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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
Morning arrived slowly.
Soft gray light filtered through the massive windows of Matt’s bedroom, the city outside muted beneath early haze and distant traffic. For a few blissful seconds, you forgot where you were. Then warmth shifted behind you. A large arm tightened automatically around your waist. And memory hit all at once.
The gala. The red dress. The car ride. The elevator. Matt kissing you like he’d finally lost the battle with himself. Heat bloomed instantly in your chest.
You were still wrapped tightly against him beneath the sheets, wearing his black shirt while Matt slept warm and solid behind you.
Or- you thought he was asleep. Until his voice, rough with sleep, murmured quietly against the back of your neck, “Morning.” Your stomach fluttered immediately. You smiled without meaning to. “Were you awake this whole time?”
Matt’s nose brushed lazily along your hair. “No.” A beat. “Maybe the last five minutes.” You could feel the faint smile against your shoulder. God, everything felt different this morning. Not awkward. Comfortable.
Like somehow one night had shifted the axis of the entire relationship.
Matt’s hand slid slowly beneath the hem of the shirt, warm palm settling against bare skin while he pulled you even closer against his chest. Possessive in the sleepiest softest way imaginable.
“You trying to fuse us together?” you mumbled.
“Yes.”
You laughed quietly. Matt kissed the back of your shoulder once. Then again. Little instinctive sleepy kisses that made your heart ache.
Neither of you moved for a while after that. Just stayed tangled together while Manhattan slowly brightened outside the windows. Eventually you rolled over enough to look at him properly. Messy dark hair. Sleep heavy voice. Bare chest half hidden beneath rumpled sheets. And no glasses. Your chest squeezed painfully.
Matt looked younger like this somehow. Softer. Significantly less guarded. His hand drifted automatically up your arm while he listened to your quiet breathing.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“You’re pretty.”
Matt groaned softly and dropped his forehead briefly against your shoulder. “You cannot say things like that first thing in the morning.”
“You were literally kissing my shoulder five seconds ago.”
“That was strategic.”
You snorted. Matt smiled faintly before lifting his head enough to find your mouth in another slow sleepy kiss. Completely unfair.
The kisses felt different now too. Natural. Easy. Like both of you had unconsciously crossed into a stage where touching each other was simply expected.
When the kiss ended, Matt stayed close enough that his nose brushed yours lightly. You could feel his breathing. Warm and steady. Then quietly, “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good.”
Matt finally climbed out of bed a few minutes later and the sight nearly ruined your morning composure immediately.
Low black sweats hanging loose on his hips. Bare back and shoulders. Sleep-mussed hair. Yummy. You absolutely stared. Matt paused halfway toward the bathroom.
“…Doesn't sound to me like you're getting up."
“You’re shirtless and I’m only human.”
Matt laughed quietly under his breath. Heat rushed immediately into your face. You buried yourself dramatically deeper into the blankets while Matt disappeared toward the bathroom still smiling faintly to himself.
The morning stayed soft after that. Domestic in a way that felt almost concerning. You sat on one of the marble kitchen counters nursing coffee while Matt cooked breakfast barefoot beside you, one hand absently finding your knee every time he passed close enough.
Kisses kept happening accidentally. A kiss to your temple when he'd handed you the coffee. A quick one against your mouth when you stole fruit off the cutting board. Your fingers in his hair while he stood between your knees at the counter.
Everything felt warm and easy. Like you’d been doing this for years instead of a few hours.
Matt plated breakfast for both of you eventually and carried everything toward the couch overlooking the windows. You curled beside him naturally this time. His arm draped automatically along the back of the couch behind you while you both ate. The television murmured quietly in the background.
For a while, neither of you said much. Until eventually your brain unfortunately remembered reality existed. You sighed softly into your coffee. Matt’s head tilted immediately toward you.
“What?”
You hesitated. Then, “My leave’s almost up.”
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Not ruined. Just quieter now. Matt’s fingers stilled slightly against your leg. “You have to put your shifts in soon?” he asked carefully. You nodded. “Luis texted yesterday asking what days I wanted once I’m cleared.” Matt went very still beside you.
You felt it immediately. His jaw tightened faintly. His other hand flexed once against the couch cushion. Your stomach fluttered uneasily. “…Matt.”
“I know,” he said quietly before you could even continue. “I know I can’t tell you what to do.” Which honestly meant that he desperately wanted to.
You leaned slightly against his shoulder. “I’m okay.” Matt exhaled softly through his nose. Then his hand found yours immediately, thumb rubbing slowly against your knuckles while his sightless gaze drifted out at the skyline. Still tense. Still thinking.
You could practically feel it happening beside you, the lawyer brain turning over logistics and risks and arguments while his thumb continued rubbing slow circles against your hand.
Eventually you set your coffee down softly. “Matt.” His head turned toward you immediately. You hesitated for a second before saying quietly, “We should probably talk about the arrangement.”
Everything in him went still. The shift was immediate enough that your stomach tightened. Matt’s hand remained wrapped around yours, but the movement of his thumb stopped entirely. For a second neither of you spoke.
"Yeah,” he said quietly. Like he’d already been thinking about it long before you brought it up. Your chest squeezed strangely. Matt leaned back further against the couch cushions beside you. You tucked one leg beneath yourself on the couch, turning slightly toward him. “I just…” You exhaled softly. “This doesn’t feel like that anymore.”
Matt’s face softened instantly. The look on his face nearly hurt. “No,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t.”
Silence settled again. Warm sunlight spilled across the penthouse floors while Manhattan buzzed far below the two of you. Then Matt lifted your joined hands slowly and pressed a soft kiss against your knuckles. The gesture felt devastatingly intimate now.
“I don’t want a contract between us anymore,” he admitted quietly.
Your heart stumbled hard in your chest. There it was. Not arrangement. Not terms. Not expectations. Us.
Something emotional twisted painfully warm beneath your ribs. You swallowed softly. “Okay.”
Matt exhaled slowly afterward like he’d been bracing for resistance. Then his fingers tightened around yours slightly. “But,” he added immediately. You blinked. Matt’s expression shifted into something firmer now. Certain. Oh no. You already knew that tone. “Matt-”
“The contract ends,” he said calmly. “The support does not.” There we go. You stared at him for a second.
“…You already thought this through.”
“Yes.”
You groaned softly and dropped your forehead dramatically against his shoulder. Matt actually smiled this time. His hand slid automatically into your hair. “You’re not going back to pulling doubles because you’re afraid to let me help you.”
You lifted your head immediately. “I was never afraid-”
“Princess.”
The interruption was gentle. But firm. Matt turned slightly toward you now, one arm stretching along the back of the couch behind you while the other reached back for your hand.
“You got crushed under thirty bottles of liquor a month ago,” he said quietly. “You still have stitches healing. And you’re already talking about picking up extra shifts to make sure your rent gets paid.”
Heat rose immediately into your face and you looked away.
Matt’s fingers found your chin carefully and turned you back toward him. “I know you can take care of yourself,” he said softly. The words hit harder than expected. Because he meant them. There was no condescension in his voice. No pity or humoring. “That’s not the point," he continued.
Matt brushed his thumb slowly along your jaw. “I love taking care of you.” The honesty in his voice nearly ruined you. No games. No pretending otherwise. Just raw truth. You stared at him helplessly.
“And before you argue with me,” he continued calmly, “understand that if I had my way, you’d never worry about another bill for the rest of your life.”
You actually laughed softly in disbelief. “Matt.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are, that’s the problem.”
Matt’s mouth twitched faintly again. Then quieter, “You think I enjoy the idea of you exhausting yourself at a job you almost got killed at?” Your chest ached immediately. He leaned closer slightly, voice lowering. “You’re important to me.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly. Matt must’ve heard your sharp inhale because his entire expression softened instantly. His hand slid fully against your cheek now.
“If you never touched me again,” he said quietly, “I’d still want you taken care of.”
Your breath caught painfully. Oh. Oh that was unfair. Matt exhaled softly afterward like admitting that out loud cost him something. Then his tone shifted slightly lighter again, though the firmness underneath remained.
“The contract is done.”
You nodded slowly. “But,” Matt continued immediately, “I am still helping you.” You opened your mouth.
“No,” he said at once. You blinked. Matt's thumb stroked your cheek, somehow still looking infuriatingly composed. “I know you. You’re about to tell me you don’t need anything.”
“I don’t-"
“There it is.”
You glared weakly. Matt kissed your forehead before you could continue arguing. “You’re keeping the allowance.” Your eyes widened slightly.
“Matt-”
“And before you say something stubborn,” he continued smoothly, “understand that I’m already considering increasing it now that I no longer have to pretend it’s tied to a contract.” You actually choked on air.
“WHAT?”
Matt looked deeply unimpressed with your reaction. “You heard me.”
“That is insane.”
“What the hell else is this money for?” he replied calmly. “Let me have hobbies.”
You stared at him in disbelief. Matt stayed completely serious for exactly three seconds before the corner of his mouth betrayed him again. "Oh my god,” you laughed. Matt leaned in then, forehead brushing yours lightly. His voice softened. “It’s different now.”
Your heartbeat fluttered hard. Different now. Not bought. Not arranged. Not temporary. His. And he was yours too.
Matt kissed you softly once before murmuring against your mouth, “You really think I’m gonna stop taking care of my girl now?” Your breath caught softly against Matt’s mouth and he immediately noticed. Of course he did.
One of his hands slid warm against your waist while the other remained cupping your jaw, thumb brushing slowly along your cheek.
“You can’t just say things like that.”
Matt’s mouth twitched faintly. “Seems like I can.”
You groaned softly and kissed him before he could get worse. Matt kissed you back instantly, like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The kiss deepened almost immediately, all the softness from earlier melting into something warmer and hungrier now that the emotional conversation had cracked both of you open again.
Your hand slid into his hair automatically. Matt inhaled sharply against your mouth. Ugh. The reaction he had every single time you touched his hair was becoming dangerous information.
His tongue slid across your lip, one hand slipping fully around your waist now as he pulled you closer across the couch cushions. You ended up half sprawled against him before you fully realized what was happening.
Matt kissed you slower this time though. Thoroughly. Like he genuinely enjoyed kissing you too much to rush through it anymore. Your heartbeat fluttered harder when his hand slid lower, and then settled firmly against your ass. Oh.
You made a startled soft sound into his mouth and Matt’s grip tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make your stomach flip. You kissed him again immediately to stop your brain from malfunctioning. That was a mistake. Because Matt apparently had only so much self control left this morning.
One strong arm wrapped fully around your waist and suddenly you were being pulled directly into his lap. A squeak escaped you as you landed against him. He groaned softly the second your hips settled over his.
The sound dragged heat straight down your spine. Oh my god. Your hands clutched his shoulders automatically while Matt tipped his head back briefly against the couch like he was already regretting every decision he’d made.
“You are trouble,” he muttered.
“You’re the one who pulled me over here.”
“Terrible judgment on my part.”
You laughed breathlessly and kissed him again. Matt’s hands became shameless fast once you were in his lap. One stayed planted firmly on your hip while the other continued its assault on the plush fat of your ass. Your face was burning. “Matt,” you whined softly against his mouth.
A rough breath left him immediately. You were pretty sure neither of you were being careful anymore. Especially not once your hips shifted instinctively against his growing erection.
Matt went completely still beneath you with a choked grunt. Heat flooded every inch of you. You moved again experimentally before you could think better of it. He groaned low in his throat and dropped his forehead briefly against your shoulder. "Mh- Hmm." Okay. Okay wow.
Then his hands slid more firmly against your hips and suddenly he was guiding the movement himself. Your breath punched out of you softly. “Oh, god.” The friction was just enough to make both of you lose composure frighteningly fast. You could feel the slick that was steadily gathering in your panties.
Matt’s head tipped back against the couch cushions again while you trailed wet kisses along his jaw, both of you breathing uneven now. His jaw was slack, eyes pinched shut.
One of his hands buried itself in your hair. The other remained possessively spread across your ass like he’d forgotten all shame entirely. “You're going to kill me,” he muttered roughly.
Your pulse was going wild now. The soft sounds escaping both of you only made it worse. Little gasps. Breathless sighs. Whines every time Matt’s hands tightened on you. Matt sounded really affected.... Really affected. He kept making these low grunts every time your hips shifted against him that made your entire body burn hotter.
“Aah, Matt-” another soft whine escaped you involuntarily when his mouth found your neck. The second you whined his name like that he moaned against your skin. "Ohh, fuck-" he gritted out with a whimper. A whimper.
Then suddenly both his hands gripped your hips firmly. Still gentle, but stopping you completely. You panted breathlessly. He stayed buried against your neck for a second longer, trying very obviously to regain control of himself. Then finally he lifted his head enough to look vaguely toward your face again. His breathing was still uneven. His cheeks flushed. Wow.
And somehow he still sounded maddeningly calm when he said, “We are not having sex for the first time on my couch at ten in the morning.” You burst into helpless laughter immediately.
Matt kissed you again before you could get too smug about it. Deep enough to steal your breath all over again. But when your hips instinctively tried to move again, his grip tightened warningly. “Absolutely not,” he murmured against your mouth.
You whined dramatically. Matt actually chuckled this time, although it was admittedly strained.
“You keep making that sound and I’m throwing both of us into cold water.”
notes: short chapter, but it was a necessary conversation! matt's provider kink coming in full swing now that he and reader are together for real.
also not matt almost creaming his pants just from reader moaning his name 🤭 pathetic old man
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!!!
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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
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
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 (?)
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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.
"Yeah gorgeous, just wait a min'..." He was busy filling up all of the glass water bottles for the fridge, his own stalling method. The last family function that he was at, he swears he was ready to throw your uncle off a balcony. If he remembers correctly, he threatened it. He should've just gone through with it.
Once Frank put the final bottle into the fridge, he went into the bedroom to see you slowly folding up the clean clothes. You seemed focused, but not on the clothes, on probably just trying to think of a last minute excuse to tell your parents.
"Hey, y'know we can jus' say for them to go fuck 'emselves and we stay home." You snorted a little as you handed him a t-shirt to fold.
"And then all of a sudden having them constantly call or send letters telling me I am a horrible person and it was uncalled for? No thanks." Frank sighed a little, he knew that's exactly what they would do. That's what they did to your eldest cousin and that led to you not having seen them since you were 15. And if it were to happen, Frank would probably be in jail for life for massacring your entire family.
"Dunno how you keep contact with 'em. They make you far too upset f' my likin'." He didn't stop his folding movements as you dropped your head into his shoulder and heavily sighed. "They drain you out, wifey. It pisses me off."
"You can't murder them."
"I know, I want t'."
"So do I, but we can't do that."
"Yeah yeah... They ain't gonna ask when were havin' kids again, right?"
"What do you think, my love?"
"Fuckin' hell."
By the time the two of you had gotten into the van, he was driving while eating a sub you had made him with another hand. He just needed that one other thing to focus on instead of who might be his new blood stain. Music quietly hummed through the van as he crumpled up the wrapper and chucked it into the center console before glancing at you. It was a red light, so he had plenty of time to stare.
"Is something on my face?" You pulled down the sun visor to get a look in the mirror before Frank softly muttered, 'nah'.
"Jus' thought you looked pretty. That's all." You huffed quietly and playfully (and lightly) smacked his arm.
"This is no time for flirting."
"Yes it is."
"No."
"Yes."
"Nuh uh."
"Uh-huh."
You just responded with a small pout before you just grinned again.
"Just focus on driving, mister. Maybe take the scenic route though."
"Yes ma'am."
When you arrived, you already had a hand on your forehead, the headache already forming. Plus, Frank had just turned the engine off and the two of you could already hear yelling from inside and what sounded like one of your nieces crying.
"Do you think we can leave now? They won't notice."
"Uh, 'm sorry wifey. Your grandmother is starin' at us from the window."
"That fucking nosy bitch." If Frank had any water in his mouth, he'd spit it out at this moment. But all he did was bark out a laugh you hadn't heard in ages before he then coughed slightly at the suddenness of it.
"Now now, gotta be nice to the elderly."
"Let me know when she won't guilt-trip and, sure. I'll be nice." You got out of the van and immediately went to Frank's side once he got out. You clung to his arm like a terrified koala as you both walked up the stairs of the small porch. You didn't even get to knock on the door before it was ripped open, your mother standing there with splatters of sauce, flour and you are confused how all of it missed the apron she was wearing.
"Darling!! Oh you're here!" She ripped you from Frank into a tight hug. What you didn't know was that she gave Frank a slightly disgusted look. Giving him a nasty up and down look before she pulled away, plastering her smile back on. "So good to see you. We're just still waiting on your uncle and all of them."
"Alright..." You immediately grabbed Frank's hand again as you both walked inside the very large home. There were kids running around everywhere, a mystery baby just sitting on the living room floor, you seriously didn't know whose baby that was. There were people gathered outside setting up the table and the kitchen was overflowing with way too many people.
"Deep breaths, yeah? 'm 'ere." You gently nodded to Frank's whisper as you both went through the entire house and then outside. The yard was massive with a large oak tree, a breaking but still upright playhouse and a small kiddie pool. Plus the new addition of the 3 outdoor tables put together so everyone could fit.
"Frank..."
"Yeah?"
"Please don't leave me alone here."
"Wouldn't dream 'f it sunshine." He then proceeded to leave a small kiss at the corner of your head before, Frank didn't remember his name, another outsider husband came over to them.
"Hey, Frank right?" Frank nodded.
"That's me. Sorry, don't remember your name." The guy just gave him a small smile and waved his hand dismissively.
"Nah you're all good on that. It's Dylan." Frank then remembered him. The two mainly spoke to each other at the last one just before the balcony incident. Dylan was your brother-in-law, married your youngest sister. Dylan was also treated like dirt by this family, so Frank gave him a rundown when they first met.
Because, hey, Frank has got 9 years of shit this family pulled towards him under his belt. He will help another out. Soon enough however, the festivities of food had begun.
There were dinner rolls, chicken, lasagna, and mash potatoes. In the back of Frank's mind he didn't really want to eat any of it. Didn't smell as good as your cooking you see. Yours smelt like home and love, especially since the latter was actually put into cooking the damn meal.
"That was so store-bought." You mutter while you reach past him to get the mash potato bowl. "The lasagna that is."
"That's 'cause your family don't have the cooking skills 'f a goddess." You felt your cheeks heat up as you glanced at him. He lent down to the point he was in the crook of your neck. The sly grin on his face told you everything.
"What's it with you and being a flirt tonight?" He shrugged and left a quick kiss onto your jacket covered shoulder.
"Just tellin' the universe the truth. Well, my own universe." Yeah, your face is on fire now. He did not just call you his universe, right? You misheard it?
"I love you Frankie." You used your free hand to grab his face the best you could and kissed him. Even though the both of you knew that at your family gatherings that absolutely no intimacy at the table, you didn't care. You're pretty sure you had every right to practically squish your husband's face with one hand and kiss him before eating shitty food.
"Now eat up, that sub was not enough for you." You then put some mash potato onto his plate before putting some on your own. And if Frank wasn't trying to keep his emotions in check for tonight, he would be way too busy grinning like some sap. But he just grinned for a small second before getting some more things for his plate.
For the first 25 minutes, it was normal chatter amongst everyone. Hell, Frank even had a full on conversation about dinosaurs with your nephew before he just went back to watching everyone around you. You had stayed mostly silent unless one of your sisters or mother had spoken to you. Or if he threw a whisper your way. But... of course, like always, something always had to be said at some point.
Your grandmother came over to you both, put both her hands onto your shoulders from behind... and said one of the worst questions ever.
"When will you be getting married hm? You will then have your own anniversary dinners to invite us all too." You felt your entire body tense up as soon as she touched you.
"Grandma, I already am married. I've been married to Frank for 7 years already." Your grandmother raised her eyebrow, glanced at Frank then back at you.
"I mean getting married to a man we actually like." You twitched, Frank twitched.
"I... don't care what you want in my marriage life. I already have everything I want. So how about you go sit back down and worry about your own anniversary dinner and life."
Then it was on. Everyone got involved. The kids stayed at the table however all the adults stood up. Besides you and Frank. Frank had pulled your chair right up to his to almost try and cover you from the family members going against you and the others defending you. There weren't many, but there were some. He stayed sat, holding onto you, but that then changed when your uncle grabbed your arm.
Frank couldn't stop himself, he got up and sent a right hook right into his jaw. He didn't care how fucking old that he was, nor if he was practically dead on the grass below. He was heavily breathing by this point as the others backed away from him, still cussing him out, but not getting close.
Frank then grabbed your uncle by the collar, lifting him up to his own height, face-to-face as he then practically growled.
"Don't you fuckin' touch her. You shoulda listened to my fuckin' warnin' the last time you couldn't keep your hands to yourself."
"Frank put him down... Not worth it." He immediately dropped him as soon as your fingers held his bicep. "Let's just go... please."
He glanced down to you, he nearly crumpled right then and there. You looked... you looked done. Tired. Worn. He hated that look, fuck he really fucking hated that look. He took a deep breath in, grabbed your hand, pulled you in front of him and then guided you out. He didn't let go of your shoulders until you were back at the van.
"Hubby..."
"Yeah I know... I know." He opened the door for you before helping you inside. You couldn't even stop the words that tumbled out of your mouth along with the tears that slowly started to flow.
"Take me home... please." Frank didn't hesitate, once you got into the passenger seat, he rushed to the drivers side, got in and practically sped out of there. You stayed silent, your eyes staying on the road in front of you, Frank's doing the same. Until he glanced at you from the side, he saw you slowly relaxing, but your brain was still at your grandparents house. Still feeling your uncles hand on your arm. So Frank looked back onto the road, but his left hand went from the wheel to your thigh. He then felt your own hand slipped into his, holding it tightly. You played with his wedding ring, grounding yourself.
"You with me, pretty girl?" You stayed silent before then humming in quiet agreement. "Good... good. Deep breaths. You're safe in the car, with me. 'Kay?"
"Uh-huh. Safe..."
"Always gonna be safe with me."
When you both got home, Frank was still slightly seething. What the actual fuck was wrong with that family of yours? He doesn't know how you ever lasted growing up with them all. 8 years he's sat through all of this, since he never met your family through the first year of you two dating. He kicked off his shoes at the doorway and just kept going. He didn't stop walking until he got into the doorway of the kitchen.
The room started to go red for him, he started going back into a mindset he thought he left behind the day he said 'I do'. His breathing grew ragged, his fists clenched and his jaw tightened. He should've made you cut them off ages ago, they've drained you for far too long and tonight showed it. He's sure the police will be at the door any moment due to his 'attack' on your uncle. Your family is that pitiful anyways.
Frank hadn't even realised how long he had been standing there, seeing blood and rage until he felt you gently take his jacket off to hang it up. You were already in your robe and slippers, unlike him, you liked to sleep the negative emotions off.
"I ain't sayin' sorry for punchin' him..."
"You don't need too Frankie."
"'m sorry for not gettin' you out of their grasp years ago..."
"...But you did try. I just didn't listen."
"Now don't you start sayin' it's your fault."
"But it is-"
"DON'T-" He cut himself off, breathing in heavily and rubbed his face. "They guilt-tripped you like 've never seen people do. And 've seen shit. They don't even treat you like you share their blood. Let alone their last name. But now, you got my last name. So here's what's going to happen, we now the only family we need. The Castles. Ain't be needin' nobody else."
He looked over at you and finally relaxed. He saw the way your eyes welled up and the quiver of your bottom lip. He knew it wasn't from his split second outburst. It was because he decided to finally spill his thoughts, you were all he needed to just survive. And fuck, if he had to be the main one for you to rely on and look for love in, he'll gladly take that position in your life. If it means assholes like that are gone forever.
"C'mere..." As soon as you padded over to him in arm's length, he scooped you up. He put both of his arms under you as your legs and arms wrapped around him. He felt the crook of his neck and shirt becoming soaked from your tears. It took you a small moment before you took a deep breath before lifting your head up, cupping Frank's face and kissing him. The feeling of his warm skin under your hands and his beard made you realise yeah, he's real. He's around for you, he'll be there for you and he'll cover you in any situation.
Neither of you remembered how your gentle shared kiss turned into a make-out session, but soon you found yourself against the hallway wall as Frank invaded your mouth with his tongue. You moved your hands down to his shoulders, digging your nails into him which earned you a groan out of him and a violent thrust of hips into yours. That made you pull back from his mouth to take a very heavy exhale.
"Sorry honey I-" You shook your head, your fingers loosening their hold on him.
"I think it might be a nice distraction..."
"Yeah?" He put his forehead against yours and you slowly nodded. "M'kay. I'll make sure you feel loved the entire time. Least I can do f'you."
When you had finally gotten into bed, you were too busy laughing quietly as his beard tickled your neck. He just held you tighter and kept leaving open kisses all along your neck and collarbones. Then he decided, why not just add to your laughter? He loves the sound. So his fingers went down to your sides and immediately started to full-on tickle you.
"AH! FRANK! Stop!!" You started lightly smacking him but your body shaking and lurching from your giggles. It went on for a few more seconds before you gripped his hair, pulling his head up to yours. "You're an asshole..."
"I may be, but ya' love me f' it." You just sighed with a smile on your face.
"Yeah, I do. So could you hurry it up here?" Frank grinned down at you before he hid his face into the pillow. His hands going up and holding them tightly at the side of your head and his hips slowly pushed into yours, allowing him to penetrate you. You sucked in a sharp breath and held it in until he finally bottomed out inside of you.
"You 'kay?"
"Mmhm..."
For the rest of the night, the both of you stayed tangled together. Sharing kisses, whispers, sentiments and very soft laughter at some points. And through the slow, passionate and gentle love-making, you felt every bit of love Frank had for you.
That's when you finally do feel loved, you don't need your big family to feel that like you've always been told.
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
previous chapter | series masterlist I next chapter
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
“Welcome back,” Evelyn said warmly as the two of you stepped into the private showroom. “You look bundled up.”
Your soft laugh floated beside him. “Just hiding some stitches. I got buried under a liquor store a couple weeks ago.” Matt’s jaw tightened instantly at the reminder. Evelyn made a horrified sound.
“Oh my goodness.”
His hand settled lightly at your lower back as Evelyn guided you deeper into the suite. That touch had become instinct now. You leaned into it unconsciously every time, and Matt was becoming alarmingly addicted to that.
The showroom smelled faintly of perfume, pressed silk, champagne, and expensive leather. Soft music drifted overhead. Fabric whispered around moving sales associates.
And beneath all of it was you. Your lotion. Your shampoo. The faint sweetness of your perfume. Matt had spent enough evenings beside you now that he recognized it instantly anywhere. Evelyn settled the three of you into the private fitting area. “So,” she said brightly, “tell me everything. Dress code? Theme? Mood?”
“Black tie,” Matt answered. Evelyn hummed approvingly. “And her preferences?”
Matt turned his head toward you slightly. You shifted uncomfortably beside him. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “Nothing too flashy?”
Matt almost smiled. You had no idea what you looked like to other people. Or to him. Evelyn clearly didn’t agree either. “She’s stunning,” she informed Matt matter-of-factly. “We can absolutely do dramatic if we want.” Your heartbeat jumped slightly with...excitement? Matt heard it immediately. Interesting.
“She likes jewel tones,” he said quietly before you could protest further.
You turned toward him in surprise. Matt kept his expression neutral despite the satisfaction curling low in his chest. He’d memorized what colors changed your breathing. “She also needs softer fabrics,” he added.
Your pulse fluttered warmly this time. Matt felt it on his skin like a physical touch. Evelyn immediately shifted into business mode. “Silks, soft satins, lined chiffon,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Nothing stiff or scratchy then.” Matt nodded once. You stared at him openly now. “You remember that from the one time we've been shopping together?”
Matt almost laughed. Remember? He couldn't forget a single detail about you if he tried. He could pick out every single note of your perfume, could perfectly map out the exact texture of every bruise currently on your body beneath his hands, and how you curled instinctively toward his warmth while sleeping. Remembering fabric preferences was nothing.
“You mention things,” he said simply. Liar. You sounded suspiciously touched by that answer anyway if the muscles pulling your face into a smile were any indication. Matt needed to stop enjoying that expression immediately.
Evelyn disappeared briefly before returning with an army of dresses. You made a tiny overwhelmed sound. Matt smiled faintly. “There’s my brave girl.”
Your heart sped up, face flushing warm enough that he nearly lost composure on the spot. Evelyn absolutely noticed your reaction because her heartbeat also picked up immediately with interest.
“I’ll leave you two to start,” she said smoothly. “Call if you need sizing adjustments.” Then she vanished. The second the curtain closed behind her, silence settled softly between you.
“Brave girl?” Matt heard your smile.
“A factual statement.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You agreed to go shopping with me again.”
A laugh escaped you. Matt’s chest tightened painfully at the sound. He listened as hangers shifted softly. Fabric sliding. Then, “Okay, I’m trying the green one first.”
Matt sat slowly on one of the fitting room sofas. The room filled with your soft sounds immediately. Fabric moving over skin and little muttered complaints under your breath. Matt’s hands tightened once against the armrests. The mental imagery alone was becoming genuinely unfair. “How’s your shoulder?” he asked quietly.
“Okay.”
“…Liar.”
You gasped softly. “How did you know?” Matt almost answered honestly. Instead he said “I know how you are.” Another lie. He’d heard the tiny catch in your breathing when you lifted your arm. Could feel the warmth radiating from the healing skin as it stitched itself together.
The curtain rustled. Then your footsteps approached slowly in heels. The dress moved differently than your usual clothes. Fluid. Soft. Clinging slightly around your thighs as you walked. “Okay,” you said nervously. “This one might be too much.”
Matt stood immediately. “Describe it.”
You exhaled softly. “It’s… dark green satin.” Your voice grew quieter. “Low neckline. Off shoulder.” Matt pictured it instantly. A pause and then your heartbeat stumbled. “There’s a slit,” you admitted weakly.
“...How high?”
He heard you shift your weight nervously. “…Upper thigh.” Jesus Christ. Matt inhaled slowly through his nose. “Come here.”
Your pulse absolutely sprinted now. Still you obeyed. Soft heels clicking slowly across the floor until you stood directly in front of him. Close enough that he could feel heat radiating from your skin.
Matt’s hands found your waist carefully. The satin beneath his fingers nearly destroyed him. Smooth and thin, clinging gently to your body. “You weren’t kidding,” he murmured. He slid one hand slightly higher along your side. Feeling the way the fabric curved around your ribs. The shape of you, God. His thumb brushed lightly against the fabric at your waist. Matt laughed quietly under his breath. You were going to kill him.
“Turn around for me.” The words came lower now. Rougher.
Matt nearly groaned when he heard the slit shift with the movement. One hand settled carefully at your hip and the other brushed lightly over the top of your spine. Finding exposed skin immediately. “...Open back?”
“Mhm.”
“How low?”
“Matt.”
His hand slid down a fraction and your breath caught sharply. “How low?” he repeated softly.
“…To here.” You guided his hand lower carefully. And holy fucking God. Matt’s composure cracked visibly for one dangerous second. Bare skin. Warm beneath his fingertips. The dress dipping obscenely low over your back.
Your pulse exploded. Matt leaned slightly closer before he could stop himself and your scent wrapped around him immediately. Soft and oh so sweet. “You’re quiet,” he murmured quietly near your ear. “You’re making it hard to think, you replied. Matt closed his eyes briefly.
The zipper at your back on the second dress caught slightly. You made a tiny frustrated sound. Matt’s hand immediately felt for it. “Hold still.” The words came instinctively firm and you went completely still beneath his hands. Such a good girl.
The thought hit him so hard he almost physically recoiled from it. Instead he focused carefully on easing the zipper upward slowly. The backs of his fingers brushed your skin the entire way. Your breathing turned shallow immediately. Matt finished the zipper but his hand moved to rest lightly against the back of your neck.
Neither of you moved and the room felt suddenly very small. Very warm. Matt’s finger brushed once against the sensitive skin beneath your ear. Then before he could fully think better of it he leaned in again and pressed the softest kiss imaginable just below your jaw. The sound you made after the kiss nearly snapped the last thread of Matt’s restraint. Small and breathless, a soft little whine against the quiet of the fitting room.
Matt felt that sound shoot straight to his cock and his hand tightened instinctively at your waist. Fuck. It was so quiet and stifled that you didn’t even seem aware you’d done it. But Matt was. Painfully aware.
The exposed skin at the back of your neck was warm beneath his fingertips, pulse fluttering wildly where his fingertips rested just below your ear. Every beat gave you away. Every single one.
And when your breathing hitched again Matt acted before he fully thought better of it. He pulled you gently backward against him. The movement was careful automatically. Mindful of the stitches and barely healed bruising. But it still made your breath catch sharply the second your back met his chest.
God. Matt closed his eyes briefly. The satin dress shifted softly beneath his hands as you settled against him. Your warmth radiated through the thin fabric immediately. Matt’s arm circled your waist more securely before he could stop himself. Protective. Possessive. Necessary. He wasn’t sure anymore. All he knew was that the feeling of you in his arms had become all too natural.
Your heartbeat hammered wildly now. Fast enough that Matt almost chuckled in amusement. “You make very tempting sounds,” he murmured quietly near your ear.
Your pulse jumped harder. Matt felt the exact moment embarrassment flooded through you. “You kissed me first,” you muttered. Matt’s mouth twitched. “I kissed your neck.”
“That definitely still counts.”
A laugh escaped him softly before he could stop it. You melted slightly more against him at the sound. Matt’s grip flexed once at your waist. You fit there too well. Too perfectly.
And before he could think through the consequences properly, he leaned down again. The second kiss landed lower this time. Right beneath your jaw.
Another soft sigh. Needier this time. Matt’s composure cracked outright and a rough breath escaped him before he buried his face briefly near your neck. Oh, god. He could smell your perfume. Your natural pheremones. Warm skin beneath all that expensive fabric. And underneath all of it was the tracest scent of your arousal. Matt clamped his eyes shut briefly. This was becoming a serious problem. Matt exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re shaking again,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
Hell. His mouth curved faintly despite himself. Your head tilted slightly toward him then. And Matt instantly realized exactly how close your mouths suddenly were. Close enough to feel your breath. His heartbeat kicked hard against his ribs. Matt could hear the rush of blood beneath your skin while his own pulse continued to betray him
One more inch. That was all it would take. Matt almost did it. God help him, he almost did. Then somewhere beyond the fitting room, another customer laughed faintly. Reality snapped back into place immediately.
He inhaled sharply. Control. He needed control. Because kissing you in the middle of a luxury boutique fitting room was not a line he was crossing today. Even if every instinct in his body wanted to. Matt forced himself to step back slowly.
His fingertips dragged reluctantly along your waist before finally slipping away completely. “You need to try on another dress,” he said quietly. His voice sounded rougher than intended. Matt could practically feel your confusion and disappointment.
So he added, lower this time: “Before I forget where we are right now.” Your heartbeat exploded.
“Next dress, princess. Please.”
Matt sat back down heavily in the chair while you disappeared behind the changing curtain. And then came the soft sounds of you undressing. Matt shut his eyes immediately. Not helping. Not helping at all. Fabric sliding over skin. Matt dragged one hand down his face slowly. This was torture.
The next hour only got worse. One pale lavender dress made your heartbeat flutter nervously the second Evelyn called it “romantic.”
Your heartbeat gave away exactly how self-conscious you felt wearing it. Which only made him want to reassure you more.
“How does she look?” he asked Evelyn quietly when you stepped out again in another gown.
Your pulse spiked instantly at the question. Evelyn took one look at you and laughed softly. “She looks expensive, Mr Murdock.”
Mine. The thought hit Matt so fast and hard it genuinely startled him. His hand tightened unconsciously around the fabric at your hip. Not ownership. Never that, but something frighteningly close to cherished.
His responsibility to care for.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
Matt knew the second the dress came out of the garment bag that he was in trouble. The fabric alone gave it away. He heard the weight of it as you lifted it from the hanger. Heavier silk, structured drape, and he could hear the lining whispering softly against itself. Luxury.
And then your heartbeat changed. Not the nervous flutter from earlier dresses. This one betrayed your excitement.
“You’re awfully quiet over there,” you teased softly from behind the curtain. Matt loosened his tie slightly. “I’m preparing myself.”
Your laugh drifted through the room. Warm and bright. Matt leaned back in the fitting chair and tried very hard not to imagine what you looked like changing a few feet away. He failed immediately.
The soft rustle of fabric slid through the room again. Then silence.
“Okay.” Your voice sounded strange. Smaller somehow. Matt’s pulse kicked instantly. “What?” Another pause and then, “…I think this might be the one.”
The curtain shifted open. The dress moved differently than every other one. Liquid silk. It flowed around your legs with a heavier glide, skimming your body in slow elegant waves when you walked toward him. Your heels clicked softer too with careful steps now. Nervous. Your heartbeat was going absolutely wild.
Matt stood immediately. “Describe it,” he said quietly. You laughed nervously. “Bossy.”
Matt moved closer slowly. The scent of your perfume wrapped around him instantly. Underneath it was your warm skin.
And then his fingertips found your waist. Matt nearly lost composure on the spot. The silk was impossibly smooth beneath his hands, hugging your body in a way that made his jaw tighten immediately. Form-fitting but not tight. Worse, it skimmed you, following every curve naturally.
Matt’s hands slid slightly higher before he could stop himself. Your breath caught sharply. “How bad is it?” you whispered.
Matt swallowed once. “Very bad.” Your pulse jumped hard enough that he almost chuckled. “What color?”
He already knew the answer.
Beneath the standard, clean tang of dry-cleaned silk, there was a bite of coppery, metallic iron over a faint, synthetic sweetness. That precise, laboratory chemical trace of a high-grade acid dye. It was aggressive and bold. The exact same unmistakable scent profile he cataloged every time he pulled his own cowl over his eyes. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as tilted his head expectantly. You were wearing his color. Still, he wanted to hear you say it.
“Red.”
Deep red silk. Of course it was. Matt’s hands flexed lightly at your waist. The dress dipped lower at the back than the others and he could feel the exposed warmth of your spine beneath his fingertips. “How low is the back?” he asked quietly.
“Lower than the green one.” Matt closed his eyes briefly. Fantastic. “And the front?”
You shifted slightly. The movement dragged silk softly against your thighs. His pulse thudded hard. “It’s…” You hesitated. “Elegant.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
A tiny laugh escaped you. “Moderate neckline.” Matt hummed quietly. “You’re lying.”
You gasped. “How do you know?”
Matt smiled faintly. “Lucky guess.” Liar. Your heart alone gave you away. He slid one hand slowly upward along your side until his fingertips brushed the thin strap near your shoulder. Bare skin. Soft. Your pulse sprinted immediately.
“Turn around for me.”
The dress brushed around your legs as you turned. Matt’s hand settled carefully at the small of your back. The silk dipped obscenely low there. His thumb brushed exposed skin and you inhaled sharply. “Matt.”
His name sounded dangerous in your mouth lately. He needed you to stop saying it like that. “How does the skirt move?” he asked quietly instead.
“It’s…” You exhaled softly. “Flowy. Heavy. Kinda dramatic.”
Matt pictured it instantly. You walking into a gala in this dress. Every man in the room staring. The thought made something hot and possessive twist low in his chest. Claimed emotionally in ways he had no right to feel yet. Matt forced himself to drop his hand.
Then you laughed suddenly. Bright and teasing. “This kinda feels like a Daredevil cosplay.”
Matt went perfectly still. Your pulse fluttered with amusement. Oblivious. Completely oblivious. He kept his expression neutral through years of courtroom practice alone. “Does it.”
“Mhm. Same color.” You smoothed the silk lightly beneath your hands. “Like… classy Daredevil.” Matt inhaled slowly through his nose. God was surely punishing him. And then somehow you made it worse.
“When he first showed up, all the boys in my elementary school were obsessed with him.” Matt physically stopped functioning for half a second. You continued casually, completely unaware of the psychic damage occurring two feet away from you. “They used to pretend to fight ninjas at recess." You chuckled.
Matt stared straight ahead blankly. Because when Daredevil first appeared publicly, you had been a child. Foggy’s “old man” comment suddenly echoed through Matt’s skull like a curse.
Your heartbeat danced happily while you continued. “I thought the suit was scary when I was little though.”
Matt cleared his throat once. Dangerously controlled. “Did you.”
“Mhm. But then when I got older…”
Your pulse changed. Fluttery now. Oh no. Matt sensed disaster instantly. “What.” You laughed sheepishly. “…I had a huge crush on him.”
Matt nearly died. Actually nearly died. Your pulse fluttered warmly with embarrassment. “I was like fourteen maybe?” you admitted. “He was literally on my school binder.”
Matt’s soul left his body. School binder. Daredevil. Matt pressed his tongue hard against the inside of his cheek just to remain upright. You were still talking. “I think every girl in New York had a vigilante phase.”
Matt made a strangled sound that he disguised as a cough. You paused immediately. “…Matt?”
He needed a minute. Several minutes. Possibly medical assistance. Because all he could picture suddenly was teenage you doodling hearts around a photo of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.
And worst of all? Some deep selfish part of him was absurdly pleased. And not because you’d had a silly teenage crush on Daredevil.
Because somewhere beneath the mask and the stories and the newspaper headlines, you’d seen something worth noticing. Before you’d even known who he was. Matt hated how much that mattered to him.
“You okay?” you asked, laughing softly now. No. Absolutely not. Matt stepped closer instead before he could think better of it. His hands found your waist again automatically. The silk beneath his fingers was warm now from your body heat. “You had a crush on Daredevil,” he repeated carefully.
“Mhm.”
“At fourteen.”
You laughed. “When you say it like that it sounds embarrassing.”
You had no idea. None. His thumb brushed slowly along your waist through the silk. “You still like the whole Devil horns thing?” he asked quietly before he could stop himself.
Your heartbeat exploded. Silence. Then softly, “…Maybe.”
notes: who else wanted to watch matt be down bad for 3k words 🙋🏻♀️ also reader had a crush on daredevil as a kid hehe. i'm sure that didn't make matt feel about 500 years old.
i'm only gonna nerd out for a second but i did a lot of research for the red dress scene. yes it is true! dye colors have unique scents. natural having an earthy base vs synthetic having more of a bite of course. black dye might have a slight fishy/oily scent due to the sulfur based compounds used in a lot of black dyes. blue might have a slightly floral/bitter scent due to the Copper Phthalocyanine used in a lot of blue dyes. so yep, matt can smell colors.
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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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
The shift had started perfectly. Which, in hindsight, felt almost insulting. The bar glowed warm against the cold creeping in outside, all amber lights and polished wood and low music humming through the speakers while people escaped the sharp autumn air for cocktails and conversation. You loved nights like this.
Busy enough to feel alive. Not chaotic enough to drown in. The winter menu was finally starting to come together too. That alone had put you in a good mood. You’d changed into one of your favorite work outfits tonight too. Dark jeans and a fitted black tank beneath your apron because the bar got ridiculously warm once the rush started.
You stood behind the bar scribbling notes onto a stained little notepad while Luis tested one of your newest drink ideas beside you. “Okay,” he said after another sip. “That one? Can't even tell how many shots are in it.”
You grinned. “That means it’s good.”
“That means people are gonna order six and blackout.”
“Even better.”
Luis barked out a laugh. You leaned against the counter with a pleased smile while music drifted warmly around you. The whole bar smelled like citrus peels and cinnamon syrup and gin. Comforting. Familiar.
Then the front doors opened again and another wave of customers poured in. The rush hit hard after that. Orders stacked fast. Music cranked louder with all the voices overlapping.
You moved automatically through it all. Shaking cocktails. Laughing with customers. Sliding glasses down polished wood. At some point Luis disappeared toward the back storage room while you started reorganizing bottles behind the bar between orders.
One of the upper shelving units had been overstocked all week. You’d noticed it before. Too many heavy liquor bottles crowded together too tightly on old brackets that looked… questionable.
You’d even joked about it yesterday. Death by tequila avalanche. Cute. You reached upward carefully for one of the bourbon bottles near the back. Something shifted. Tiny at first. A soft wooden creak overhead. Your stomach dropped instantly.
~CRACK~
The shelf lurched forward violently. “Oh shit-”
Glass exploded. The sound was deafening. Heavy bottles crashed downward in a horrifying wave before you could fully move out of the way. Pain hit immediately. Sharp. Everywhere.
A bottle shattered against the counter beside you, spraying glass and liquor across your shoulder and chest while another clipped your temple hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.
People screamed. Someone shouted your name. Then another crash and you threw your arms up instinctively to shield your face as more bottles came tumbling down around you. Glass bit deep into exposed skin. Your shoulder. Your arms. A burning slice across your cheek. You gasped hard as your back slammed into the opposite counter, crashing to the ground. The world rang loudly for a second. Music still playing somewhere stupidly in the background.
Then Luis was suddenly there. “Jesus Christ- Hey, hey, look at me.” His hands caught your face carefully. You blinked rapidly. Adrenaline flooded your body so hard you could barely process anything yet. “I’m okay,” you said automatically. Your voice shook.
Luis looked unconvinced immediately. “No, you are absolutely not okay.” Only then did you really look down. Blood. Not horror movie levels but enough.
Thin red lines streaked your arms and tank top where glass had sliced through skin. One deeper cut along your upper thigh where you must've landed on a shard. An even larger one across your shoulder that was oozing slowly. Your cheek stung sharply.
“Oh,” you said faintly. Luis swore softly. Customers crowded nearby looking horrified while another bartender rushed to grab towels. “I’m fine,” you tried again weakly. A piece of glass shifted painfully somewhere near your forearm. Okay. Maybe not fine.
Luis carefully pulled your arm toward him to inspect it. “Yeah, no. Hospital.”
“What? Luis-”
“You’re bleeding through your shirt.” You looked down. Oh. The black tank had hidden it at first. Not anymore.
Someone handed over clean towels while Luis pressed one carefully against your shoulder. The adrenaline started wearing off almost immediately after that. Which unfortunately meant that everything hurt now. Your thigh throbbed sharply every time you shifted weight. Tiny cuts burned all over your arms. Your shoulder still stung enough to make your eyes water.
Luis helped guide you carefully toward the back office while the remaining staff cleaned the disaster behind you. “You’re pale,” he informed you. “Can you still see?”
“Yes.”
“Any dizziness?”
“Yeah, but that might be from the 4 beers I had earlier.” Luis snorted at your stupid joke softly despite his worry.
By the time you finally sat in the ER a half hour later, exhaustion had started replacing adrenaline. Mostly superficial cuts thankfully. No facial stitches needed, just a few small adhesive closures near your cheek and temple that likely wouldn’t scar.
Your body, unfortunately, had taken more damage. Three deeper cuts needed stitches on your upper thigh, shoulder, and forearm. Nothing life-threatening. But enough that every movement now ached. Luis stayed the entire time. Driving you home afterward despite your insistence you could Uber.
“You look like you got caught in the world’s most violent toast,” he informed you gently while helping you out of the car.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Your apartment felt unusually quiet once you finally got inside. You peeled off the ruined tank top carefully with a hiss.
Bandages wrapped bright white against your skin. Bruising already beginning beneath some of them. You stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror for a long moment. Then at your phone. Three unread texts from Matt. Your chest tightened immediately.
Matt: Looking forward to tonight.
Matt: I tried that bakery you mentioned.
Then fifteen minutes ago:
Matt: You off work yet?
You sat carefully on the edge of your bed, suddenly exhausted enough to cry. Not because the injuries were severe. It's fine, you're fine. Just because everything hurt. And because somehow the idea of Matt hearing about this felt overwhelming.
Your apartment was dim except for the small lamp beside your bed. You’d changed into the softest oversized shirt you owned after carefully cleaning dried blood from your skin and hair, but you still felt wrong somehow. Tender.
Every movement pulled painfully against stitches and bruises. Your shoulder especially throbbed now that the adrenaline had fully worn off. You sat curled against the headboard staring at Matt’s last text for almost three full minutes before finally pressing call.The phone barely rang once.
“Hey.”
God. That voice. Warm. Low and softened instantly for you. And somehow that almost made everything worse. You closed your eyes briefly. “Hi.” A brief pause. Then, “You okay?”
You should’ve known. Matt always seemed to notice everything. You forced a tiny laugh that sounded weak even to your own ears. “Yeah. I just…” You shifted carefully against the pillows and immediately regretted it when pain tugged sharply through your thigh. A tiny hiss escaped you before you could stop it. Your stomach dropped. “I think I need to rain check tonight,” you finished quickly.
Matt didn’t answer right away. Not because he was upset. Because he was listening. You could practically feel him concentrating through the phone. The obvious strain in your voice and slight tremor underneath your words.
“What happened?” he asked quietly. Too direct. You swallowed. “Nothing.”
“Sweetheart.”
The soft warning in his voice made your chest ache. You stared down at the blanket gathered over your legs. “I’m just tired.”
Matt went quiet again. Then, “You sound like you're in pain.”
You opened your mouth automatically. Closed it again. Because lying to Matt felt impossible sometimes. “It’s not a big deal,” you said finally. Immediate mistake. The air on the other end of the line changed instantly. “Were you hurt?” he asked calmly. You rubbed tiredly at your forehead. “A little.”
“How?”
You hesitated too long. Matt exhaled softly through his nose. Not impatience. Concern. Deepening concern. “Talk to me,” he said quietly. Something in your chest twisted painfully at that. Because you didn’t want him worried.
You especially didn’t want him hearing:
hospital.
stitches.
glass.
You already knew he’d react strongly. And right now you were too exhausted to survive Matt going full protective-lawyer mode on an empty stomach. “It happened at work,” you admitted finally.
"What happened at work?”
You stared at the wall. “A shelf fell.” Matt said nothing. Which somehow terrified you more than if he’d interrupted. You rushed ahead quickly, “It sounds worse than it was.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re hurt enough to cancel plans.”
You winced slightly. Not because he sounded angry. Because he sounded scared. “It’s just some cuts,” you said quietly.
“Cuts.”
“…Few bruises.”
Matt inhaled slowly through his nose. You could hear him trying very hard to remain calm now. “Did you see a doctor?”
“…Maybe.”
“Did... Did you go to the hospital?”
You groaned softly and tipped your head back against the wall. Matt immediately caught the sound. “You went to the hospital,” he said flatly. Shit. You stayed quiet. The silence that followed this time was genuinely frightening. You heard movement suddenly on his end of the line. Your brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Getting my coat.”
Your heart skipped. “Matt-”
“I’m coming over.”
Immediate panic flooded you. “No, you don’t have to do that.”
“I absolutely do.”
“You really don’t.”
“You’re injured and alone. You said Dani's out of town.”
The bluntness of it made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You tried again weakly. “I’m fine.” Matt’s response came instantly. “No, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “You’re obviously pretending to be.”
That nearly made you cry more than the actual accident had.
By the time Matt arrived, you’d almost convinced yourself you were okay again. You’d cleaned up, taken pain medication. Changed the gauze on the worst cuts. You even lit the tiny vanilla candle Dani always complained about because somehow the apartment still heavily of antiseptic and liquor.
But the second the knock came at the door your stomach twisted. Suddenly this felt very real. Matt was here, at your apartment. You shuffled carefully toward the door, immediately wincing when movement pulled against the stitches in your thigh. “Coming,” you called weakly.
The second you opened the door, Matt stepped inside. And instantly his entire demeanor changed. You actually watched it happen. The shift from controlled concern to sharp alarm the moment he heard your slightly winded breaths and caught the scent beneath the candle. Blood, antiseptic, and liquor. So pungent and thick you could almost taste it on yourself. His jaw tightened immediately. “Jesus.”
Your chest tightened painfully at the sound of it. Not disgust but fear. Real fear. “I’m okay,” you tried automatically.
Matt shut the door behind him without answering. Then he reached for you immediately. Careful and precise hands, like he was afraid touching too quickly might hurt you more.
One hand settled lightly at your waist while the other rose slowly to your face. You stopped breathing for a second. Matt’s fingertips brushed carefully along your cheekbone. Found the small adhesive closures near your temple, then the thinner cut near your cheek. His expression changed instantly and the careful restraint in his expression cracked. “What did they do to you?” he asked quietly. The anger underneath the soft cadence made your stomach flip.
Matt’s fingers lingered carefully against your face. You felt the exact moment he realized your skin was swollen there too, a bruise beginning beneath the cut. His jaw flexed hard.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
You hesitated. Matt’s hand dropped from your face only to let you guide him gently toward the couch instead. He immediately motioned for you to sit first. Protective. Furious. “You shouldn’t be standing this long,” he murmured automatically. God. Even angry he was taking care of you. You sat carefully with a hiss when your thigh protested.
Matt heard it immediately. His head snapped toward the sound. “How bad is that one?”
“It’s fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
You sighed tiredly and leaned back into the cushions. Matt remained standing for a second, visibly trying to compose himself. Then finally sat beside you. Close enough that his knee touched yours. “Talk to me,” he said quietly. You rubbed tiredly at your forehead. “The shelves above the bar weren’t anchored right,” you admitted. “They’ve been overloaded for weeks.”
Matt went still. “How many bottles?”
You blinked. “What?”
“How many bottles were on the shelf.”
“…A lot.”
“Estimate.”
You swallowed slightly. “Maybe thirty?” Silence. Utter silence. “Thirty glass liquor bottles.” Not a question. Your stomach sank.
Okay. Maybe this was worse than you initially thought. “They fell all at once,” you admitted softly. “One shifted when I grabbed another bottle and then the whole thing kind of…” You mimed a crashing motion weakly. Matt looked like he might genuinely kill someone. “Were customers nearby?”
“Some.”
“And the bar knowingly left overloaded shelving above employee workstations?”
Uh oh. Lawyer mode. Full lawyer mode. “I mean-”
“Had anyone reported it before?”
“…I think so, maybe.”
Matt laughed once under his breath. No humor in it whatsoever. You had never heard that sound from him before and it was genuinely chilling. “We are going to bury them,” he gritted out.
“Matt-”
“No.”
The sharpness startled you quite instantly. Matt inhaled slowly through his nose the second he heard your silence. Immediately softening his voice. But still furious. “Sweetheart,” he said carefully, “you could have been permanently injured.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were lucky.”
The bluntness hit harder than expected. Matt reached toward you again then. More cautiously this time. “Where else?” he asked quietly. You frowned. “What?”
“The injuries.”
Your stomach fluttered nervously. “It’s mostly just cuts.”
“Where?”
You looked away immediately. Matt’s expression shifted at once. “How many?”
“It’s not-”
“How many,” he repeated quietly. You swallowed. “My shoulder.” Matt’s hand lifted carefully toward the sleeve of your oversized shirt. Pausing and giving you room to stop him. You didn’t. His fingers eased the fabric gently aside. The second he felt the bandaging and raised stitches beneath it his entire body went rigid.
You watched anger move through him physically. Not at you. At this. At the thought of you hurt. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. The horror in his voice nearly hurt worse than the injury itself. Matt’s fingertips hovered carefully near the bandage without pressing. Like causing you even accidental pain would devastate him right now.
“There’s more,” you admitted quietly before you could stop yourself. Matt froze. “More where?” You immediately regretted speaking. Especially when his voice dropped lower.
“Sweetheart.”
You stared down at your lap. “My thigh,” you admitted softly. “And my arm.” Silence. “They needed stitches,” you admitted weakly.
Matt leaned back slowly into the couch cushions after that. One hand dragging down across his mouth. Trying to regain composure and failing. You suddenly felt very small beneath the weight of his reaction. Not because he was angry at you but because he cared so much.
“You weren't gonna tell me,” he said quietly. You looked up immediately. Matt wasn’t facing you now. Just sitting very still beside you. Jaw tight. Hands flexing against his knees. “You went to the hospital,” he continued carefully. “You got stitched up. You came home alone.” Guilt curled painfully in your stomach.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
Matt turned toward you instantly at that. And the expression on his face wrecked you completely. He looked genuinely shaken. “You think finding out like this is less worrying?” he asked quietly.
Matt sat beside you on the couch, visibly trying to rein himself in, but you could practically feel the anger radiating off him now. “Any other cuts?” he asked finally. You hesitated. Matt turned his head slowly toward you. “How many?”
“…I don’t know exactly.”
“Estimate.”
You swallowed. “…Twenty-five? Maybe more.” You heard a sharp inhale and immediately regretted answering honestly. “Most are small,” you added quickly. “It’s really not-”
“Twenty-five.”
The way he repeated it made your stomach twist and you suddenly became very aware of every hidden ache beneath your clothes. The smaller cuts scattered across your stomach, your ribs, arms, and tiny slices across your hands from shielding your face. You’d stopped really thinking about them individually. Matt clearly had not. “And three needed stitches,” he said flatly. You looked down at your lap. “Yeah.”
His jaw tightened visibly. Then, “You’re not going back there.” Your head snapped up immediately. “What?”
“That bar is unsafe.”
“Matt-”
“The shelving failed over your head.”
“It was an accident.”
“No,” he said sharply. “It was negligence.” The force in his voice startled you. Matt leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees, one hand dragging through his hair hard enough to disrupt it further. “You could have lost an eye,” he bit out. “You could have been permanently disfigured. Someone could have been killed.”
You flinched slightly at the intensity. Matt immediately heard your quiet inhale. His face shifted at once, regret flickering through the anger. But he was far too worked up now to stop. “You said employees reported the shelving before.”
“I don’t know if officially-”
“But they knew it was unstable.”
“It’s an old bar.”
“That doesn’t excuse this.”
You exhaled shakily. “They didn’t do it on purpose.” Matt laughed again softly under his breath. Still that awful, humorless sound. “Sweetheart, intent is irrelevant when thirty bottles collapse onto an employee.” The lawyer vocabulary hitting within the walls of your tiny apartment somehow made the situation feel even heavier.
And suddenly you felt defensive. Not because he was entirely wrong. But because this was your place. Your job. Your people. “You don’t understand,” you said quietly. Matt turned toward you immediately. “Then explain it to me.”
You pushed carefully to your feet before you could stop yourself. Instant mistake. Pain shot sharply through your thigh and you hissed involuntarily. Matt was up immediately too. “Sit back down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re hurt.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You can barely stand comfortably.” The frustration in his voice scraped against your already exhausted nerves. “I like my job, Matt.”
“And your job nearly sent you into surgery.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Matt stared at you in genuine disbelief. You folded your arms protectively over yourself. “I like the people there. Luis stayed with me for three hours at the hospital. My boss was freaking out. Everyone was helping.”
“And that changes the fact the place was unsafe?”
“It changes knowing the fact that they care about me!” Matt went still. And for one dangerous second you thought the argument might actually stop there. Then quietly he bit out, “People who care about you don’t let this happen.”
Ouch. Your eyes burned instantly. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s unfair,” Matt said, voice tightening, “is you sitting here covered in stitches trying to convince me this is acceptable.”
“I’m not trying to convince you of anything!”
“You’re defending them.”
“Because you’re acting like they tried to murder me!”
“They failed to maintain a safe workplace!” His voice finally rose then. Not shouting. But enough that the room suddenly felt smaller. You saw the instant guilt flicker across his face. But underneath it fear still burned hotter. “You are not going back there,” he repeated, lower now. “Not until this is investigated properly.” Your exhaustion finally snapped into anger. “You cannot tell me what to do.”
“I can tell you that you almost got seriously hurt.”
“You don’t get to make decisions for me because you’re scared!”
Matt froze. The words hit. Hard. Because they were true and you both knew it. The silence afterward felt awful. Matt’s jaw tightened. “You think this is about control?”
“I think you’re acting like I belong to you!”
The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Matt recoiled slightly like you’d physically struck him. Enough to hurt your chest instantly. Because suddenly he looked less angry and more wounded.
His voice dropped dangerously quiet. “Is that honestly what you think?”
“No, I just-”
“You think I came running here because I want control over you?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You said I don’t get to make decisions for you.” His laugh came softer now. Tired. “I’m aware.” Guilt flooded your stomach immediately. Matt stepped back slightly then, creating distance for the first time since arriving.
“I am scared,” he admitted finally. The raw honesty in his voice knocked the remaining anger clean out of you. Matt looked away briefly before continuing, “I heard your voice on the phone and knew you were hurt.” His jaw flexed once. “Then I walked in here and found out glass came raining down on your face.”
Your throat tightened painfully. Matt exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re sitting here talking about it like it’s normal because you’re used to taking care of yourself.” Every word landed carefully. Precisely. “But I need you to understand something.” His eyes lifted roughly toward where he knew you stood and the emotion in his expression nearly undid you completely. “It terrified me.”
Your anger dissolved instantly into something much softer. Much sadder. Matt had simply been scared of losing you and you knew it.
Suddenly you couldn’t hold yourself together anymore. Your face crumpled before you could stop it. One sharp inhale. Then tears. Real ones. Your chest hitched painfully as the entire night finally crashed into you all at once.
The shelf cracking overhead. The sound. God, the sound. Glass exploding around you and heavy bottles slamming into the counter. Liquor splashing into your eyes. Shards hitting your skin faster than your brain could process what was happening. For one awful second you’d genuinely thought: I’m seriously hurt.
Matt moved instantly. All the tension vanished from him at once. No more lawyer. No more anger. Just Matt. “Hey,” he said immediately, voice softening in panic. “Hey, sweetheart-”
You covered your face with both hands as another broken sound escaped you. “I’m sorry-"
“No.”
Matt reached you in two steps. His hands found your arms carefully first before sliding around you completely. Gentle. Protective. Like he was afraid you might break further if he held too tightly. “It’s okay,” he murmured quickly. But now that it started, you couldn’t stop.
“I was trying to grab a bottle and then everything just-” Your voice broke hard.
Matt pulled you against his chest immediately. One hand cradling the back of your head carefully away from the cuts on your temple. “Oh sweetheart,” he whispered. You buried your face against him instinctively. And immediately smelled that familiar cologne and clean cotton and Matt. Warm. Safe. Which somehow made you cry harder.
“It was so loud,” you admitted shakily against his shirt. “And there was glass everywhere and people were screaming and I-I couldn’t tell where it was hitting me at first, or when it would end and-”
Matt’s arms tightened around you. Just enough to ground you. His breathing had changed. Too controlled again, which meant he was hearing every detail and getting angrier by the second.
“There was liquor all over me,” you continued weakly. “It got in my eyes and my mouth and I thought-” Your voice caught on a choked sob. Matt’s hand moved slowly through your hair. “It’s okay,” he repeated quietly. “You’re okay.” But his jaw was clenched so tightly against your forehead you could feel it. And the suffocating smell certainly wasn't helping.
Whiskey.
Tequila.
Antiseptic.
Blood.
Matt absolutely noticed. And somehow that seemed to upset him even more. Because it made the whole thing feel tangible and lingering. His hand slid carefully to cup your face instead, thumb brushing beneath your damp lashes.
“You should’ve called me sooner,” he said softly. Not accusing. Just hurt. Your chest twisted painfully. “I really didn’t want you to worry.”
Matt closed his eyes briefly. Then rested his forehead carefully against yours. “You got buried under thirty glass bottles,” he said quietly. “I was gonna find out and I was going to worry.”
A watery laugh escaped you despite yourself. Matt exhaled softly through his nose at the sound. Relieved, somehow, to hear it. Then quietly he whispered, "Please don’t go back there.”
The plea in his voice hit harder than any demand could’ve. You looked up at him slowly. Matt’s hands remained warm against your face. Careful around the cuts. You could still feel tension radiating through him beneath the softness.
“If it were up to you,” you mumbled weakly, “that place would be shut down by morning.” Matt’s expression didn’t even change. “Yes.” You laughed tearfully again. He was completely serious. “It wasn’t malicious,” you admitted quietly. “Or cheapness.”
Matt looked unconvinced immediately. “It was stupid,” you corrected softly. “A really, really bad oversight. But everyone freaked out. Luis wouldn’t leave the hospital. He and all my coworkers basically threatened to walk out if all the shelving isn’t replaced and reinforced.”
Matt stayed quiet. Listening. You rubbed tiredly at your eyes. “They already put me on paid leave until I heal.” That finally made him pause. “You’re being compensated?”
“Yes.”
“Medical bills too?”
“I think so.”
Matt exhaled slowly through his nose. Still furious. But now recalculating. You could practically hear the lawyer in him adjusting strategy. “They’re fixing everything,” you added softly. “Apparently the owners are terrified.”
“They should be.”
The immediate answer made you snort weakly. Matt’s hands slid from your face down carefully along your arms. Feeling the smaller bandages there and dozens of little cuts hidden beneath oversized sleeves. His expression darkened again instantly. “You shouldn’t have gone through this,” he said quietly.
Something about the sheer sincerity in his voice almost broke you all over again. Because Matt sounded personally offended by your pain. The universe had violated something precious to him.
You sat and leaned tiredly back against the couch cushions. Matt stayed close immediately. One hand still resting lightly against your knee. Grounding himself now too. After a long moment, you admitted quietly, “I think I was more scared after it stopped.”
Matt turned toward you instantly. “When I got home,” you whispered. “Everything hurt and it got quiet and I just…”
Your throat tightened. Matt’s thumb stroked once against your knee. “You don’t have to be brave anymore,” he said softly.
Oh. Your eyes burned all over again. And Matt immediately pulled you back against his chest without hesitation.
Eventually the crying slowed. Not completely but enough that your breathing stopped hitching so hard against Matt’s chest. He hadn’t let go of you once. One arm remained wrapped securely around your waist while the other moved slowly through your hair in careful strokes, avoiding the small cuts near your temple with unbelievable gentleness.
You sat curled half in his lap now without really remembering moving there. Exhaustion had stripped away most of your embarrassment. And honestly you just wanted Matt close.
Your face remained tucked against the side of his neck while his thumb traced absentminded circles against your side through the oversized shirt. Grounding you. Grounding himself too, probably. Because every once in a while his hand would tighten slightly against your waist like he was reassuring himself you were actually okay. “You’re trembling,” he murmured quietly after a while.
“I’m cold.” That wasn’t entirely true. You were cold. And sore. And emotionally wrung out. Mostly you just wanted to stay exactly where you were. Matt shifted slightly beneath you. “Have you eaten?”
Silence.
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot.”
You winced slightly at the disapproval. Just horrified in that very Matt way. “Hospital cafeteria food looked gross and then after I just wanted to be home,” you mumbled weakly. Matt exhaled through his nose. Then carefully adjusted you higher against his chest before feeling for his phone on the couch cushion beside him.
“What do you want?”
“You don’t have to-”
“What do you want?”
The tone said: absolutely not negotiable. You melted a little despite yourself. “…Pho?”
“Done.”
You listened quietly while Matt ordered enough food for a small village in that calm voice of his.
Extra broth.
Spring rolls.
Tea.
Something sweet “in case you want it later.”
Your chest ached unexpectedly listening to him. Because this no longer felt like an arrangement. Not even a little. This felt frighteningly close to something real. Especially when Matt muted the call briefly just to ask, “Spice level?” You sniffled softly. “Medium.”
“Thank you.”
Then right back to ordering. Like this was normal. Like taking care of you belonged naturally in his life now. The realization made something warm and terrifying bloom in your chest.
By the time he finally set the phone aside, you’d curled impossibly closer somehow. Matt’s hand settled instinctively over one of your knees. You felt him pause slightly. Then, “Does this hurt?”
“A little.”
Instantly his hand shifted softer. God. The tenderness from this man was unbearable. You sighed quietly and rested more of your weight against him.
Matt went still for half a second, like the clinginess affected him more than you realized. Then his hand moved slowly along your back. “You should’ve called me sooner,” he said quietly. Not scolding now. Just honest. You closed your eyes. “I know.” Matt’s jaw brushed lightly against your hair when he spoke again. “I don’t like the thought of you hurting alone.”
Your throat tightened immediately. You tried to joke weakly instead. “You were already threatening legal annihilation within ten minutes.”
“I still am.”
You laughed softly into his shoulder. Matt’s chest loosened slightly beneath you at the sound. You shifted carefully, trying to get more comfortable, and immediately hissed when movement pulled against your shoulder stitches. One hand slid firmly to your waist to steady you.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for being injured.”
You blinked tiredly at that. Matt’s brows furrowed faintly. “What?”
“You always say things like that.”
“What things?”
You rubbed sleepily at your eyes. “Things that sound romantic and make me want to bite you.” Matt actually laughed. Low and warm against your hair. “You’re very violent for someone currently held together with stitches.”
You smiled weakly. Then another ache rolled through your body hard enough to make you wilt back against him with a tiny miserable sound. Matt immediately tightened his arm around you and suddenly you felt vulnerable again. Bandages. Bruises. Tiny cuts everywhere.
His hand slid slowly up your back. You looked down at your lap instead. “There's so many of them...It’s so ugly.”
Matt’s expression shifted immediately. Actually offended by the statement. “No,” he said flatly.
You tried to laugh weakly, “Matt.”
“No.”
His hand rose carefully beneath your chin then. Guiding your face toward him. And the intensity in his expression stole the air from your lungs. “You were hurt,” he said softly. Then lower, “And you are still the prettiest thing I’ve ever touched.”
Oh. Your entire face burned instantly.
Matt seemed to realize what he’d said approximately one second too late. Because suddenly he looked almost startled by himself. Like the truth had slipped out before he could stop it.
The food helped. A little. Warm broth and soft noodles settled the nausea that had been sitting in your stomach since the hospital, and Matt smiled at you with quiet satisfaction every time you reached another bite from the bowl in his hands.
You sat tucked against his side on the couch while some movie played quietly in the background. Neither of you were really watching it. Your body had started to feel heavier by the minute now that the adrenaline crash and pain medication were fully settling in. Everything ached. Not sharply anymore. Deeply.
Bruises blooming beneath your skin. Cuts pulling every time you shifted and stitches throbbing dully beneath bandages. By the time you’d finished eating, you were half asleep against Matt’s shoulder. His hand moved slowly up and down your back while he listened to your breathing. “You’re fading,” he murmured softly.
“Mhm.”
“You should sleep.”
You made a tiny unhappy sound immediately. Matt smiled faintly against your hair. “Too sore to move?”
“…Maybe.”
The hand on your back slowed. Then quietly, “Do you want me to help you?” Your stomach fluttered weakly. Not because it sounded sexual. Because it sounded so gentle. You nodded against him after a moment.
Matt set your empty bowl aside before standing carefully. Then he immediately reached for you, one arm supporting your waist while the other steadied you on your uninjured shoulder with infuriating tenderness. You hissed softly when your thigh protested standing. Matt’s jaw tightened instantly. “Easy, princess.”
The nickname wrapped warm around your exhausted body. You leaned into him more than intended as he guided you slowly toward your bedroom. The apartment lights were dim now. Soft. Everything felt strangely intimate in the quiet. Matt paused once you reached the bed.
“Pajamas?” he asked gently.
You blinked sleepily at your dresser. Then down at your bandages. “The fabric’s gonna hurt,” you admitted quietly. Matt went still for half a second. Thinking. Then without a word, he reached for the hem of his sweater and pulled it over his head.
Your brain short-circuited immediately. Oh. Matt in just a silky black undershirt should not have affected you this much. Broad shoulders and strong chest beneath thin fabric. The sharp lines of his arms flexing as he folded the sweater aside.
And then, as though he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to you, he hooked fingers beneath the collar of the soft shirt underneath too. Pulling that off next. You gasped softly. Matt paused slightly at the sound. A tiny knowing curve touched his mouth. Not smug his time but aware. Then he held the shirt out toward you. “This is softer,” he said quietly.
You stared at him for a second too long before taking it. The shirt was still warm from his skin. It smelled like him too. Clean soap and cedar, expensive cologne. Something distinctly Matt underneath both.
Your chest tightened strangely. Matt’s attention shifted immediately back toward practical concern. “Can you lift your arms?”
“A little.”
“Let me help.”
You swallowed hard and nodded. Matt stepped closer carefully. His hands found the hem of your oversized shirt first. The fabric lifted carefully over your head. You winced when it brushed your shoulder bandage and Matt immediately murmured, “Sorry.” Then softer, “Almost there.”
The shirt dropped away. Then the sweatpants. Cool air brushed your skin. And suddenly you were standing in front of him in just your underwear and bandages. Bruised thighs. Cuts scattered across your stomach and ribs. White gauze stark against swollen skin.
You instinctively folded your arms slightly over yourself. “It's so bad.” Matt’s jaw flexed faintly. Then, “Can I feel where they are?”
The question stole the remaining air from your lungs. Not sexual. Not even close. Just… Matt. Touch was how he understood things. How he knew you. You nodded slowly.
Matt guided you carefully backward onto the bed. One hand braced behind your back while the other protected your shoulder automatically. The mattress dipped softly beneath you and you layed back carefully with a tiny hiss.
Matt immediately froze. “Too much?”
“No,” you whispered. “Just sore.”
He nodded once. Then slowly, carefully, his hands began mapping the damage. The intimacy of it nearly undid you. Matt touched you like something priceless and delicate. One broad hand resting warm against your calf while the other traced gently around the edge of a bruise on your thigh.
Not pressing. You watched his expression shift with every new discovery. Another cut. Another welted bruise. Another bandage. His brows furrowed more each time.
“There’s stitches on my thigh, near my hip.” you whispered quietly after a moment.
Matt’s fingertips moved carefully higher. The second they found the small adhesive bandage there, his breathing changed slightly. Angrier. Sadder. “You really did get caught in it,” he murmured. Something about the grief in his voice made your eyes burn again. Matt’s hands continued upward slowly. Across your ribs and your stomach.
Tiny cuts you’d barely thought about suddenly felt achingly intimate beneath his touch. His fingertips paused over one bruise along your side. Large and welted heavily enough that a bottle must’ve struck there without breaking. “You must’ve hit the counter hard,” he said quietly. You blinked.
“How did you know?” Matt’s thumb brushed lightly beside the bruise. “The shape on your back.” God. You stared at him. And suddenly the reality of him hit you again. How he experienced the world and how carefully he paid attention as a result.
Matt’s hands moved higher slowly. Finding the bandaging on your forearm next. Then finally your shoulder again. His expression changed immediately the second his fingers brushed the stitches there. The worst one. You watched pain flicker across his face like it had happened to him instead.
“Princess,” he whispered softly.
Your chest physically ached at the sound. Matt’s fingertips hovered carefully around the stitches. Never directly touching, just tracing the swollen skin nearby. “You’re hurting everywhere,” he murmured quietly. The tenderness in his voice almost made you cry again.
“I’m okay.”
“No,” he said softly. “But you are trying very hard to be.”
Matt remained sat on the edge of the bed with one hand resting lightly against your thigh. Protective even now. You suddenly became very aware that he was shirtless. That you were nearly undressed and his hand was on your bare skin. And somehow despite the bruises and bandages and exhaustion the air between you still felt charged.
Not lustful exactly. Something far more profound. Erotic in the most dangerous way because it was rooted entirely in care. Matt seemed to feel it too. His thumb stroked once more unconsciously against your thigh before stilling abruptly. Then he cleared his throat softly and reached for the shirt beside you.
“Let’s get you comfortable,” he murmured, voice rougher now. Matt held the shirt open carefully for you. Soft. Comforting in a way that made your chest ache.
He slid the shirt carefully over your head with unbelievable patience, making sure the fabric avoided catching on the stitches at your shoulder. You looked down blearily at yourself once he'd finished. “You look very pleased with yourself right now,” you mumbled.
Matt’s mouth twitched faintly. “You’re wearing my clothes.”
The quiet satisfaction in his voice made your stomach flutter weakly. You were exhausted enough that you didn’t even try hiding your smiling hum. Matt’s hands lingered lightly at your waist another second too long before finally slipping away. And immediately you missed them.
The realization startled you a little. Apparently it startled Matt too, because he hesitated before stepping back from the bed. Creating distance.
“Will you stay?”
The words slipped out soft and small. Matt froze instantly. You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to,” you added quickly. “I just-”
“Of course I’m staying.” Like the idea of leaving had never once crossed his mind. Your chest physically hurt at the tenderness in his voice. Matt stepped closer again immediately after saying it, one hand returning instinctively to your waist like he belonged there now. Maybe he did.
“You’re hurt,” he said softly, like that explained everything. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
Matt stood very still beside the bed for a second. He mused aloud, “Jeans are probably going to irritate your skin too.” Your eyes lifted automatically. Matt had already reached for his belt. Your brain short-circuited instantly.
This should not have felt as intimate as it did. Maybe it was because nothing between you had actually crossed fully physical lines yet, and everything between you lived in very critical restraint.
Matt pushed the jeans down casually before stepping out of them, leaving him in soft dark boxer briefs and absolutely devastating you in the process. Broad chest. Strong thighs. Scarred skin- Scarred skin? And somehow the lack of performative sexiness made it worse. He wasn’t showing off.
Your breath hitched traitorously and you cleared your throat. Matt’s head tilted immediately toward the sound and a tiny smile ghosted briefly across his mouth. “You okay over there, princess?”
Your face burned. “Mhm.” Completely unconvincing. Matt laughed softly under his breath. Then the mattress dipped beside you. Always careful now.
“Come here,” he murmured gently. You moved without hesitation. And that alone probably said far too much. Matt opened one arm for you automatically. You curled into him slowly, trying not to jar the bruises, and immediately melted when his body heat wrapped around you. Warm. Solid. Safe.
Your head settled carefully against his bare chest while Matt adjusted the blankets around both of you. One large hand slid protectively over your back. The other cradled the back of your head away from the cuts near your temple. Like he’d already memorized exactly how to hold you without hurting you.
Your entire body relaxed for the first time all day and a soft exhausted sound escaped you before you could stop it. You traced one sleepy finger against his chest absentmindedly. Matt inhaled softly. Then he pressed his mouth gently against the top of your head. Your eyes drifted closed immediately. “You comfortable?” he asked quietly.
“Mhm.”
“Anything hurting?”
“Everything.”
Matt’s hand moved slowly down your back again with a wounded noise. Sympathetic. Careful. You shifted closer instinctively until one of your legs tangled lightly with his.
Matt went very still for half a second. Then his arm tightened around your waist like a reflex. Your exhausted brain melted completely at the feeling. “You smell good,” you mumbled sleepily against his chest. Matt huffed a quiet laugh. “You smell like a liquor store.” You groaned weakly.
“Mean.”
"Accurate."
But then his hand slid gently through your hair again and his voice softened immediately after, “Still smell good though.” Your heart did a stupid painful little thing in your chest.
You were asleep less than five minutes later.
Matt had slept maybe three hours. Not consecutively.
Three scattered hours between checking your temperature, listening to your breathing, adjusting blankets when you shifted in pain, and staring blindly up at your apartment ceiling while your body stayed curled instinctively against his.
He hadn’t minded. That was the problem. By the time morning light filtered weakly through your curtains, Matt already knew something irreversible had happened to him. Sometime around 3 a.m., half asleep with your head on his chest and your hand tangled loosely in his shirt, he’d realized he no longer knew how to think about you casually.
He didn't leave your side that entire next day. Which was probably why he spent the entire morning after that in a mood foul enough that even the city seemed to irritate him.
The firm buzzed softly around him as he stepped off the elevator. Phones ringing. Printers humming. Footsteps moving quickly over polished floors. Usually grounding sounds but today they just made his headache worse.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Karen called dryly from her spot next to Foggy in the hallway. “You look homicidal.”
Matt kept walking toward his office. “Morning.”
Karen paused. Foggy looked up immediately from his stack of files at the sound of Matt’s voice. “What happened to you?” Matt loosened his tie slightly as he entered the office. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” Foggy said instantly, the two following him inside.
Matt dropped his briefcase onto the desk harder than intended. The sharp sound echoed. Karen and Foggy exchanged a look immediately. Uh oh. Matt rarely lost control of his physical movements.“You took yesterday completely off,” Karen said carefully. “Which you literally never do.”
Matt exhaled slowly through his nose. He hadn’t planned on telling them because speaking the details aloud still made something ugly twist in his chest. But apparently the tension radiating off him was impossible to hide. “There was an accident,” he said finally.
Silence settled immediately. Foggy’s chair creaked as he took a seat on the other side of Matt's desk. “What kind of accident?”
Matt leaned back slowly against his desk. “A shelving collapsed on her at the bar she works at.”
Karen inhaled sharply. Foggy swore immediately. Matt’s jaw tightened again. “There were over thirty bottles on the shelving.”
“Oh my god,” Karen whispered. Matt nodded once. “Glass shattered across the entire workstation.” The office went completely silent. Foggy’s heartbeat had already sped up. Angry. Karen’s too. “She got cut up pretty badly,” Matt admitted quietly. Saying it aloud made his stomach turn all over again. “She needed stitches.”
Karen made a soft horrified sound. Foggy sat forward hard in his chair. Then, “We are suing the absolute shit out of them.” Karen immediately, “Oh, obliterating them.”
Matt almost smiled despite himself. “She’s already defending the place,” he muttered darkly. Foggy barked out a laugh. “Of course she is.”
“She likes the staff,” Matt said quietly.
Foggy leaned back in his chair slowly. “So what happened exactly?” Matt crossed his arms. Then he told them everything. Karen looked genuinely sick now, and he understood. He’d spent most of the night trying not to imagine it too vividly. Too late for that now. He could still hear the fear in your voice describing it.
Glass. Screaming. Liquor in your eyes. Not knowing where the shards were landing. Matt’s hands flexed unconsciously at his sides. Karen noticed immediately. “Matt.”
He exhaled sharply. “I’m fine.” Foggy snorted. “No you’re not.” Matt opened his mouth automatically. Then stopped. He wasn’t. The thought of you bleeding alone in a hospital while trying not to “bother” him had gotten under his skin in a way he still couldn’t fully articulate.
And worse was how naturally it had felt taking care of you. Ordering food. Helping you change. Holding you through the night. None of it had felt temporary. Foggy’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“So are they doing anything about it?”
“Paid medical leave until she heals.”
Karen nodded approvingly immediately. “Good.” Matt leaned against the desk again. Tired now. Heavy. Foggy watched him quietly for a second before he spoke, “You stayed with her.” Not a question.
“…Yeah.”
Foggy went silent for one dangerous second. “You stayed over,” he repeated gleefully. Karen looked delighted now. Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. She asked me to stay.”
Foggy slapped the desk. “SHE ASKED HIM TO STAY,” he repeated dramatically toward Karen. Matt wanted to die. Karen grinned. “That’s adorable.”
“It was not adorable. She's very hurt.”
Then both Karen and Foggy burst out laughing. Matt scowled. Foggy pointed toward him, “You took an entire workday off to nurse your girl back to health.”
Matt opened his mouth. Stopped. They knew nothing of your arrangement, and correcting them felt incredibly dishonest anyways. He could hear Foggy’s grin widen immediately at the silence. “I’m working now,” he informed them flatly.
“No, no,” Foggy said, standing suddenly. “We’re not done here.”
“Yes we are.”
Then Foggy pulled out the smoking gun. “You haven’t gone out in what, two weeks?” Matt froze. Karen blinked. “…Wait.” Her eyes widened slowly. “Oh my god you're right.”
Matt straightened his tie sharply. “This conversation is over.”
“The old man’s got a life now.”
Matt stared at him flatly. Because the worst part? Foggy was right. He hadn’t been out much. A few short patrols. Nothing remotely like the all-night marathons he used to survive on stubbornness and bad decisions. He was getting older. His body reminded him of that every morning.
He was tired. Not in the way he used to be, where a few hours of sleep and a multiple cups of coffee could fix. This was deeper than that. The kind of tired that came after decades of giving pieces of yourself away.
And lately, whenever he thought about staying out longer, pushing himself harder, forcing another patrol onto aching shoulders... he found himself thinking about you instead. About your laugh, the warmth of your presence. He wondered whether you were thinking about him, too.
Which was dangerous. Because Matt Murdock had spent most of his life believing one way or another he belonged to the city. And Hell’s Kitchen would always be part of him. It always would. But somewhere along the way, he’d started wanting something else. The years he had left. The energy he had left.
He wanted those things to belong to you.
notes: man this chapter was fighting me during editing, so much to unpack here. yes, matt has grown A LOT from the hot headed young man he used to be. but he's still matt murdock and we see how he lets his fear get the best of him in this argument with reader🫠
hope you enjoyed the matt pov at the end. looks like our old man is getting tired of flipping across rooftops huh? good thing he has his princess.
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!!!!!