jeffbuckleysconvent

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

The hottest thing a man can do is be Matt Murdock in the kitchen cooking for you with his massive arms on display 🤤

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

i think i just stopped breathing. i guess someone named mike faist has to give me cpr !!!

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

I LOVE THIS

the question is, which one trumps the other?

i really liked that whole imagery of daredevil + jack of hearts, therefore i had to make a crappy edit. obviously.

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

I like to think Matt would be really into stockings; he already loves your legs, but there's just something about grazing his fingers against smooth and soft fabric that really gets him going. Just feeling all of the textured grooves and stitching. He'd also definitely enjoy the glittery ones for that exact reason. Matt also likes to pinch at the fabric because he likes how it makes him feel so close to actually touching you, but there's that layer of cloth; it's so fragile and would be easy to rip apart, but he doesn't. It's the principle of it, really, because he'd be lying if he said he didn't like being teased a bit, like he's being tested. It's even tougher for him when you're straddling him and you're so close to sinking down on his cock, but there's that fabric. It's right there, right there! And he could just pull you down and rip it himself, but he doesn't because when he finally gets to slide them down your legs, it's like he's getting what he's worked so nicely for.

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

matt murdock would so be the type to help you reach something high up on the shelf by putting one hand on your hip and leaning up behind you. he likes to hear how fast your heart will race and that sharp little intake of breath you take in. and when he hands you whatever it was you were struggling to grab, he’ll lean down and murmur, “this what you needed, sweetheart?”

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

the female urge to cut everyone off and focus on myself

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

Hey Doll

Frank Castle x reader

synopsis: four different time frank greats you like you're the only thing that matters

vibes: fluff, angst, comfort

warnings: suggestive, injuries/blood/suggested violence, (vaguely mentioned) reader is attacked, alcohol, language

words: 1.48k

notes: i love this one and hope you will too!

“Hey doll,” he says cheekily. 

You roll your eyes as Frank Castle slides into the booth across from you. “Hi Frank.”

He rests his elbows on the table and looks at you with a lazy grin. “Did you find the place okay?”

Scoffing, you cross your arms and slouch in your seat. “Frank, I work here.” You motion down at your attire: the required restaurant t-shirt and a pair of jeans. 

He snickers, leaning back and manspreading. You glance down before jerking your eyes back up. The grin on his face just grows; of course he caught you looking. “How was your shift?” he asks, sincerely. 

You groan. “Fine. Lots of rude customers, the usual.”

“Need me to beat anyone up?”

Your eyes widen at the seriousness on his face. “No, don’t go assaulting people for me.”

Alyssa, one of your co-workers, interrupts to get your orders. She departs with a wink. You flush, and Frank notices. He leans close, too close, and you can feel his breath against your face. “Are you scared of me?”

Determined not to let him know the effect he has on you, Exhibit A being the growing wet splotch in your painties, you lean even closer. “Why?” you ask seductively. “Do you want me to be?”

“Damn,” you barely hear him breathe before he’s moving back again. He shifts in his seat as you settle against the seatback. 

“Here you go,” Alyssa says, putting down your sodas and meals. Frank picks up a fry and fiddles with it. 

“How was your shift?” you ask quietly once Alyssa’s gone. You’re one of the few in-the-know when it comes to Frank’s “job”, although he wished to keep you as far from the business as he could.

“Fine,” he mimics you. “Lots of rude customers, the usual.”

“Are you hurt at all?” you ask, concern flooding your face when he rolls he shoulders.

Frank shakes his head. “Just tired, is all.” He stares at you softly. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“I know, I know,” you say, hands flying up dramatically. “You’re a big man; you can take care of yourself.”

Frank dips the fry in a big pool of ketchup. “Damn straight.”

You laugh. “Careful, Frank Castle,” you say, leaning forward again and plucking the fry before he can eat it. “Or I might just fall in love with you.”

“Hey doll,” he says tiredly. 

You look up from the book on your lap, breaking out into a smile. “Hey Frankie.”

The door shuts behind him as he kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his combat vest. The Punisher just finished another job. Frank Castle just came home to you. 

Finally comfortable and relieved from the weight of his armor, Frank moves to lock his guns away, always leaving a single pistol on his person. He plops down on the couch next to you with a huff.

“Look at me,” you say, putting your book to the side. Frank turns his puppy dog eyes your way, and you brush the hair from his face. He’s nursing a fresh black eye, you note, and his nose might be broken again. Your eyes drag down, checking for other injuries. “Anything serious?” you ask, standing to get the first aid kit in the bedroom’s bathroom. 

“Nah.” Frank follows you, looking down at the blood on his clothes. “Blood’s not mine.” He stands patiently as you gently pull his shirt over his head and help him slide out of his pants, leading him to sit on the bed. You nod, silent as you kneel beside him. Frank shifts so his body’s angled towards you. His body is beginning to bruise, but you don’t see any stab wounds or bullet holes. 

Frank looks up as you place everything down and leave, staring at the doorway until you come back with a bottle of whiskey. “For the pain,” you say, handing it to him and returning to your spot on the bed.

“Thanks” he grunts, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig, gulping graciously. 

You take the hand towel you recently wet in the sink and wipe away the surrounding around his nose. He has a cut on his forehead; you clean around that too. 

“Does it need stitches?” he asks, head cocked to keep his nose from bleeding any more.

You touch the skin around the cut, and Frank curses. “Yeah,” you say sympathetically. 

“Don’t fuck it up this time,” he says, but there’s no malice in his tone.

You snatch the bottle out of his grip and take a sip. “Don’t squirm, and I’ll try my best.”

“Hey doll,” he says carefully. 

You’re laying in bed, back turned to him and the doorway, curled into a ball with the sheets pulled all the way up to your chin. You don’t turn as the bed shifts and Frank sits behind you. There’s shuffling, and then his hand - hesitantly, faintly - rests on your side. You sniff.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know why, but you weren’t expecting him to apologize. He was so adamant about being right three hours ago, shouting about how you “just didn’t understand” his way of living and storming out without his phone. You don’t know why, but you didn’t expect him to give in.

“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” he continues, and his hand begins to rub small circles when you don’t pull away. “I shouldn’t have said those things - shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

You move into his touch - just barely, but he notices. “But you did.”

He nods. “I just - Christ, sweetheart, can you look at me?”

You hesitate. Your eyes are red from crying, and you know Frank will spiral when he realizes he made you cry. 

Frank senses this hesitation. “Please?” he pleads, and his voice cracks. 

You give in instantly, turning onto your other side so you’re looking at each other. Frank moves his hand to cradle your cheek, and you see that his eyes mirror your own: they glisten with tears  both shed and unshed. 

“Jesus, doll,” he says, letting go of you and rubbing a hand over his face. “I made you cry. I promised I’d never hurt you, and I made you cry.”

“Hey,” you snap, sitting up and taking his face in your hands. Your faces are mere centimeters apart; you can hear his heartbeat as it beats out of his chest. “I forgive you.”

Frank looks away from you, tilting his head to get out of your hold. “But I-”

“No,” you cut him off sharply, shaking him gently. “I hurt you too. So we’re even, okay?” You slide back down until your head is resting upon a pillow and pat the mattress next to you. “Just lay down and cuddle me.”

Frank's eyes are hazy with guilt and regret, but a shroud of love and relief begins to erase the worry in his expression. He shifts to rest beside you, and you instantly move into his arms. 

His breath hitches as he presses his face into your hair. 

“I forgive you,” you whisper, nuzzling closer.

And he believes you.

“Hey doll,” he says sadly.

You begin to lift your head, but Frank is quick to stop you. “Hey,” he says, easing you back down, “don’t do that. You’ll tear your stitches.”

That’s when you feel it: a sharp, throbbing pain against your skull. Your right arm is hooked with monitors; you move your left to feel your head. “Did they…shave my hair?”

Frank nods. He’s in a chair next to the hospital bed, leaning forward so much the back chair legs are off the ground. 

“What happened?” you ask groggily, letting your arm drop. 

Frank puts his hand over yours. “You got jumped. I found you in the parking garage.”

You start to piece it together. “I got hit in the head.”

He nods. “Did you see him? The guy who did it?” Mixed with the worry in his expression is anger, hatred, for the man who hurt you. 

You shake your head, groaning at the pain it causes. “But there were security cameras, right?”

“You don’t worry about that, sweet thing,” he says, patting your hand. “I’ll find him. Make him pay for hurting my girl.”

You smile weakly. “I’m thirsty.”

Frank nods rapidly and moves a water bottle into your peripheral. It has a long, purple straw sticking out, and Frank maneuvers it so you can tuck the straw between your lips. You take several savory gulps before letting him take it away. 

“How’s the pain?” he asks, setting the bottle down.

You shrug. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’ll see if they can give you more morphine.”

You smile, and Frank pauses, tilting his head at you in confusion. “What?”

“I just love you,” you say, moving your hands so you're holding his. You squeeze.

He squeezes back. 

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

happy father’s day. best fic recs for today please.

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

Daredevil Born Again [2025- ]

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

DEX THAT CONVINCED HIMSELF YOURE HEAD OVER HEELS FOR HIMEVEN THOUGH YOURE JUST BEING NICE !!!! DEX WHO TAKES THE FRIENDLY GOOD MORNINGS AND SHARED SMILES AS ‘oh she likes me’

DEX WHO TAKES GENERAL NICE SOCIAL CUES AS REASSURANCE THAT YOU’RE INTO HIM EVEN THOUGH YALL NEVER INTACT OUTSIDE OF SHARED GREETINGS !!!!

dex who one day shows up at the cafe you work during his usual time frame with a bouquet of your favorite flowers with a card writing his number and address, leaving you to do with that what you will.

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

DAREDEVIL 1x10

"Nelson v. Murdock"

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

matt murdock matt murdock matt murdock

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

reblogging again because I genuinely cannot wait until the 21st.

Chapter One: Heaven’s Half Hour

Silver Spoons and Butterknives.

[Previous Chapter | Silver Spoons & Butterknives Masterlist]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x President’s Daughter!Reader

Chapter Summary: On his way to work, Matt bumps into a ghost from his past that turns his world upside down.

Chapter Specific Warnings: DDBA Spoilers!, (past) major character death, Angst, allusions to politics, allusions to past heartbreak, Matt is going through it

WC: 3.8k

A/N: Hi! If you haven’t read the author's note for this series, here is a quick summary: this story takes place both in DDBA Season 1 present and College!Matt past. The majority of the following chapters (not including this one) are basically a very lengthy flashback. After that, I will jump back into DDBA canon. The only twist to this reader insert is the fact that I will be using a fixed last name; everything else will be left as neutral as possible so you can immerse yourself in it. Also, I felt like the whole college timeline in Daredevil was a bit confusing, so I did a whole Reddit deep dive and decided that for this series, Matt and Foggy already met in undergrad and then moved on to law school together. Seems like there are conflicting opinions on it, but it was never explicitly stated, and some of the years mentioned in the show don't make a lot of sense to me, so for the sake of the plot, I'm establishing my own timeline. Also, our girl Kirsten makes a little guest appearance here and there. Anything else? Oh yeah, have fun!

Read Me On AO3!

A breeze far too cold for September wafts through the streets of New York City. Then again, every day for the past year has been colder than the last. 

When the cherry blossom trees began to bloom in early March, their scent burned like acid on his tongue. He always loved how they offered a stark contrast to the green grass in Central Park, and even though Matt couldn’t see them, he loved listening to him ramble on about their unparalleled beauty as if he couldn’t imagine anything better. 

When he walked the cemetery again after a year had passed in a mere sixty seconds, the autumn rain froze into daggers, cut him open, and left a bottomless, bleeding pit where his heart once was. 

The pain and guilt have made a forever home in him. He let them eat away until all that was left was a pile of rotten flesh, and now the beauty he’d come to appreciate means nothing anymore.

Time and time again, Matt finds himself standing on that godforsaken rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen, in his daydreams and his nightmares. Because Foggy Nelson died, and there is no world or universe in which he can live without him. He haunts him. 

The wind brushes through his hair and seeps through the thin fabric of his new coat as he taps his cane along the sidewalk. He can taste the scent of cheap coffee from the café a few blocks down the street, and somewhere, someone is selling expired hot dogs to passersby.

The city sounds much like a broken record to him now. Cars honk, people argue, and the morning news play on repeat in brownstones all over the city, one device always a millisecond behind the other, and it never fucking stops. Everyone is screaming, laughing, or crying, but never louder than the fading heartbeat replaying in his mind.

The prayer card in his left-hand pocket weighs like a ton of bricks. Matt sometimes touches it just to make sure it’s still there. He puts it there in the morning, takes it out in the evening, and rests it on his nightstand when he sleeps. And when he wakes up in a cold sweat, his throat sore from the screams of anguish that have become second nature to him, he feels for it until his fingers find the Braille they put there just for him.

He hasn’t moved on. How could he? Moving on would mean he’d have to acknowledge the truth, and then he would have to feel everything all over again. 

He still remembers how the blood felt on his hands, his knuckles cracked, and his suit drenched with it. He still remembers how the air felt so much colder, and what it sounded like when Ben’s body hit the pavement. The night was eerily quiet then. Though it wasn’t the blood or the rage or the tears mixing with the copper on his tongue that he focused on, he focused on the one thing that was there until it wasn’t. He followed the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat until it was gone, and then he screamed. 

If Matt acknowledged that—if he allowed himself to let the agony out of the cage he stuffed it in—it would surely kill him. Karen left, Foggy is dead, and Matt doesn’t know what’s left for him to fight for. 

There is only so much suffering a person can take before they lose themself. 

The wind ebbs and picks up speed again. He breathes in, just for a moment, to taste the weight of the oxygen, but as the air fills his lungs, the gentle cocktail of jasmine, roses, and peonies with a hint of something entirely unique suddenly wraps a noose around his neck. The scent is so unique that no two people have ever smelled the same, and his senses start to burn with the familiarity of it all.

The first time he smelled it was his first year of law school. A soft breeze carried it across the lecture hall, incomparable sweetness clinging to salty skin and caressing his nose, and he got addicted before he knew what it meant or who it belonged to, even. 

Sixteen years. 

It’s been sixteen fucking years.

Matt’s dress shoes scrape over the asphalt underneath his feet as he comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, knuckles turning white around the handle of his cane. He must be hallucinating, he thinks. His mind must be conjuring up old, bittersweet memories to bury the new ones, but then he hears it. 

Your voice used to remind him of the softest silk. He would always compare it to the first rays of sunshine in spring as they whisked the cold away, painfully so sometimes. 

He never thought he would hear it again, neither the sound of your voice nor your heartbeat. The one that sped up whenever he made you laugh. The one he once fell asleep to like a lullaby, and the one that started racing almost as fast as his own whenever he touched you. But for every good thing he had with you, his heart shattered into a million more pieces when he lost you. 

The world around him disappears in the fog, and his senses zero in on you. You are approaching the limousine parked on the side of the street, smiling as you bid your thanks to the man holding the door open for you. Your head turns left, just to let the wind brush the hair out of your face, but when you see him, your heart stutters. 

Disbelief settles into the frown creasing your forehead. “Matthew?” you say oh-so-softly.

He tilts his head in your direction. Matthew. The sound of his name from your lips cuts his skin like fiberglass. 

Matt whispers your name in turn, trying to convince himself that you’re real—or perhaps he is trying not to. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that you are nothing but a fragment of his broken imagination. It would be kinder, he thinks, if you weren’t real.

That is, until you whisper again, “Yeah, it’s me.”

He doesn’t remember how many times he would lie awake at night, praying to hear you say, It’s me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But he knows God wasn’t listening. Even in his wildest dreams, you always end up leaving, and his happy endings turn into a nightmare. 

You’re too real, and that hurts more than when you were gone. 

“Hi,” you breathe. You even put on a smile for him.

“Hi,” Matt’s voice cracks. He’s not sure if you heard it. “What’re you–”

“Oh, I’m just–” You point everywhere and nowhere. “I’m just passing through.”

“Oh.”

“On my way to DC.”

“Right,” he says.

Of course, you are.

The nostalgia makes you weak in the knees. He has wrinkles now, a beard, and he is wearing a coat made out of the finest cashmere that, some time ago, he wouldn’t even have thought about buying. His once rectangular glasses have been replaced by round, dark-rimmed, and red ones. They are different, but they suit him. 

You’ve always thought this shape would suit him so much better. 

The Matt Murdock standing before you carries himself with such grace, it’s almost hard to believe he was ever shy or awkward to begin with. And yet, staring at your reflection in his glasses, you can almost see his unfocused brown-and-green eyes looking right through you. Those eyes, that voice, that laugh—you would recognize them anywhere. 

His eyes, once open windows to his soul, were only for you to see through. You could have stared into them forever. But there is a wall where those windows used to be, and he is so much colder now. 

You clear your throat before asking, “How are you?”

Matt stutters. “I, uh, I’m good,” he says. But good has never looked worse. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I just… I wasn’t expecting to run into you. That’s all.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to run into you either. Especially not here.” 

He exhales a scoff. “Why? Because I’m still in New York?”

You shake your head. “Because you’re not in Hell’s Kitchen,” you say, and the scars on his heart start bleeding again.

Foggy. 

Karen. 

Daredevil. 

A year ago, his life fell apart like an elaborate house of cards. All the good he had made for himself out of all the bad he had been through turned to ashes that night, and the rain washed it down the drain. 

Hell’s Kitchen is not what it used to be. It serves as a reminder of a life that ended in a bloodbath, of having his heart ripped out of his chest over and over again. The city reminds him of his father, of Karen, and Elektra, and the happiness he lost. It reminds him of losing the one person who held him through it all—of losing Foggy. And it reminds him of you. 

Matt left it all behind in the hopes that a new life would somehow take the pain away, but running away has never solved much of anything.

New York feels tainted, yet when Karen decided to leave for San Francisco, he could not bear to do the same. No matter how hard he tries, he can never fully let go of the city that raised him, and so he moved away, but never too far. 

Matt taps his cane against the ground once. “Senator, huh?” he asks, though he is still as awful at deflection as he is a liar. 

He overheard the news on his neighbor’s radio a few months ago when he was drinking a glass of whisky on the rooftop of his apartment. 

At first, he tried telling himself that it wasn’t you they were talking about. When that didn’t work, he returned to pretending that not being able to touch you meant that you were gone, and you were never coming back. You were dead to him because that thought has been kinder to him than the truth. But you were never really gone, were you?

Your fingers brush over the delicate enamel pin on your jacket, the same way they once ran through his hair. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s been a hell of a year.”

Matt forces a smile, tipping his cane toward you. “Well, congratulations.”

Again, your heart flutters. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I mean, I know it’s always been your dream. To make a difference. So, it’s nice you got what you wanted.” But Matt can’t quite swallow the bitterness in his statement.

You’re quiet for a moment, retreating into your shell as you try to find the right thing to say. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, at last. It’s a loaded two-word sentence, yet not nearly good enough for the sorrow that hangs in the air between you. 

“For what?” he asks. 

“Foggy.” 

It hits him like a bullet straight to the heart.

Your voice quivers, then cracks. “I, uh, heard about what happened to him.”

The anger in his veins burns red, hot, traveling through his bloodstream like an unrelenting parasite, and it stings like a thousand paper cuts soaked in alcohol. 

“I am so sorry. He was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and he didn’t… He didn’t deserve what happened to him.” Your throat tightens. “I know how much he meant to you,” you say. “I know how much you loved him. If I could–”

“No!” His self-control shatters. “You don’t get to do that,” he snaps. “You don’t get to tell me you’re sorry. It’s been a year.”

He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. It has that quiet edge to it that makes every word shake just slightly, yet feel like a thousand deadly papercuts. 

“If you actually cared about him, about me, you would have called or texted, or–” He swallows. “You would have been here when it mattered.”

“I paid my respects to his family,” you try to defend yourself, but Matt only chuckles—bitter, broken. 

“Right, and what did you tell them?” he asks. “That you went to college together? That you were his friend? Did you also happen to tell them that you left sixteen years ago and haven’t talked to him since, or did you leave that out?”

“Matt–”

He cuts you off, “He was my best friend. Mine! And I won’t get to see him again. So, you don’t get to tell me you’re sorry when you spent the past sixteen years pretending we were already dead!”

He rips your heart out and shreds it. And the worst part is, he’s right. 

You want nothing more than to reach out, to touch him, but your hands fall weakly at your sides because you can’t. He’s too far away, and it’s killing you.

“You’re right,” you whisper, yielding. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” 

Matt shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

“Can we just… Can we talk? Just for a minute, please?”

It takes everything in him to ignore how utterly broken you sound, the desperation in your voice even more familiar than the sound itself. You don’t try to hide it, and he doesn’t want to care, but it tugs at his heartstrings anyway. You’ve always had that kind of effect on him. Right now, though, he loathes it. 

Matt lowers his head, sighing at the ground beneath his feet. He can feel you staring, and it hurts. 

“You know, I should go,” he says. “I’m already late for work, and this isn’t… This isn’t a good idea.”

You catch him by the arm when he tries to brush past. It’s a reflex, pulling him in, but the moment you touch him, he recoils. 

“Please,” you beg, and if the asphalt weren’t so cold, you would have fallen to your knees. “If you’d just give me a chance to explain–”

“It’s been sixteen years. You made your choice. I moved on. Foggy moved on, and now he’s dead. None of that has anything to do with you,” he says, “so just… drop it!” 

Every word from his mouth whips you across the face and tears into your flesh like harsh leather. 

He pulls away. “Good luck in DC, Senator.”

And you watch in horror as he slips through your fingers again, his words so cold and brutal that you no longer recognize him as the man you fell in love with all those years ago. 

Far too much time has passed for your excuses to mean anything now. You can explain, but you can’t fix this. You know that as much as he does, maybe even more, but it hurts just the same. 

Matt can still hear the clear thumping of your heart long after he has walked away. In this mirror dimension he’s trapped in, it is all that exists to him. He tunes it out, but there it is again. You are everywhere, even when you’re not.

You stand in the same spot for a little while longer, teeth digging into your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying. He can smell the faintest hint of copper in the air, but then you plaster the cracks in your façade and pull yourself back together. Just like that, as if nothing ever happened. 

You could be falling apart at the seams, but you would never let it show. Because that isn’t what you do. 

As you’re climbing into the car, one of the men asks, “Who was that, ma’am?” 

You don’t miss a beat. “He’s no one,” you answer.

The motor roars to life. Matt tilts his head. Thud, thud, thud, your heartbeat fades, further and further away until it is gone entirely. The iron fist around his heart releases its hold, and he can finally breathe again. Though when he inhales, your scent still lingers. 

You’ve dug your teeth into him. One hit of you and suddenly, the world, his world, is back to revolving around you. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he finds himself back in the old halls of Columbia University. He was twenty-three then, not a dollar to his name, a devoted Catholic who had faith in the future and the system because he believed in the greater good. Until you walked into his life, and every branch creating paths for his future rotted from the inside out.

Matt walks the entire way to Murdock & McDuffie on autopilot. His cane bumps against the door, and for a moment, he struggles to find the handle. Kirsten is already standing by the fancy espresso machine she insisted on getting, her heart beating steadily as she pours herself another latte, and he takes the window of opportunity to charge toward his office. 

She calls out before he can get even halfway there, “Matt?”

He stiffens.

“You alright?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” he says, “just need a minute. Excuse me.”

He’s burning up inside, sweat soaking through his dress shirt underneath his suit jacket and cashmere coat, but his skin remains cold to the touch. The memories he had long locked away in a vault inside his mind start to break free from their shackles, and the glass that stores his emotions threatens to overflow.

The smell of espresso reminds of the cheap coffee he and Foggy once pretended was the best damn thing they’d ever tasted because they could not afford much more. There was no expensive O’Melveny whisky or homemade dinners on the table (except for Thanksgiving and Christmas with the Nelsons), and hardly any privacy to go around in their tiny student apartment, but they were happy. 

You were a spoiled boarding school brat who’d never had to count a dollar in her life. Of course, you didn’t choose to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth; God knows Matt didn’t choose to be the son of a boxer who got paid to lose, either, but you both took what you were given and made the best of it. 

When he met you, he saw right through you. He never thought he would; to him, people like you had all been the same for the longest time. You were the first to prove him wrong. He grew up as far from privilege as you grew up from living hand to mouth, and he couldn’t have cared less for it. 

That silver spoon in your mouth had always been so painfully empty to the point that all you could swallow was resentment. It was one of the reasons why Matt fell in love with you, because you didn’t believe you deserved to be loved, and he’d suffered enough loss to believe the same. You were both products of the love you hadn’t received, and that made you as human as one could be. 

He was your home the same way you were his, but the last time he got to hold you, you left him a broken mess that Foggy had to put back together because, unlike everyone else, he never dared to walk out on him. 

Until he died, and Matt had to learn the hard way what it was like to be alone again. 

The empty mug on his desk, left from the night before, goes flying off his desk and shatters against the floor of the office. Cold coffee splatters all over the glass wall; it smells so much tangier now. 

Matt swallows a yell, almost as deafening in the back of his throat as the crash itself. Then, for a moment, quiet settles in. 

Kirsten bursts into the room not long after. “What the f–” She glances at the mess, then back at him.

He straightens his tie, or maybe he’s loosening it.

“What the hell happened?” she asks. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

She closes the door behind her. “Bullshit! C’mon, sit down. I’ve gotta clean this up before you cut yourself.”

She guides him to a chair before fetching a handful of paper towels from the first drawer of his desk. He opens his mouth to object, but nothing comes out. 

It isn’t until the floor, the wall, and his pants are clean, and Kirsten has the shards safely stuffed into the trash, that she asks again, “Mind telling me now what’s going on with you?”

“It’s nothing,” Matt insists.

“Matt.”

“I’m fine. Just had a rough day, that’s all.”

“It’s 9 am,” she tells him. “The day hasn’t even started.”

“I know, I–” He sighs. “I just lost it, I’m sorry.”

“Apologize to the poor mug.” 

That finally elicits a chuckle from him.

Kirsten takes another tentative step forward. “It’s okay to miss him, you know?” she says.

Again, he sighs. “I know.”

“If you want to go home for the day, I can–”

“Nah.” Matt waves her off with a forced smile that neither of them believes. “I’m good,” he says. 

She doesn’t buy it, not one second of it, but she knows it is futile to keep pressing him for answers when he doesn’t want to give them. So, she simply pats his shoulder. “Alright, well, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the conference room. We’ve got a new client coming in,” she says. “Take all the time you need. Preferably not more than an hour, though.”

He snorts, running a hand over his beard. “Alright. Thanks.”

The door opens and closes with her leaving, and in his newfound solitude, he is left wondering again; wondering why you left, wondering why Foggy had to die, wondering what his life would have been like if you’d stayed, and wondering why, after all these years, Matt had to run into you now. 

He reaches into his left-hand pocket. The prayer card is slightly crinkled, but the Braille underneath his fingers is clear as day.

In Loving Memory of Franklin Nelson.

He hates that this is all he has left. 

From across the room, he can almost hear him say, “You’re an idiot.”

A sad chuckle rumbles through him. “Yeah,” Matt murmurs, “I know.”

It’s not fair that after all this time, even after all that has happened, there is not a bone in his body capable of hating you. God knows he tried. 

Matt misses the way it feels to be with you, to smell and to touch you. And he yearns for you. He has no choice but to remember—remember what life was like when he was yours, and you were his, and that was all he’d thought he would ever need. 

But that was sixteen years ago. 

Like all good things in life, it was never going to last. You were a disaster waiting to happen, the calm and the storm, and he let it happen.

Tag List: @murdockchronicles

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

oh my GOODNESS!!! love love love

Chapter One: Heaven’s Half Hour

Silver Spoons and Butterknives.

[Previous Chapter | Silver Spoons & Butterknives Masterlist]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x President’s Daughter!Reader

Chapter Summary: On his way to work, Matt bumps into a ghost from his past that turns his world upside down.

Chapter Specific Warnings: DDBA Spoilers!, (past) major character death, Angst, allusions to politics, allusions to past heartbreak, Matt is going through it

WC: 3.8k

A/N: Hi! If you haven’t read the author's note for this series, here is a quick summary: this story takes place both in DDBA Season 1 present and College!Matt past. The majority of the following chapters (not including this one) are basically a very lengthy flashback. After that, I will jump back into DDBA canon. The only twist to this reader insert is the fact that I will be using a fixed last name; everything else will be left as neutral as possible so you can immerse yourself in it. Also, I felt like the whole college timeline in Daredevil was a bit confusing, so I did a whole Reddit deep dive and decided that for this series, Matt and Foggy already met in undergrad and then moved on to law school together. Seems like there are conflicting opinions on it, but it was never explicitly stated, and some of the years mentioned in the show don't make a lot of sense to me, so for the sake of the plot, I'm establishing my own timeline. Also, our girl Kirsten makes a little guest appearance here and there. Anything else? Oh yeah, have fun!

Read Me On AO3!

A breeze far too cold for September wafts through the streets of New York City. Then again, every day for the past year has been colder than the last. 

When the cherry blossom trees began to bloom in early March, their scent burned like acid on his tongue. He always loved how they offered a stark contrast to the green grass in Central Park, and even though Matt couldn’t see them, he loved listening to him ramble on about their unparalleled beauty as if he couldn’t imagine anything better. 

When he walked the cemetery again after a year had passed in a mere sixty seconds, the autumn rain froze into daggers, cut him open, and left a bottomless, bleeding pit where his heart once was. 

The pain and guilt have made a forever home in him. He let them eat away until all that was left was a pile of rotten flesh, and now the beauty he’d come to appreciate means nothing anymore.

Time and time again, Matt finds himself standing on that godforsaken rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen, in his daydreams and his nightmares. Because Foggy Nelson died, and there is no world or universe in which he can live without him. He haunts him. 

The wind brushes through his hair and seeps through the thin fabric of his new coat as he taps his cane along the sidewalk. He can taste the scent of cheap coffee from the café a few blocks down the street, and somewhere, someone is selling expired hot dogs to passersby.

The city sounds much like a broken record to him now. Cars honk, people argue, and the morning news play on repeat in brownstones all over the city, one device always a millisecond behind the other, and it never fucking stops. Everyone is screaming, laughing, or crying, but never louder than the fading heartbeat replaying in his mind.

The prayer card in his left-hand pocket weighs like a ton of bricks. Matt sometimes touches it just to make sure it’s still there. He puts it there in the morning, takes it out in the evening, and rests it on his nightstand when he sleeps. And when he wakes up in a cold sweat, his throat sore from the screams of anguish that have become second nature to him, he feels for it until his fingers find the Braille they put there just for him.

He hasn’t moved on. How could he? Moving on would mean he’d have to acknowledge the truth, and then he would have to feel everything all over again. 

He still remembers how the blood felt on his hands, his knuckles cracked, and his suit drenched with it. He still remembers how the air felt so much colder, and what it sounded like when Ben’s body hit the pavement. The night was eerily quiet then. Though it wasn’t the blood or the rage or the tears mixing with the copper on his tongue that he focused on, he focused on the one thing that was there until it wasn’t. He followed the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat until it was gone, and then he screamed. 

If Matt acknowledged that—if he allowed himself to let the agony out of the cage he stuffed it in—it would surely kill him. Karen left, Foggy is dead, and Matt doesn’t know what’s left for him to fight for. 

There is only so much suffering a person can take before they lose themself. 

The wind ebbs and picks up speed again. He breathes in, just for a moment, to taste the weight of the oxygen, but as the air fills his lungs, the gentle cocktail of jasmine, roses, and peonies with a hint of something entirely unique suddenly wraps a noose around his neck. The scent is so unique that no two people have ever smelled the same, and his senses start to burn with the familiarity of it all.

The first time he smelled it was his first year of law school. A soft breeze carried it across the lecture hall, incomparable sweetness clinging to salty skin and caressing his nose, and he got addicted before he knew what it meant or who it belonged to, even. 

Sixteen years. 

It’s been sixteen fucking years.

Matt’s dress shoes scrape over the asphalt underneath his feet as he comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, knuckles turning white around the handle of his cane. He must be hallucinating, he thinks. His mind must be conjuring up old, bittersweet memories to bury the new ones, but then he hears it. 

Your voice used to remind him of the softest silk. He would always compare it to the first rays of sunshine in spring as they whisked the cold away, painfully so sometimes. 

He never thought he would hear it again, neither the sound of your voice nor your heartbeat. The one that sped up whenever he made you laugh. The one he once fell asleep to like a lullaby, and the one that started racing almost as fast as his own whenever he touched you. But for every good thing he had with you, his heart shattered into a million more pieces when he lost you. 

The world around him disappears in the fog, and his senses zero in on you. You are approaching the limousine parked on the side of the street, smiling as you bid your thanks to the man holding the door open for you. Your head turns left, just to let the wind brush the hair out of your face, but when you see him, your heart stutters. 

Disbelief settles into the frown creasing your forehead. “Matthew?” you say oh-so-softly.

He tilts his head in your direction. Matthew. The sound of his name from your lips cuts his skin like fiberglass. 

Matt whispers your name in turn, trying to convince himself that you’re real—or perhaps he is trying not to. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that you are nothing but a fragment of his broken imagination. It would be kinder, he thinks, if you weren’t real.

That is, until you whisper again, “Yeah, it’s me.”

He doesn’t remember how many times he would lie awake at night, praying to hear you say, It’s me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But he knows God wasn’t listening. Even in his wildest dreams, you always end up leaving, and his happy endings turn into a nightmare. 

You’re too real, and that hurts more than when you were gone. 

“Hi,” you breathe. You even put on a smile for him.

“Hi,” Matt’s voice cracks. He’s not sure if you heard it. “What’re you–”

“Oh, I’m just–” You point everywhere and nowhere. “I’m just passing through.”

“Oh.”

“On my way to DC.”

“Right,” he says.

Of course, you are.

The nostalgia makes you weak in the knees. He has wrinkles now, a beard, and he is wearing a coat made out of the finest cashmere that, some time ago, he wouldn’t even have thought about buying. His once rectangular glasses have been replaced by round, dark-rimmed, and red ones. They are different, but they suit him. 

You’ve always thought this shape would suit him so much better. 

The Matt Murdock standing before you carries himself with such grace, it’s almost hard to believe he was ever shy or awkward to begin with. And yet, staring at your reflection in his glasses, you can almost see his unfocused brown-and-green eyes looking right through you. Those eyes, that voice, that laugh—you would recognize them anywhere. 

His eyes, once open windows to his soul, were only for you to see through. You could have stared into them forever. But there is a wall where those windows used to be, and he is so much colder now. 

You clear your throat before asking, “How are you?”

Matt stutters. “I, uh, I’m good,” he says. But good has never looked worse. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I just… I wasn’t expecting to run into you. That’s all.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to run into you either. Especially not here.” 

He exhales a scoff. “Why? Because I’m still in New York?”

You shake your head. “Because you’re not in Hell’s Kitchen,” you say, and the scars on his heart start bleeding again.

Foggy. 

Karen. 

Daredevil. 

A year ago, his life fell apart like an elaborate house of cards. All the good he had made for himself out of all the bad he had been through turned to ashes that night, and the rain washed it down the drain. 

Hell’s Kitchen is not what it used to be. It serves as a reminder of a life that ended in a bloodbath, of having his heart ripped out of his chest over and over again. The city reminds him of his father, of Karen, and Elektra, and the happiness he lost. It reminds him of losing the one person who held him through it all—of losing Foggy. And it reminds him of you. 

Matt left it all behind in the hopes that a new life would somehow take the pain away, but running away has never solved much of anything.

New York feels tainted, yet when Karen decided to leave for San Francisco, he could not bear to do the same. No matter how hard he tries, he can never fully let go of the city that raised him, and so he moved away, but never too far. 

Matt taps his cane against the ground once. “Senator, huh?” he asks, though he is still as awful at deflection as he is a liar. 

He overheard the news on his neighbor’s radio a few months ago when he was drinking a glass of whisky on the rooftop of his apartment. 

At first, he tried telling himself that it wasn’t you they were talking about. When that didn’t work, he returned to pretending that not being able to touch you meant that you were gone, and you were never coming back. You were dead to him because that thought has been kinder to him than the truth. But you were never really gone, were you?

Your fingers brush over the delicate enamel pin on your jacket, the same way they once ran through his hair. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s been a hell of a year.”

Matt forces a smile, tipping his cane toward you. “Well, congratulations.”

Again, your heart flutters. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I mean, I know it’s always been your dream. To make a difference. So, it’s nice you got what you wanted.” But Matt can’t quite swallow the bitterness in his statement.

You’re quiet for a moment, retreating into your shell as you try to find the right thing to say. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, at last. It’s a loaded two-word sentence, yet not nearly good enough for the sorrow that hangs in the air between you. 

“For what?” he asks. 

“Foggy.” 

It hits him like a bullet straight to the heart.

Your voice quivers, then cracks. “I, uh, heard about what happened to him.”

The anger in his veins burns red, hot, traveling through his bloodstream like an unrelenting parasite, and it stings like a thousand paper cuts soaked in alcohol. 

“I am so sorry. He was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and he didn’t… He didn’t deserve what happened to him.” Your throat tightens. “I know how much he meant to you,” you say. “I know how much you loved him. If I could–”

“No!” His self-control shatters. “You don’t get to do that,” he snaps. “You don’t get to tell me you’re sorry. It’s been a year.”

He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. It has that quiet edge to it that makes every word shake just slightly, yet feel like a thousand deadly papercuts. 

“If you actually cared about him, about me, you would have called or texted, or–” He swallows. “You would have been here when it mattered.”

“I paid my respects to his family,” you try to defend yourself, but Matt only chuckles—bitter, broken. 

“Right, and what did you tell them?” he asks. “That you went to college together? That you were his friend? Did you also happen to tell them that you left sixteen years ago and haven’t talked to him since, or did you leave that out?”

“Matt–”

He cuts you off, “He was my best friend. Mine! And I won’t get to see him again. So, you don’t get to tell me you’re sorry when you spent the past sixteen years pretending we were already dead!”

He rips your heart out and shreds it. And the worst part is, he’s right. 

You want nothing more than to reach out, to touch him, but your hands fall weakly at your sides because you can’t. He’s too far away, and it’s killing you.

“You’re right,” you whisper, yielding. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” 

Matt shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

“Can we just… Can we talk? Just for a minute, please?”

It takes everything in him to ignore how utterly broken you sound, the desperation in your voice even more familiar than the sound itself. You don’t try to hide it, and he doesn’t want to care, but it tugs at his heartstrings anyway. You’ve always had that kind of effect on him. Right now, though, he loathes it. 

Matt lowers his head, sighing at the ground beneath his feet. He can feel you staring, and it hurts. 

“You know, I should go,” he says. “I’m already late for work, and this isn’t… This isn’t a good idea.”

You catch him by the arm when he tries to brush past. It’s a reflex, pulling him in, but the moment you touch him, he recoils. 

“Please,” you beg, and if the asphalt weren’t so cold, you would have fallen to your knees. “If you’d just give me a chance to explain–”

“It’s been sixteen years. You made your choice. I moved on. Foggy moved on, and now he’s dead. None of that has anything to do with you,” he says, “so just… drop it!” 

Every word from his mouth whips you across the face and tears into your flesh like harsh leather. 

He pulls away. “Good luck in DC, Senator.”

And you watch in horror as he slips through your fingers again, his words so cold and brutal that you no longer recognize him as the man you fell in love with all those years ago. 

Far too much time has passed for your excuses to mean anything now. You can explain, but you can’t fix this. You know that as much as he does, maybe even more, but it hurts just the same. 

Matt can still hear the clear thumping of your heart long after he has walked away. In this mirror dimension he’s trapped in, it is all that exists to him. He tunes it out, but there it is again. You are everywhere, even when you’re not.

You stand in the same spot for a little while longer, teeth digging into your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying. He can smell the faintest hint of copper in the air, but then you plaster the cracks in your façade and pull yourself back together. Just like that, as if nothing ever happened. 

You could be falling apart at the seams, but you would never let it show. Because that isn’t what you do. 

As you’re climbing into the car, one of the men asks, “Who was that, ma’am?” 

You don’t miss a beat. “He’s no one,” you answer.

The motor roars to life. Matt tilts his head. Thud, thud, thud, your heartbeat fades, further and further away until it is gone entirely. The iron fist around his heart releases its hold, and he can finally breathe again. Though when he inhales, your scent still lingers. 

You’ve dug your teeth into him. One hit of you and suddenly, the world, his world, is back to revolving around you. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he finds himself back in the old halls of Columbia University. He was twenty-three then, not a dollar to his name, a devoted Catholic who had faith in the future and the system because he believed in the greater good. Until you walked into his life, and every branch creating paths for his future rotted from the inside out.

Matt walks the entire way to Murdock & McDuffie on autopilot. His cane bumps against the door, and for a moment, he struggles to find the handle. Kirsten is already standing by the fancy espresso machine she insisted on getting, her heart beating steadily as she pours herself another latte, and he takes the window of opportunity to charge toward his office. 

She calls out before he can get even halfway there, “Matt?”

He stiffens.

“You alright?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” he says, “just need a minute. Excuse me.”

He’s burning up inside, sweat soaking through his dress shirt underneath his suit jacket and cashmere coat, but his skin remains cold to the touch. The memories he had long locked away in a vault inside his mind start to break free from their shackles, and the glass that stores his emotions threatens to overflow.

The smell of espresso reminds of the cheap coffee he and Foggy once pretended was the best damn thing they’d ever tasted because they could not afford much more. There was no expensive O’Melveny whisky or homemade dinners on the table (except for Thanksgiving and Christmas with the Nelsons), and hardly any privacy to go around in their tiny student apartment, but they were happy. 

You were a spoiled boarding school brat who’d never had to count a dollar in her life. Of course, you didn’t choose to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth; God knows Matt didn’t choose to be the son of a boxer who got paid to lose, either, but you both took what you were given and made the best of it. 

When he met you, he saw right through you. He never thought he would; to him, people like you had all been the same for the longest time. You were the first to prove him wrong. He grew up as far from privilege as you grew up from living hand to mouth, and he couldn’t have cared less for it. 

That silver spoon in your mouth had always been so painfully empty to the point that all you could swallow was resentment. It was one of the reasons why Matt fell in love with you, because you didn’t believe you deserved to be loved, and he’d suffered enough loss to believe the same. You were both products of the love you hadn’t received, and that made you as human as one could be. 

He was your home the same way you were his, but the last time he got to hold you, you left him a broken mess that Foggy had to put back together because, unlike everyone else, he never dared to walk out on him. 

Until he died, and Matt had to learn the hard way what it was like to be alone again. 

The empty mug on his desk, left from the night before, goes flying off his desk and shatters against the floor of the office. Cold coffee splatters all over the glass wall; it smells so much tangier now. 

Matt swallows a yell, almost as deafening in the back of his throat as the crash itself. Then, for a moment, quiet settles in. 

Kirsten bursts into the room not long after. “What the f–” She glances at the mess, then back at him.

He straightens his tie, or maybe he’s loosening it.

“What the hell happened?” she asks. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

She closes the door behind her. “Bullshit! C’mon, sit down. I’ve gotta clean this up before you cut yourself.”

She guides him to a chair before fetching a handful of paper towels from the first drawer of his desk. He opens his mouth to object, but nothing comes out. 

It isn’t until the floor, the wall, and his pants are clean, and Kirsten has the shards safely stuffed into the trash, that she asks again, “Mind telling me now what’s going on with you?”

“It’s nothing,” Matt insists.

“Matt.”

“I’m fine. Just had a rough day, that’s all.”

“It’s 9 am,” she tells him. “The day hasn’t even started.”

“I know, I–” He sighs. “I just lost it, I’m sorry.”

“Apologize to the poor mug.” 

That finally elicits a chuckle from him.

Kirsten takes another tentative step forward. “It’s okay to miss him, you know?” she says.

Again, he sighs. “I know.”

“If you want to go home for the day, I can–”

“Nah.” Matt waves her off with a forced smile that neither of them believes. “I’m good,” he says. 

She doesn’t buy it, not one second of it, but she knows it is futile to keep pressing him for answers when he doesn’t want to give them. So, she simply pats his shoulder. “Alright, well, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the conference room. We’ve got a new client coming in,” she says. “Take all the time you need. Preferably not more than an hour, though.”

He snorts, running a hand over his beard. “Alright. Thanks.”

The door opens and closes with her leaving, and in his newfound solitude, he is left wondering again; wondering why you left, wondering why Foggy had to die, wondering what his life would have been like if you’d stayed, and wondering why, after all these years, Matt had to run into you now. 

He reaches into his left-hand pocket. The prayer card is slightly crinkled, but the Braille underneath his fingers is clear as day.

In Loving Memory of Franklin Nelson.

He hates that this is all he has left. 

From across the room, he can almost hear him say, “You’re an idiot.”

A sad chuckle rumbles through him. “Yeah,” Matt murmurs, “I know.”

It’s not fair that after all this time, even after all that has happened, there is not a bone in his body capable of hating you. God knows he tried. 

Matt misses the way it feels to be with you, to smell and to touch you. And he yearns for you. He has no choice but to remember—remember what life was like when he was yours, and you were his, and that was all he’d thought he would ever need. 

But that was sixteen years ago. 

Like all good things in life, it was never going to last. You were a disaster waiting to happen, the calm and the storm, and he let it happen.

Tag List: @murdockchronicles

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

😛

Charlie Cox on set of Daredevil Born Again S2....A REAL DISNEY PRINCE IF YOU ASK ME

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

hell yeah. one of my writers and one of my fave tropes (college matt)

Silver Spoons & Butterknives [Coming Soon]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x President’s Daughter!Reader

Summary: It’s been sixteen years since you left. You were his first everything—his first love, his first time, and the loss of his life. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that you’d come back until one day, sixteen years later, you’re suddenly standing right in front of him again, forcing him to remember a time when you were the daughter of the president and he was just Matt Murdock, the man who fell head over heels in love with you before you took his heart and crushed it. And he realizes that maybe, he never really stopped loving you.

Series Warnings: College!Matt, DDBA!Matt (they require separate warnings), Heavy Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Attempted Murder, Character Death(s), Grief, Depression, Alcohol Abuse, Drug Use, Mentions of Child Abuse (mostly emotional), Daddy Issues, Political Corruption, Reader Is Rich & Matt Is Not, First Time(s), Smut (18+), Switch!Matt, Switch!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, no Y/N -> Chapter-specific warnings apply!

A/N (please read): I watched Scandal a couple months ago, and I got obsessed. Originally, I planned to post this once it’s finished, but since I just reached 2k of you lovely people, and everyone seemed excited about this idea, I decided to just drop it now! I know a story that alludes to politics in today’s political climate is a leap, and there will probably be some of you who are not down with the idea, but fret not! This fic only follows Daredevil canon as well as my own storyline, none of which include real-life political events. This story only takes place in this respective universe (MCU). There will be angst, there will be yearning, there will be fluff and there will be a lot of plot with a lot of porn. Now for the most important part: Reader has a fixed last name (and a family of OC’s), but I try to be as non-descriptive as possible with everything else. If you found here because of the new show, hi and welcome! If you’ve been with me for longer, this might be a little different from what I usually write, but I like challenging myself, and I hope I can still surprise you.

PLAYLIST.

The title and some of the story’s themes are inspired by Silver Spoon by Erin LeCount, by the way.

MASTERLIST.

Read Me On AO3!

18+ MINORS DNI

Chapter One: Heaven’s Half Hour (Coming June 13th)

Chapter Two: Election Night (Coming June 21st)

(…)

Let me know if you want to be tagged for this!

[jeffbuckleysconvent]

🩷🩷🩷

So, I officially reached 2k followers today?? Holy shit! I don’t even know how to thank you. It’s crazy to think that I started this account 3 years account without any expectations, and now I have this little community right here. Just, mind blowing, truly. I love you guys so much.

I thought about doing a celebration, but since I don’t have the time for that right now, I want to offer you The Matt Thing I’ve been working on instead. It’s a bit different to the stuff I’ve done before, and I’ve been dying to share it but I’ve also been kind of holding back because I’m really fucking nervous about it. But if the general consensus is yes, I will post the announcement tonight.

Here’s a little summary:

It’s been sixteen years since you left. You were his first everything—his first love, his first time, and the loss of his life. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that you’d come back until one day, sixteen years later, you’re suddenly standing right in front of him again, forcing him to remember a time when you were the daughter of the president and he was just Matt Murdock, the man who fell head over heels in love with you before you took his heart and crushed it. And he realizes that maybe, he never really stopped loving you.

And yes, it’s college!Matt meets DDBA!Matt.