you asked, looking at both dresses and then at him.
Matt removed one side of his headphones and extended a hand so you could show him your two options.
They weren’t extravagant. You weren’t trying to impress anyone.
They were both simple. Elegant. The kind of thing you’d worn a hundred times. The kind of dress you’d wear when you had your night without Matt with Karen (she said it was to keep things going).
Yet somehow it took his breath away to imagine your body beneath that sweet silk.
“You’ll look beautiful in either dress.”
A small laugh escaped you.
“Matt, that’s not helpful.”
“It’s true.”
“You were supposed to help me decide between these two dresses.”
“Are you seeking my approval, my love? I didn’t know you valued my fashion sense so much,” he said, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. “Either dress will do.”
You groaned dramatically.
“See? This is why I never ask you.”
“Because I’m right every time?”
“Because you’re biased.”
Matt smiled.
Maybe he was.
Actually, he definitely was.
As far as he was concerned, you could have shown up wearing a potato sack and he’d still think you were the most beautiful being in New York.
You disappeared back into the bedroom before he could say that out loud.
Probably for the best.
The teasing would have been relentless.
A few minutes passed.
Then your phone buzzed somewhere on the kitchen counter.
Matt wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.
He never had to try.
“Hurry up!” one of your friends’ voices chirped through a voice message. “And wear that black dress. The hot bartender from last time is going to be there and I want him to look in our direction. I want to feel extra hot tonight! All of us!”
Silence.
Matt's eyebrow twitched.
The hot bartender.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
A second voice immediately followed.
“I need everyone to be hot today, no exceptions, I don’t care that you’re married! We’ll all show off!”
Matt sat very still.
Then very carefully removed his headphones.
The bedroom door opened again.
You walked out carrying a pair of earrings and immediately froze.
The expression on his face must have given him away.
“What?”
Matt tilted his head.
Nothing.
“What?” you repeated.
“There was a bartender mentioned.”
You stared at him.
Then at the phone.
Then back at him.
A grin slowly spread across your face.
“Sarah named him, yes,” you said, staring at him with a certain gleam in your eyes that Matt could perfectly imagine.
“Apparently he’s hot.”
“Matthew.”
“He seems to have quite the reputation.”
Your grin widened.
Oh, this was not going the way he’d hoped.
“You listened to my messages?”
“They were loud.”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“I was existing in my own home.”
You laughed so hard he could practically feel the warmth radiating from your smile.
And suddenly, despite all his grumbling, despite the stupid bartender and the crowded bars and every irrational insecurity he hadn’t felt this hard in years, Matt realized what was actually bothering him.
It wasn’t the party.
It wasn’t the younger people.
It wasn’t even the bartender.
It was the fact that he still loved you so much that the idea of spending an evening without you made him feel vaguely miserable. Ridiculous, right? His dependence had grown over the years.
The realization was embarrassing enough that he immediately regretted having it.
Unfortunately for him, you knew him far too well.
Your footsteps approached slowly.
Then the couch dipped beneath your weight as you sat beside him.
One of your hands found his jaw. Soft, warm.
The wedding ring he had slipped onto your finger decades ago brushed against his skin.
“You’re jealous,” you said softly.
Matt sighed.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He turned his face toward yours, already knowing from the rhythm of your heartbeat that you were smiling.
“The worst part?” you asked, your thumb brushing over the stubble along his jaw. “You sounded delightedly miserable.”
Matt let out a low groan.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
A laugh escaped you before you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
Normally, that would’ve been enough to distract him.
Tonight, it wasn’t.
Because the warmth faded too quickly.
Because the silence that followed settled heavily between you.
Because despite the teasing, despite your smile, despite the ridiculousness of the entire situation, the knot in his chest remained exactly where it was.
Your heartbeat shifted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Concern.
You knew him too well.
The realization made him simultaneously grateful and annoyed.
“Matt.”
“Hm.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
His mouth twitched.
“Maybe a small lie.”
You waited. Patiently. The way you always did when he wasn’t ready to talk.
Outside, distant traffic drifted through the windows. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn sounded. The city continued moving around them while the apartment remained wrapped in comfortable silence.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Matt sighed.
“You ever wonder when it happened?”
You frowned slightly. Your fingers moved from his jaw to his hair, gently burying them in the mix of dark and gray strands.
“When what happened?” you asked, patient.
He hesitated.
The answer should have been easy.
Instead, the words felt strangely heavy.
“When we got old.”
The sentence hung in the air.
Your hand paused.
“Oh.”
Matt immediately regretted saying it out loud.
It sounded pathetic.
Worse.
It sounded true.
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know that’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
A soft snort escaped you.
The sound almost made him smile.
Almost.
“I don’t feel old most days,” he admitted. “Not really.”
Because most days were easy. Most days he could ignore it. Most days he could pretend.
Then there were days like last month.
Days when his knee gave out halfway up the apartment stairs.
Days when an old injury in his shoulder refused to stop aching.
Days when he woke up sore despite having done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
Days when he remembered that twenty years ago he could throw himself off rooftops without thinking twice.
Twenty years ago he could fight until sunrise.
Twenty years ago he could get stabbed on Friday and somehow convince himself he was perfectly fine by Monday.
Now?
Now a bad landing could put him out of commission for weeks. Now his body demanded payment for every stupid thing he’d ever done.
And it was collecting interest.
“It’s different,” he said quietly.
Your fingers intertwined with his.
“What’s different?”
“Everything.”
The word escaped before he could stop it.
A bitter laugh followed.
“I used to patrol all night and still show up to court the next morning.”
You remained silent.
Listening.
“I used to know exactly what my body could do.”
His throat tightened.
“And now I don’t.”
The confession surprised even him.
Because that was the real fear.
Not the gray hairs. Not the aches. Not retirement.
The uncertainty.
For most of his life, his body had been the one thing he could trust completely. He didn’t have his sight, but he had everything else. His body was ready, his body responded to his demands.
Every movement. Every reaction. Every punch. Every jump. Every risk.
Now there were limits.
Real limits.
Limits he couldn’t ignore anymore.
“I hate it,” he admitted.
The words were barely above a whisper.
“I hate needing more time to recover.”
His grip tightened around yours.
“I hate that Foggy looks at me like I’m made of glass whenever I mention patrols.”
A humorless smile crossed his face.
“I hate that Karen and Kirsten have apparently formed some kind of secret coalition dedicated to keeping me alive.”
That finally earned a laugh from you.
A small one. Gentle.
But Matt wasn’t finished.
Because once the words started coming, they wouldn’t stop.
“And I hate that every time you go somewhere without me, some stupid part of my brain remembers that there are younger men everywhere.”
You blinked.
There it was.
The real wound.
Matt swallowed.
“Younger men who aren’t held together by scar tissue.”
Your expression softened immediately.
“Matt—”
“Younger men who don’t need to take a pill every day to get through the rest of the day.”
“Matthew,” you said, this time more firmly, but he continued.
“Younger men who don't sound like their joints are declaring war every time they stand up.”
That made you laugh. Actually laugh.
Matt frowned.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It is a little funny.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
His expression remained stubborn. Yours grew impossibly fond and somehow that was worse.
Because he knew that look.
The look that meant you were seeing straight through him.
Straight through the jealousy. Straight through the pride. Straight into the insecurity he’d been carrying for years.
The one he’d never quite found the courage to say aloud.
Your hand moved to his chest.
Directly over his heart.
The steady rhythm stumbled beneath your touch.
“Matt.”
His name sounded unbearably soft. The sweetness of your voice had always managed to quicken his pulse, to soften all his instincts accustomed to fighting.
“You really think I fell in love with you because you could jump off buildings?”
His silence answered for him.
A sigh escaped you.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The endearment hit harder than any punch he’d ever taken.
And suddenly he couldn’t face you, or his own feelings.
Because part of him already knew he was wrong.
He just didn’t know how to stop feeling that way.
“Do you think I only fell in love with Daredevil?” you said.
Your hand remained steady on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, his warmth, his tense posture.
“I fell completely in love with Matthew Michael Murdock. Everything about you, from the arrogant lawyer to the vigilante who saved my life,” you said, looking into his eyes. “And I fell in love with you a hundred times over. I fell in love with every facet of you, even this one where we’re both old and not what we used to be, but we’re still ours.”
You shifted more comfortably on the couch, the space between you closing, and your hand moved up to cup his face.
“I…” His Adam’s apple trembled in his throat. “I don’t know how much of me is still worthwhile.”
The confession ushered in a new silence between them. It was real, it was what he had built up over the last few years. His body wasn’t what it used to be, and that had broken something inside him.
Before, Matt was capable of carrying Hell’s Kitchen. Hurt, bleeding, unable to sleep, but he could.
Lately, he felt he couldn’t anymore, that the weight was wearing him down more and more.
And if he let go of that responsibility, what would be left of him?
A blind, old, and grumpy man? You didn't deserve that, you deserved… you deserved that man you knew, who could handle anything and anyone, who was willing to hold back the evil of the night so that others could sleep peacefully.
“I don’t know if what’s left of me is worthy of what’s left of you,” he said, his voice uncertain.
Of course, age had caught up with you too.
But you were still someone to admire. You were the editor-in-chief of your own publishing house. Fighting injustice with words, publishing them, ensuring people knew their rightful truth.
You had even helped Peter Parker in his early years, and he was still your best photographer (you had Spider-Man working for you—wasn’t that amazing?).
And he… he was tired. Matt was tired, but the fear of letting go of something that was part of his very being, of a responsibility that no one seemed willing to take on, filled him with fear.
Is what remains of him worthy of you?
You swallowed, trying to soothe the ache in your heart. It hurt, not because he hurt you, but because knowing Matt had carried something like this for, perhaps, years, broke you.
“Oh, Matt,” you whispered, cradling his face in your hands.
Your gentle hands were warm, and he couldn't help but close his eyes as you held his whole being. Not just his face, but him completely, as you had for years.
“Darling…” you whispered.
Your hands remained over his face, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
Not because there were no words. Because there were too many.
You felt him gently tilt his head against your palm, unconsciously seeking more of your touch. As if something inside him were exhausted. As if he had been carrying an impossible weight for so long that he no longer remembered how to let go.
Your heart broke a little more. Because you know this man. You know every one of his scars. The visible ones and the hidden ones. You know the boy who lost his father far too soon.
The young man who turned grief into a mission.
The man who decided to carry an entire city on his shoulders because no one else seemed willing to.
And you also know this. This fear. This exhaustion.
This sadness that had been building up for years, silently settling between his ribs.
“Matthew Michael Murdock,” you said softly.
His mouth curved slightly.
Even after all these years, hearing his full name always made him react.
“I have a question for you.”
“Hm.”
“Who taught you that your worth depends on how much you can endure?”
The silence was immediate.
Heavy. Painful. Because they both knew the answer.
No one. And everyone.
Hell’s Kitchen. Daredevil.
The years of violence. The years of sacrifice. The years of hearing that a hero should always give more.
More blood. More broken bones. More of himself.
Until there was nothing left.
Matt swallowed.
“That’s not it...” he defended himself, because he's still a lawyer and it's in his nature to argue.
“Yes, it is.”
“No.”
“Matt.”
Your voice was firm this time. Not harsh. Just firm.
“You’re talking to me as if the only good thing about you was your capacity for self-sacrifice.”
He opened his mouth.
He closed it.
Because he didn’t have an answer.
Because a part of him knew you were right.
Your thumb slowly caressed his cheek.
“Do you think what I loved most about you was seeing you come home hurt?”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
“You think I admired you when your ribs were broken?”
“No… you hated it… you hate it.”
“When you went forty hours without sleep?”
“No.”
“When I found you unconscious in our bathroom because you wouldn’t tell me a fucking dagger managed to pierce your suit?”
Matt let out a small groan.
“God, you still bring that up.”
“Because it was a monumental stupidity!”
“I survived.”
“You fainted while trying to brush your teeth before bed!”
For the first time in the entire conversation, a laugh escaped his throat.
Small. Rasty. But real.
And you took advantage of that crack.
Because that's exactly what it was.
A crack. An opening in the armor.
You moved closer, until your forehead was pressed against his.
“Listen to me, Matthew.”
Matt remained motionless.
Listening. Like I always did with you.
“I did fall in love with Daredevil, like I already told you.”
His breath caught in his throat.
“I fell in love with his courage.”
Another pause.
“But I didn’t stay for Daredevil.”
Matt’s hand found yours. Instinctively. Like he needed something to hold onto.
“I stayed for the man who makes terrible cappuccino every morning.”
A smile appeared on his lips.
“My cappuccino isn’t awful.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s not.”
“Matt, it’s a crime.”
The smile widened.
“I stayed for the man who cried when our cat Daisy died and swore he had allergies so no one would make fun of him.”
“That was slander...”
“I stayed for the man who still looks for me in bed when he has nightmares and wakes up when I have mine.”
The smile vanished.
Not from sadness.
From excitement. Because he knew exactly what you meant.
“I stayed for the man who still reaches for my fingers to brush against his. The man who carries me in his arms when I'm stubborn and want to keep working. The man who massages my aching feet and doesn't laugh at my Crocs because he knows they're more comfortable than those infernal heels,” you chuckled softly. “Because he knows I don't have the same strength I used to. I'm not the young reporter who could go wherever she wanted, nor could I wear high heels for hours at a press conference.”
Your voice cracked slightly.
Just a little.
“I stayed for you.”
The apartment fell completely silent.
Not the cars. Not the music. Not the city. Nothing seemed to exist.
Only the two of you.
And when Matt spoke again, his voice was small. Smaller than you'd heard it in years.
“What if one day I can’t do it anymore?”
You frowned.
“Do what?”
“Everything.”
The word came out broken. Naked.
“Patrol.”
He swallowed.
“Fight.”
Another pause.
“Protect people.”
His breath trembled.
“What if one day I simply can’t be him anymore? What will be left of me?”
You finally understood. It wasn't fear of aging. Not really. It was grief.
Matt was mourning the loss of a version of himself that hadn't completely disappeared yet.
But that he could see slipping away.
Slowly. Inevitably. And that terrified him.
With infinite tenderness, you rested your forehead against his.
“Then you’ll stop being him.”
Matt remained motionless.
The answer was clearly not what he expected.
“And you’ll still be you.”
His breath caught in his throat. Because that was it. What he hadn’t understood for years.
Perhaps Daredevil was part of Matt Murdock. But Matt Murdock had never been solely Daredevil.
And perhaps. Just perhaps.
That had always been enough for you.
Matt didn’t respond. For a few seconds, he remained completely still. You could feel the conflict coursing through him.
Years of guilt. Years of responsibility. Years of convincing himself that his worth was directly related to how much he was willing to sacrifice.
It wasn’t something that could disappear with a single conversation. Not even with you. But that was okay.
You weren’t trying to fix it. You just wanted to hold on to him. Like he had held on to you hundreds of times before.
Slowly, you settled more comfortably on the sofa and gently tugged on one of his hands.
“Come here.”
Matt frowned slightly.
“What?”
“Come here.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Matthew.”
That tone.
The tone that meant you weren’t going to argue.
A resigned sigh escaped his lips. Even so, he let himself be led. He always let himself be led by you.
You shifted one leg beneath you and created space between your legs.
The realization came to him almost immediately.
“Seriously?”
A smile appeared on your face.
“Seriously.”
“You're treating me like a wounded animal.”
“Because you’re acting like one.”
“That’s rude.”
“Come here.”
Matt mumbled something that was probably a protest.
But he ended up obeying.
Because he’d been obeying for thirty years when you used that voice. Because he was tired.
Because, deep down, he wanted to.
With an almost timid slowness, he let you adjust him until his head rested on your lap.
The tension left his body so quickly it almost broke your heart.
As if he’d been waiting for permission.
As if he’d forgotten he didn’t need to be strong all the time.
Your fingers immediately sank into his hair. The dark strands were still there, shorter now, with a few gray hairs that gave him a sexy look. He still stole your breath, heavens, he did.
You loved him. You loved everything about him. Age had perfectly accentuated him, and you envied how good he looked. But he was yours, all yours to enjoy.
Matt let out a deep sigh, one of those sighs that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
And for the first time all night, he truly relaxed.
Your nails gently scratched his scalp.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The reaction was instantaneous. His shoulders slumped. The tension in his jaw vanished.
And an almost sleepy expression appeared on his face.
“Cheater,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” you said, pleased. Your fingers felt like silk to him, his favorite texture.
“You're distracting me.”
“Good.”
“No, seriously.”
Your fingers continued tracing his hair. Slowly. Patiently. Lovingly.
Matt closed his eyes. Not because he needed to. But because the gesture still felt natural after so many years. Because it allowed him to focus solely on you.
On your hands. On your perfume. On the steady rhythm of your breath. On the beat of your heart against his.
He had always loved that. He still did.
Long before you married him. Long before you fell in love. Long before there was even a you and him.
The sound of your heartbeat had been one of his favorite places. And it still was. It would be until all his senses left with his sight. It would be until he was gone completely. Even after that.
“You know you’re an idiot, right?” you asked gently.
Matt let out a small laugh.
“Frequently informed.”
“Do you know what I hear every time you speak?”
“Hm?”
“I hear a man who believes the only thing of value about him is what he can do, what he can sacrifice.”
Your fingers trailed down to caress the line of his jaw. His stubble brushed against your skin.
“But it was never like that.”
Matt remained silent.
Listening.
Because he always listened when you spoke like that. As if every word carried weight. As if he wanted to hold onto them all.
“You know what I see?”
A pause.
“No.”
“I see the man who brings me tea when I’m working too much.”
Your fingers slowly traced one of the scars near his temple.
“I see the man who keeps ordering my favorite dessert after long days at work.”
Another caress. Another touch. Another reminder that you were there.
“I see the man who calls Peter every time he hears something strange in his voice because he worries like a father.”
A smile appeared on Matt’s lips.
Small. Involuntary.
“That's different.”
“No, sweetheart.”
Your voice softened even more.
“It isn’t.”
Silence returned.
But this time it wasn’t painful.
It was warm. Safe. Like you: warm, safe, present.
Matt turned his face slightly, pressing his cheek against your stomach.
Seeking closerness. More contact. More of you.
The gesture was so unconsciously vulnerable that it almost made you cry.
“Do you know what’s funny?” you asked.
“No.”
“Every time you talk about the man I fell in love with, you’re still describing yourself.”
Matt swallowed.
Your fingers continued moving through his hair.
Slowly. Steadily. Like a promise.
“The man who could carry Hell’s Kitchen on his shoulders?”
You kissed his forehead.
“The man who would do anything for the people he loves?”
Another kiss.
“The man who never stops trying?”
Another one. Softer. Longer.
“The man who made me feel safe?”
Your nose brushed against his hair.
“The man I chose?”
Your lips remained against his forehead.
“He’s still here.”
For the first time since the conversation began, Matt felt something loosen inside his chest.
Something he’d held tight for too long. Something he’d mistaken for strength.
And, as he lay there, his head in your lap, your fingers tracing his hair as if mending every invisible crack in his heart, he allowed himself to believe it.
Even if only for a moment.
He allowed himself to believe that maybe he was still worthy of being loved.
Because if you loved this version of him? This old, weary version? Then it meant that what remained of him was worthy of everything you were.
What remained of him was also a part of you, and there was nothing more heavenly than that.
“I love you,” you said, with a certainty that took his breath away.
He whispered your name.
“I love you too,” he said, not in a whisper, but with certainty, because it was the most certain and sacred thing he knew.
His love for you.
Matt settled in and buried his face in your stomach, inhaling your intoxicating scent. A soft moan escaped his lips, and he wrapped an arm around your waist.
“Don't go to the bachelorette party,” he whispered.
And he earned a laugh from you that made his heart leap with joy.
“Oh, God, jealous old man!” you said, and he laughed at that.
“There was no need to call me old. I'm a year younger than you, my love.”
“Fuck you, Murdock.”
Matt smiled against your stomach and closed his eyes.
“Hm, you love doing it.”
You huffed, hitting his arm.
“Oh? Now you’re feeling brave, aren’t you? You were crying a few seconds ago!” you said, pinching one of his cheeks.
Matt laughed. That husky laugh that made your thighs clench.
“I wasn’t crying,” he said simply, as if nothing had happened.
“Sure you were! Age has made you a sensitive old man,” you said, laughing at him.
Matt's grin widened, and with astonishing speed, the position shifted: suddenly, your husband was on top of you, pinning you against the couch.
"Sensitive old man, huh?" Matt said, burying his nose in your cheek.
"Get off me!" you exclaimed. "My body can't handle your old ass like it used to!"
“Nah.”
His nose trailed down from your cheek to your neck.
“I’m perfectly fine here,” he whispered, nibbling at your sensitive skin.
“Matt! I haven’t even picked out a dress yet!”
“I don’t care.”
Yes, Matt Murdock definitely was, is, and always will be the owner of all your love.
Just as you were, are, and always will be the owner of his entire being.
notes: i really wanted to write something like this! older matt touches a nerve with me, and i needed to get it off my chest.
i hope the fluff is what you expected (?) i generally specialize in writing sad things or immoral characters, so you could say this is unfamiliar territory for me.
if there are any mistakes, i'm sorry! i didn't sleep because i needed to get this out of my head…
i don't know if anyone will like how this one-shot turned out lmao
Anyway, thanks for reading <3
Sugar, Please - Chapter Ten
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artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: mostly recovered from your injuries, matt takes you shopping for the gala.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
notes: *chants* matt pov, matt pov, matt pov
word count: 3k
thinking about frank meeting black cat!reader for the first time and getting distracted because they were robbing the person frank was targeting…
frank getting irritated every time he sees them, and them deliberately irritating him... it's pure repressed sexual tension mixed with insults and morality…
frank getting angry because they were hurt after escaping daredevil… i need to stop and get some cold water...
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Sugar, Please - Chapter Nine
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
artist!reader x sugardaddy!matt
chapter summary: your shift at the bar takes an unpleasant turn.
series warnings: 18+ for smut, canon-typical violence, age gap, huge wealth gap, AFAB reader, slow burn, semi-retired daredevil
notes: grab a snack and some water my loves, this chapter is plot and dialogue heavy.
word count: 8k
helpppp
so... i have several drafts saved, but i have two ideas stuck in my head that i can't get out of my head, and my fingers are itching to write them down!!!!!
older matt, semi-retired and jealous (somewhat insecure), because his sweet wife is going to a younger friend's bachelorette party, and he thinks someone might catch her eye... very fluffy, i'd say!!! cause Matt deserves to be pampered and have his insecurities eased.
the other idea i have is about matt and reader being married (again, yes), but they're about to get divorced... they meet because matt brought the divorce papers, and at that moment he says, "yeah, I didn't bring the papers, I forgot them, let's have dinner then?" (obviously, he says it with that arrogant and bitchy tone of his)... obviously, that's when everything explodes, and there's a lot of angst because i need to get a lot of things off my chest (thanks to my ex).
anygays... i have a lot on my mind and a lot of things written (old ones), but these two ideas just won't leave my head!!!!!
i don't know which one to do first, helppppp
