matthsluv

[matthsluv]

              —   BEFORE YOU BREAK MY HEART   !

summary: a pretty stranger comes to your rescue when you get stood up at a sandwich shop.

pairing: carmy berzatto / f!reader

contents: meet ugly, hurt/comfort, fluff, swearing, carmy has a crush, richie is a menace

( best listened with headphones, full playlist link here )

Carmy’s been wiping down the front counter for the past five minutes. At least. He’s more distracted by your figure across the room, sitting at the table in front of the large window, staring through the glass like you’re waiting to see something on the other side. You’ve been in the same spot for half an hour now, and that something hasn’t come yet.

Something about it is impossible to look away from. Like a car crash or something equally as harrowing. There’s something heartbreaking about your lonely form that breaks his own heart right back.

“You gonna tell her to get the hell outta here, cousin, or are you gonna keep ogling like a creep?” Richie wonders suddenly, leaning over Carmy’s shoulder to whisper obnoxiously close to his ear.

Carmy flinches. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks with his face screwed, lifting his elbow to nudge the taller man away.

“I said, are you gonna—”

“No, I— I heard you, Richie.”

“Then why’d you say ‘what?’”

“‘Cause you’re a fucking asshole, that’s why,” Carmy snaps and turns away. He tosses his dry rag over his shoulder and ducks past Richie to chuck the wet one in the sink. The older man follows behind him, hardly bothering to spare more than an inch of personal space between them.

“She’s taking up space here, cousin.”

“What are you even talking about? There’s nobody else in here.”

He steps to the side. Richie’s quick to block his path. His icy gaze hardens into a more serious look as he points a stern finger at the boy’s chest. Carmy’s eyes flit back and forth between his hand and his face, hardly intimidated. 

“Tell her to leave,” the man instructs in a strangely even voice. “Or I’m gonna make a fuckin’ scene.”

Carmy scoffs a faint laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”

“I mean it, cousin,” Richie continues, faltering when he realizes Carmy isn’t taking his authority seriously — and hasn’t since he was thirteen. He pokes the younger boy hard in the chest to prove a point. “I mean it,” the man echoes, all dramatic, before turning on his sneakers to head back into the kitchen.

Carmy rubs at his aching sternum with a tattooed hand and watches Richie leave — jostling the heavy mixer, the napkin tins, and the stainless steel cups as he goes. Creating as much noise as humanly possible. Making an entire fucking scene.

Carmy huffs when the silence finds him again, filled only by the radio Tina’s got playing. An unfamiliar song croons faintly overhead, soft and folksy. “I’m coming to the brink of a great disaster, the end just has to be near—” 

The quiet is deafening still.

The urge to say something to you weighs heavily upon him, and he isn’t quite sure why. He’s never felt quite so compelled to talk to anyone, much less a pretty stranger sitting by herself in his restaurant. But there’s something about you and your loneliness that threatens to drag the words out of him. 

He’s walking to your table before he realizes his feet are moving. He finds himself looming awkwardly at your table until he finds the courage to speak. Even then, all he can manage is a mumbled, “Hey,” as he twists the rag in his anxious hands.

You whip your head to face him and blink hard, like his presence has knocked you from the depths of your own mind. 

“Oh. Hi…” you waver, face screwed with something short of worry. You don’t realize until then how long you’ve been sitting alone in this restaurant — or how big of an idiot you are for waiting on someone who was never going to come. 

“Sorry to, uh, to bother you,” Carmy mumbles, with his gaze pointed everywhere but at you. “But I— I noticed you’ve been here for a while and—”

“I’m sorry,” you squeak before he’s finished. “I’m waiting for someone— was waiting for someone, but… I’m pretty sure they aren’t gonna show, so…” 

You laugh awkwardly at yourself in a feeble attempt to relieve the pressure in your chest, then cower under the stranger’s sympathetic, ocean-eyed stare.

Carmy nods slowly with understanding, chestnut curls wild on his head. He forgets to show the emotion on his face, though. He just crosses his golden, tattooed arms over his chest and wonders bluntly, “Do you wanna order something?” 

He doesn’t realize how curt he sounds until you flinch at his words, like they’ve hit you physically somehow. “No, it’s okay,” you decline with a pretty smile that doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’ll just— I can just go— Sorry for wasting your time—”

You collect your belongings with panicked hands, your phone on the table and your tote bag propped on the chair beside you. You swing the strap over your shoulder and rise to full height, standing before the tall stranger. He towers over you still, and from the proximity, you can smell the cigarette and nicotine mixed on his breath. There’s musky cologne spritzed on his neck and something savory stained on his apron that makes you hungry.

Carmy holds his hands between you in surrender, light eyes going wide in a similar panic. “No, it’s— it’s okay, just— Let me get you some water before you go,” he offers kindly, remembering to smile this time, even though it wavers at the edges. “It’s fuckin’ hot out there, you know?” he chuckles awkwardly.

You hesitate for a moment, feeling too much like a burden to say yes.

“C’mon,” the stranger presses gently, with something pretty glittering in his crystalline eyes. “It’s free. And it’ll take me, like, two seconds tops. You’ll be outta here in no time.”

You take in a deep, trembling breath, then nod with a smile despite yourself. “Okay,” you murmur and sit down again.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” Carmy promises as he walks backwards towards the kitchen. “Don’t go anywhere—”

Hidden in the depths of the kitchen, he works with fast and practiced hands. He attempts to make you a sandwich in the time it’d take him to bring you water — an impossible feat, even for the best chef this side of Chicago has ever seen. He works on autopilot and tries to remember the recipe off the top of his head, something Mikey had made a thousand lightyears ago that’s plagued him ever since.

He races for the ciabatta, passing Richie without realizing. “She finally order?” the man calls across the station.

Carmy barely hears him. “Mhm,” he mumbles vaguely, reaching frantically for the needed ingredients — salami, provolone, tomatoes, peppers, the whole nine. He packs them into the sandwich and glances at the clock every other second, praying you haven’t left yet.

“Good,” Richie nods, arms crossed as he leans against the counter. He feigns an air of authority and says, “Soliciting’s illegal, cousin. We need to put a sign on the door or some shit.”

“Loitering,” Carmy corrects distantly, slicing the sandwich into halves.

“What?”

“It’s loitering. Soliciting’s something completely different, fuck-o.”

“Same difference,” Richie laughs. “Who gives a shit?”

Carmy shakes his head and plates the sandwich into a to-go tray, resting one half over the other for a little extra flair. “Idiot,” the boy mumbles to Richie as he walks by him and out of the kitchen. The song follows him as he goes. “—Can you save her? Now she’s in the air, radical and free...”

He exhales a sigh of relief when he finds you sitting in the same spot he left you in, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. It’s his first good breath in several minutes. “Sorry it took me so long,” he pants as the double doors swing shut behind him. “Ice machine’s fucking up.”

“It’s okay,” you assure with a polite smile that ebbs slightly when he sets the plate of food in front of you — a sandwich, but not the kind you’re used to making, all lifeless with the cheapest ingredients you can muster. This one looks good, gourmet even, like he put a lot of care into such a simple thing. 

Your eyes widen briefly in surprise as you peer at the boy from beneath your lashes. “You didn’t have to…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Carmy shrugs, pretending to be casual about the whole thing despite his racing heart. He crosses his arms over his chest like it’ll slow his pulse. “On the house.”

“…Really?”

“Really,” Carmy nods with a breathy laugh. “C’mon. Try it. Before you break my heart.”

He smiles down at you, all shy and lopsided and half-hidden behind the hand he rubs over his chin. Something funny swirls in your stomach accordingly, which you’ll blame on the hunger instead, as you take the halved sandwich in hesitant hands. 

You bite gingerly in the corner, prepared to hate it and compliment it anyway. Then it melts effortlessly into your mouth, a symphony of differing tastes that somehow work perfectly together. You deflate with a contented sigh, making a concerted effort not to moan when it hits your grumbling stomach.

Carmy watches with wide, attentive eyes and tries to gauge your reaction. “Good?” he wonders anxiously.

You nod slowly with the bite still wadded in your cheek. “Really good,” you correct with your hand over your mouth. 

He exhales a relieved sigh, nodding to himself with his hands on his hips. “Good… I’ve been wanting to put it on the menu so… That makes me feel better.”

“Seriously?” you blurt.

“Seriously,” Carmy echoes. “I just thought that, you know, you could use somethin’ a little special, all things considered…”

He watches his attempt to comfort you crash and burn right in front of him. Your small smile fades at the reminder of being stood up. You swallow hard and deflate with a heavy breath. Carmy stumbles over himself as he rushes to apologize. 

“Shit. Sorry. I was— I was trying to make you feel better, and I… I just totally fucked it up, didn’t I? Shit...”

He gets all regretful in a way that makes his face twist like a puppy. Something about his tenderness quells the tight feeling in your chest. 

“It’s okay. Really. I usually hate dates anyway, but, uh…” you trail off, grimacing when you decide to be honest. “My entire paycheck went to bills, and I thought I could score some free food out of it.”

The brunette boy smiles all over again. “Guess it still worked out for you, huh?”

“Guess so…” you hum and smile at his smiling, cheeks burning under his gaze. “It didn’t hurt my feelings or anything, you know, getting stood up. Not really— Well, it kinda did, but… I’ll get over it… Probably.”

“Well, whoever left you at this shithole’s an idiot,” Carmy tells you, only partly joking when he says, “Matter of fact, give me a name, and I’ll ban ‘em for life.”

He means every word, but it makes you laugh anyway. The light and airy, sunshine-incarnate sound makes his chest go fuzzy. “I’m serious,” Carmy insists with his own laugh. “Fuck that guy.”

You feel oddly comforted by this stranger and the kindness in his words. Maybe because he’s far kinder than the idiot you were planning on seeing today — and far prettier, too, but that goes without saying.

“Well, thanks for the gesture. And the free sandwich— which should definitely be on the menu, by the way.”

Carmy scoffs a faint laugh. “Yeah, well, tell my cousin that,” he jokes and tosses a brief glance over his shoulder. He does a double-take when he catches Richie peeking through the window behind the double doors, trying to be inconspicuous and failing. “What the hell are you doing?” Carmy calls to him.

Richie falters, realizing he’d been caught. “You wanna stop makin’ moves on our customers and do your job, cousin?” he calls back, half-muffled in the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ,” Carmy huffs, then turns back around to you, softening with a heavy sigh. “Sorry— I’m sorry about him. He’s… an idiot.”

“It’s okay,” you grin. “He seems nice.”

“He isn’t,” he deadpans.

You laugh again. “I should probably go, anyway,” you murmur and rise to collect your things. You swing your tote bag over your shoulder with one hand and balance the to-go tray in the other. “Thanks for the food. And for being so nice.”

Carmy ducks away from your tender gaze. His chestnut curls fall over his forehead as his golden skin glows red. “Don’t mention it,” he mumbles politely and walks with you towards the entrance. The door dings over his head when he opens it for you. “Come back, alright?” he tells you plainly, though it feels more like a plea.

“Only if you get this sandwich on the menu,” you quip.

Carmy nods once. “On it.”

You part from him with a pretty smile. Carmy stands in the open door and watches you stroll down the worn sidewalk. He cranes his head when you threaten to disappear in the bustling crowd, praying silently that you’ll turn around to look at him again.

He barely realizes when Richie appears at his side. “What are you so goddamn weepy about over here?” the man laughs, following his gaze down the road. Richie catches you nearing the corner and tilts his head with a slow nod. “Damn. I’d cry about an ass like that, too, cousin.”

Carmy nudges him away with his elbow. “Get— Get the fuck off of me, Richie,” he snaps.

Richie only laughs harder. “What?!” he exclaims, taking an obvious pleasure in annoying the younger boy.

That’s when you look back — right before you turn the corner, right when Carmy’s shoving Richie away like a child. 

There’s something magnetic in your gaze that pulls Carmy’s eyes right towards you. He falters under the glimmer in your eye and the wide smile you cage between your teeth. It makes his stomach do a backflip and the rest of the world slow around him. He isn’t sure if he deserves to be looked at so tenderly, but he warms under your gaze nonetheless.

He blinks, and you’re gone again. He feels your absence like a punch to the stomach, or a missed meal that’s left him achingly empty. He isn’t sure why. He only knows that there is something unavoidably special about you.

But now you’re gone. And Carmy’s doomed.

[matthsluv]

Just a little petty (¬`‸´¬)

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Word Count: ~4.5k

Genre: Domestic, flirty, jealous Clark, Humor, fluff?, petty Clark, female reader.

Summary: Clark Kent might be the most powerful man on Earth, but he’s also your boyfriend and unfortunately for you, he’s a tiny bit petty.

Or 3 times Clark is petty with other people, 1 time with you

A/N: Clark is definitely a petty person, especially when he’s jealous 🫦

My masterlist

1. The Flower Stand Guy Who Looked Too Long

Saturdays in Smallville are slow, sun-drenched, and full of the kind of sweetness that seems stolen from a postcard. There’s a market in town every weekend, local produce, baked pies, soaps that smell like lavender and fresh linen. It’s the kind of thing Clark loves more than he admits. You think it reminds him of his mom. He always walks a little slower through the stalls, more grounded, a little soft at the edges.

You were walking beside him, fingers interlaced lazily, sipping your second iced coffee of the morning. His free hand carried a bag of apples you picked out together after a ten-minute debate about which farm grew the “crispier kind.” The sun glinted off his hair, and he looked especially stupidly handsome in that button-up and jeans combo, just simple enough to hurt.

You stopped at a flower stall, bright bundles of color bursting from buckets of water. You leaned in to smell something pale yellow and sweet.

That’s when it happened.

The guy running the stand, probably no older than 22, college-kid energy with a flirtatious smirk he probably practiced in mirrors, leaned over and plucked a daisy from the bunch.

“This one’s perfect for you,” he said, holding it up like an offering. “Bright and pretty. Like you.”

You blinked. Smiled a little, awkwardly. “Oh. That’s sweet—”

And just like that, Clark was beside you, silent and looming. Not aggressively. Not even impolitely. Just… there. His hand found your waist without asking. His thumb skimmed across your side, not possessive exactly, just territorial.

“She doesn’t like daisies,” Clark said, his voice so smooth it almost masked the glacier under it. “They make her sneeze.”

“I do?” you asked, tilting your head, amused.

“You do,” he confirmed. “Violently.”

The flower guy looked vaguely confused but handed the daisy to someone else and backed off like Clark had somehow made the temperature drop five degrees.

The second you were a few steps away, you elbowed Clark in the ribs, trying not to laugh. “Violently?”

“I was protecting your sinuses,” he said flatly, sipping his iced coffee like a martyr.

“Oh, so you weren’t being jealous and weird?”

“I wasn’t weird,” he mumbled.

“You get so obvious when you’re jealous. You just go full dad-mode.”

Clark stopped in the middle of the path. “Excuse me?”

“Next time just pee on me like a wolf.”

“I’m never buying you coffee again.”

“You love me.”

He sighed, kissed your forehead, and muttered into your hair, “I love you. Even when you’re a brat.”

2. The Gym Bro Who Wouldn’t Shut Up

Clark always claimed he hated gyms.

Too many mirrors. Too many people grunting unnecessarily. Too many guys named Chad who thought protein shakes were a personality.

But you’d dragged him to yours after weeks of nagging, convinced he needed some “normal” stress relief after one too many nights saving the world. He agreed on one condition: that you let him be your gym partner.

You should’ve seen the trap.

You were halfway through your workout when it started. You were doing squats, nothing too heavy, just reps for tone, when he appeared. A guy with way too much cologne and biceps that had their own zip code. He hovered nearby. Watched you for a little too long.

“You’re doing those wrong,” he said, smirking like a guy who hadn’t been asked.

“Oh?” you replied politely. “I’ve been doing them this way for years.”

He smiled. “If you ever want real results, I could show you a better technique.”

You glanced over your shoulder, Clark was across the gym, stretching, pretending not to hear. But you could see the tightness in his shoulders, the faint glow in his eyes that meant he was definitely listening.

“I’ve got a spotter,” you said.

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

And that’s when Clark strolled over.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just massive and silent and glowering.

“She’s with me,” he said simply, planting himself between you and the gym bro like a whole wall of Kansas corn-fed protectiveness.

The guy blinked. “Cool, man. Just helping.”

“No need. I know every one of her sets. And her PRs. And her recovery window.”

You raised a brow. “Since when do you know that?”

Clark didn’t break eye contact with the guy. “Since always.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hiding a grin.

The guy left.

Clark handed you your water bottle like he hadn’t just mentally crushed another man’s will to live. “Hydrate,” he said softly. “You’re getting that glowy sweat thing.”

3. The Waiter Who Thought He Was Charming

It was your anniversary dinner, one Clark had meticulously planned. Candlelit rooftop, fancy dress, real wine glasses, the works. He wore a tie, for God’s sake.

Everything was going perfectly… until the waiter decided to make himself a third party to the relationship.

It wasn’t anything egregious. Just… little things.

He complimented your earrings. Your perfume. Your smile. Then he topped it off with, “If I may say, you’re far too stunning to be out with just one man tonight.”

Clark’s jaw didn’t twitch. His smile didn’t falter. But his hand under the table slid to your thigh like he was anchoring himself before he said something inappropriate.

You squeezed it, silently warning him: Don’t.

But Clark never needed words to be petty.

He waited until dessert, then excused himself quietly. Five minutes later, the manager came over, personally, carrying a full tray of desserts.

“These are on the house,” he said. “Mr. Kent mentioned it was your special night.”

The tray had everything. Chocolate lava cake. Berries soaked in champagne. Miniature soufflés. A heart-shaped crème brûlée with your initials carved into the sugar.

You looked at Clark, eyebrows up.

He just leaned back in his chair, draped his arm behind you, and smirked like a man who had just eliminated a threat with whipped cream.

4. You, The One Person He Couldn’t Be Petty With

It happened on a Wednesday. You’d promised to be home for dinner. Clark had made lasagna. Actual lasagna. With layers.

But you were late. Very late.

Not because of anything scandalous. Just work. A deadline gone sideways. A missed train. A phone battery that died at exactly the wrong moment.

By the time you walked in, flustered and apologetic, Clark was seated on the couch, arms folded, blanket around his shoulders like a dramatic grandmother.

You paused. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Oh no.

You dropped your keys. “Clark…”

“You said seven. It’s nine-thirty.”

“I texted—”

“Phone died.”

You sighed and walked over, flopping beside him. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look at you.

“Clark.”

“I reheated the lasagna three times.”

“You hate reheating things.”

“I do.”

You turned, climbed into his lap like you always did when he was being dramatic. “Are you giving me the lasagna cold shoulder right now?”

He exhaled through his nose.

“Did you light candles?”

“Two.”

“Did you wear the apron?”

He scowled. “Yes.”

You kissed his jaw. “You’re so dramatic.”

He finally looked at you. “You said we’d eat together.”

You softened. “I know. And I hate that I missed it. But you know I love you, right?”

He blinked, defenses crumbling fast. “…even when I pout?”

“Especially when you pout.”

And just like that, Clark Kent, petty, pouty, perfect Clark Kent, melted into your arms like warm sugar.

[matthsluv]

Challengers but it’s me and them

[matthsluv]

#ilovenerdymen

[matthsluv]

clark kent is the kind of guy to plan out his entire future with you while he’s balls deep and absolutely pussy drunk. his body is pressed against yours with his head buried in the crook of your neck, breathing heavily while making scarcely comprehensible promises in your ear. the fantasies swirl in his mind, becoming more vivid as he gets closer and closer.

“ ‘m gonna marry you, a-and we can have a farm of our own, ah- and a big house with kids, fuck…jus’ want it all with you please.” and then in true clark fashion he gets a tad embarrassed about what he said after he’s done, but you both know he really means it.

[matthsluv]

you can see it with the lights out

clark kent x fem reader 5.5k

"one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / you're my best friend ... he is in love" or, clark is home, no matter the city or season

— bffs to lovers surprise surprise, casual intimacy and yearning, dedicated to my 400 follower milestone ily all <333

— was struck by this as oomf irl said you are in love has “look up” in the lyrics like,,, ok tswift i didnt understand ur game

i. meant just for you

KANSAS, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD.

You are in love with your best friend, and Clark Kent is not in love with you.

He makes it so hard to believe, though.

Jonathan and Martha’s house is cold, even in July. Outside, it must be sweltering with the wet blanket of heartland humidity. The heat wave will pass like it always does, if you’re willing to wait for it.

Summer is different here. More familiar. The salt-sun tang of the San Francisco Bay is long gone—not that you were able to experience it often, being a stellar example of STAR Labs’ workaholic culture. In Smallville, all you can do is be helpless to the smell of hay and dry grass and the promise of a summer storm.

You let it in; full tilt, no hesitation. You’ve missed it. 

Cicadas sing just out the windows, humming above the gentle thrum of the AC and the game you randomly turned on. Looks like Pa Kent is keeping up with the Meteor’s season, so he has something to talk about to Clark when they call. He’s a man of actions, and the look he gave when he discovered you stretched out on the L-couch this morning with a blanket slung over you was more than enough for words. 

“Good morning, Mr. Kent,” you had stifled a yawn, blinking away the sleep about to take your eyelids. He didn’t even need to ask. “I let myself in, if you don’t mind.” 

He never minds. More often than not, you always find your way to the familiar walls of the Kent living room, whether it be through the spare key Clark gave you years ago or the porch window Ma Kent sometimes leaves open. 

In high school, when Clark finally wandered down for breakfast, you used to hide under a pile of throw pillows and scare the lights out of him. You suspected that he eventually caught on—every reaction would get bigger until one day, he actually hit the ceiling, much to his mom’s amusement. 

“Wild girl,” she’d say, pinching your cheek with a soft smile. “Flickering ‘round like a firefly.” 

You hear the screen door first, and then the creak of heavy hardwood on old hinges. Clark stumbles into the living room, kicking off his muddy boots, though his white shirt is dirtier. 

“What’cha watching?” he asks, peeling the shirt off. It sticks to his back, sweat-soaked, and leaves his dark curls in a shiny mess. They flop over his forehead. 

A stammer of shame runs through your heart as you watch his back flexing when he yanks his socks off and leaves them on the doormat. Stop staring.  

“Baseball,” you say, tugging the blanket up to your bottom eyelashes. Smells like Clark and you, somehow. Your heart aches. “Meteors at Goliaths. Bottom of the sixth, two bases stolen and no outs. We’re trailing.” 

He wrinkles his nose, faintly displeased as he starts toward the kitchen. The fan’s running too high to hear his footsteps—he’s always been weirdly light on his feet—but the rush of the sink is loud enough. 

“It’s the June swoon,” Clark reminds you. The water shuts off, and he leans against the doorway with a hand towel slung over his broad shoulder. 

Warmth lights in your stomach. It’s gotten awfully hot in the house despite the AC running high. The unit outside is probably burning. 

You will your heart to calm down. “It’s July, Clark. The first, but still July.” 

“Still,” he says, padding over. You’re counting on a miracle at this point, blinking as the swell of his chest comes closer. “They don’t usually do so well this time of year.” 

Then he lowers himself on top of you, slow and steady in the way you’d slip into hot bathwater after a hard day. 

First are his hands, broad and heavy as they sink into the cushion beside your head. He braces onto his forearms, veins barely straining under tan skin. His knees settle on either side of yours. 

You freeze, owlish with your hands still holding the blanket to your face. Clark blinks once, and then drops the whole of his weight on your front, fingers diving beneath the blanket to cup your waist and nose finding home behind your jaw. You shriek, worming under his bulk. 

There’s the smothering, heavy heat of Kansas summer that you know. Clark only laughs into your neck when your knee meets his shin. Your heart does a somersault at the impression of his mouth splitting into that wide, familiar grin you would know by touch. 

His stomach presses against yours, and the world feels whole again. 

You guess the miracle you’ve been counting on has been spent on not dying when he practically crushes you. 

“Stinks,” you croak out, mouth curving uncontrollably as you paw at Clark’s shoulders. Lie—even under the layer of sweat quickly drying on his skin, you can still smell the sweet scent of hay and air-dried linen. “Move, I wanna see Velling at bat.” 

He pushes himself back up with an offended gasp—brows furrowed, mouth wide open, cheeks simmering with the slightest sunkissed blush. You miss him being close, even though he’s still half-laying on you. 

This is what lovesick feels like. Looking up at your best friend, remembering that he isn’t and will never be yours, and still wishing he could be. 

“I can’t believe you, supporting the Goliaths?” 

“What? He’s a good player!” 

“And so is Beaufort!” he complains, dropping his forehead onto your sternum. You hope he can’t hear your heart. 

“He struck out—like, every single inning,” you sputter, fisting the blanket’s soft fibers. Great. He’s just rubbed all his sweat over it. 

“June swoon,” his voice is muffled as he explains again, like it’s so simple. 

Crack! The crowd cheers through the TV’s tinny speakers. Three-run homer, and Velling runs the bases with his gloved fingers in the air. 

“It’s July.” You free your right hand from the blanket and flick the crown of his head. Finally, he rolls away, dramatically collapsing onto the carpet. You lean onto your forearm, peering down teasingly. “Plus, Beaufort isn’t as tall, buff, or cute as Velling.” 

“God, you’re mean, firefly,” Clark puffs, swatting you away. He staggers to his full height, brushing the imaginary lint off his jeans, rolling his thick neck with a sigh. 

Like he’s trying to show off, or whatever. He twists his mouth at you, miffed. 

You know better. It’s not like he’s jealous or something, no matter how much he acts like he is. Clark’s nature is just like that—he’s probably sorer about the fact that you aren’t cheering on the Meteors than the fact that you find some Gotham Goliaths guy attractive. 

(But it’s true—tall, buff, cute. Like Clark, in the way they both look kind and funny and have the same sweet smile that turns their eyes into crescents.) 

He balls his hands and puts them on his hips. “I’m gonna shower now.” 

You give him a long, hard look, not quite sure what he’s trying to do. “Okay?” 

Blame your imagination, but Clark looks a little disappointed that you’re meeting him in the middle without saying something stupid like, ‘without me’ or ‘don’t drown.’ 

He pivots around like he’s trying to show every painstaking angle of his body, conditioned by years of summer labor. Calling over his shoulder, “And then you’ll turn the game to a movie when I get back.” 

“Great,” you drawl, forcing your eyes to the corner of the room, where you know for a fact is where Clark used to sit in time-out. “I’m putting on The Notebook.” 

He disappears behind the open doorframe that leads to the hallway, but not before complaining, “You know that movie makes me sad!” 

— 

He comes back in that soft pair of sleep pants you know so well and a thin, white tee going threadbare at the collar. It’s practically translucent in the parts where the droplets still in his hair drip onto the fabric and make it cling to his skin. 

Clark has filled out all his clothes rather nicely. Used to be so small when you were kids and then boom—he struck freshman year and started gaining. But that was high school, and you’re adults now. 

You didn’t know that his office job at the Planet involved bulking up, though. Maybe it’s because he’s always chasing around that Superman. 

The shirt is practically vacuum sealed to his pectorals. The faintest suggestion of his abs peer through the fabric too, and the sleeves strain against his arms.  

“You’re blocking me,” you huff. Clark stands expectantly at the foot of the sofa, where the L sticks out. Behind him is the list of streaming services the Kents have but don’t really know how to use. 

(You should make better use of your time here to teach them…) 

“Are you moving over?” He nudges your foot with his knee. 

You comply, scooting around him until he’s comfortably sitting behind you, chest pressed to your back. Like it always is with the two of you. 

Clark’s arms wrap around you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. You can feel his soft breaths puff against the shell of your ear as you click around with the remote. 

“That one,” he says, tilting his chin up even though you can’t see what the hell he’s trying to ‘point’ at. “Drive Me Crazy.” 

The cheesy cover stares back at you, taunting. It just so happens that his favorite romcom is about childhood friends. 

Of course. Clark is a creature of comfort. That’s why he’s choosing a movie you know front to back while you sit between his legs on the L-shaped couch in his parents’ home. As friends do, obviously. 

That sends a stab into your heart. 

“We’ve seen this a million times,” you complain. It doesn’t do much, because Clark flexes his arms just so and you waste no time giving in to his demands. 

You get to the opening credits before you’re sick of watching. Clark is on your wavelength as always, because the second people start talking, he’s resting his chin on your shoulder and making everything sound like white noise. 

“Where’s Ma and Pa?” he whispers. Even at home, he keeps his goody two-shoes theater manners. It’s kind of endearing. 

“Went into town,” you mumble, stealing a glance from your peripheral. A flash of brilliant blue framed by dark lashes fills your vision before your eyes dart back to the screen. “Didn’t hear them?” 

“I did, but I was in the barn,” he sighs. Your spine presses tighter to his front at the action. “And before you say anything—yes, I finished my chores.” 

You laugh softly at the reminder. 

It must have been when you were both ten. The precipice of spring meant pleasant breezes and a gentle prickle of heat at the sun’s peak, but it also meant cleaning time. 

Ma Kent was running the farm like the—well, Clark said, ‘the shucking Navy.’ 

You had raced down the road to his place, having woken up early to finish your chores. Clark met you midway, already bounding off the porch and tackling you onto the ground. 

And then Ma Kent hollered from the barn—far out back and still clearer than the sky, a superpower in itself: Clark Joseph Kent, there’ll be no play if you don’t finish! 

She’s mellowed out over the years, though. All of you have. 

"Are you sure?” You tilt your head up, just to tease. Clark peers down at you, soft black eyelashes fanned out and fluttering. You’re half jealous and half hypnotized by how his clear blue irises flex like he’s trying to keep his pupil dilation to a low. 

He still has freckles, you note. More noticeable than they had been when you last saw him. They’re darker, splashed further across this face. 

He exhales through his nose, the breath buried in your hair, “Very sure.” 

You want him to keep talking. Something about the sound of your best friend’s voice is so lovely on the ears. It makes you want to bottle it up like a firefly, watch the light of it flicker in the dark. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s lulled you to sleep. 

“Your mom says that you realized the love of your life in Metropolis,” you whisper it like it’s a secret. You can’t help it—you're somewhat of a masochist when it comes to heartbreak. Even if it’s from Clark. 

Clark goes still. “I thought I did,” he says, quiet and deep. You can barely hear him over the movie. “I’m not so sure she loves me back.” 

“That’s stupid,” you retort, shifting to curl up with your ear pressed just below his collarbone. The arm of the couch bites into your spine, softened by the wrap of his arm around your waist. “Who couldn’t love you?” 

He looks at you then. Something simmers in the deep blue of his eyes, forlornness wading through the tar of his pupil. 

He’s so close that if he just pitched his head down by a hair, your noses would be meeting. Your breath shivers. Feels like he’s looking right through you and splitting your ribs wide open. 

You would let him crawl in. 

You would keep him warm. 

“I don’t know, firefly,” he says, finally. “Did you meet anyone in San Francisco?” 

Trying to keep your voice level, you flatten your cheek against his chest. “Maybe. Not really. Times are trying when you’re living out of a metahuman lab and drinking from an Erlenmeyer flask.” 

“Smart girl.” Clark's face doesn’t change much, but it does nothing to hide the fondness etched into his face. He leaves a sweet, earnest kiss to the crown of your head, warm hand cupping your cheek. “Smartest girl in the world.” 

You huff, amused. “Factually incorrect. There’re smarter people at LuthorCorp.” 

“Well, you’re my smart girl,” he mumbles, lips still smothered to your hair. His mouth curves into a small smile, the unfurling of summer all in one motion. “My best friend.” 

Just friends. 

ii. he says, "look up"

Autumn, San Francisco. You’re on paid leave after a containment mishap at the labs. 

Somehow, some way, Clark comes back to you. Distance does make the heart grow fonder. 

He’d shown up out of the blue on a Monday morning, curly hair in a mess and clothes all rumpled. Like he’d flown through a whirlwind, or something. 

You didn’t even know he was coming until he texted you—he rarely does that, preferring to call and hear your voice—that he was in a taxi to your apartment. There wasn’t even a hint of jet lag in his voice. 

And you love him anyways. 

(“Wait, how’d you know about the lab?” 

“Um…” Clark had trailed off, tapping his chin. There were a pair of frames stuck in his shirt pocket, as if he just left work and flew straight across the country. Which is impossible. “Lois told me. She’s writing a piece.” 

Clark Kent is not in love with you.) 

“I need to tell you something.” 

Now, you’re both spread-eagle on the floor of your apartment. The ceiling fan spins in languid circles, like how birds lazily circle over the fields. Late-day sun filters in through his curtains, hazy and nostalgic. 

Sometimes your fingers twitch and end up brushing ever so slightly. Livewire still sparks beneath your skin. 

The comics you brought as a reminder of home are scattered around the floor, some with their pages still open and fluttering with every chut-chut rotation of the fan. You’ve spent the last hour beating the boredom with them, flipping through stories and giggling at the old tropes from your childhood until you got sick and started laying in the silence. 

Comfortable silence. Nothing gets awkward, not with Clark beside you. 

Just listening to his soft breaths is enough. 

It helps to feel like a kid again. Like you aren’t grown, and you can’t see him as more than a friend. 

Clark Kent will stay in your life forever. You know this now, you’ve known this your entire life. But you still want to know him in ways no one else does. 

You turn your head to him, ignoring the way your neck protests from the lack of support on a hardwood floor. “What?” 

He blinks, swallows. The dimple in his cheek dips as he considers his words. You notice that the scruff on his jaw, which he forgot about yesterday, is gone. Clean-shaven and erased like it was never there. 

Shame. You didn’t really mind it. 

“I’m Superman.” 

There’s no fanfare to it. There’s only the single sentence, spoken at normal volume, earnest and truthful. 

Peeling your torso off the floor, you frown down at him. “Seriously?” 

“Firefly.” Clark’s pitch deepens into that voice you only know from a TV screen. One you’d press your fingers to the glass for, wondering why the man in the sky looked so damn familiar. Why he’d fill you with some sense of hope and comfort and the idea of everything being okay. 

His face shifts. Everything shifts. He draws his brows lower. He thins his mouth, just slightly so that the hollows of his cheeks are emphasized. 

You get a faint memory of snapping at one of your coworkers for raving about Superman’s face. How the structure was just so handsome. How that dimpled, thousand watts smile you couldn’t put your finger on was considered hot to the masses. 

Your fist balls against the hardwood at the image of that coworker squealing over the news feed. 

And then he’s back to his boyish self. Back to being the best friend you know better than yourself as if he didn’t drop his biggest secret into your lap. A metahuman researcher’s lap. 

Is he not afraid that you’ll cut him open? Is he so trusting and earnest and good to believe the best in you? 

“I can prove it if you want me to.” 

Your throat runs dry. All you can do is nod. 

— 

Clark holds both your hands in his just as the sunlight begins to ebb away. 

You’re on the roof of your building, away from prying eyes. The air is cold in the way only San Francisco sunsets can be, sapping away the odd heat that lingered in the afternoon. It’s concrete and mortar here. 

You miss Smallville. 

Miss the corn stalks as they rustle around you, panicles heavy and ripe. The silks, dried and brown and blowing in the soft breeze that sighs over the fields. 

Miss how the air smells of the anticipation for harvest. How the wind is ever so sweet. How the husks on two ears sound when they rub together—shh, shh, the slight musical quality that makes you fall in love with country autumns all over again. 

But with Clark holding your hands, you realize that the poets are right when they say home is a person. 

His palms are so, so warm. Rougher than you would expect them to be, since he supposedly spends more time at a desk than doing farm labor. 

You turn then over so the backs are facing the sky and run your thumb over his knuckles. He has pale, barely noticeable scars there. 

Superman fought an alien last week, you remember. Or was it a kaiju? 

Before your eyes, the little white blotches sink back into his skin. You can’t quite believe it. 

“Thinking about it, it makes sense now,” you say, training your eyes on his unmarked knuckles. You link your right fingers together, then your lefts; you burn where he touches. “That’s how you ended up on the barn roof when we were ten.” 

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Clark admits, circling his thumb on the backs of your hands. “I…didn’t want it to ruin us.” 

Oh, Clark. Sometimes he’s just too selfless for his own good. Your lungs open for a breath, and you let go, surging forward to wrap your arms around him. 

He’s so solid. He’s warm, and he’s real, and he is and will always be your best friend. 

Some things never change. 

“Wait,” you say into his chest—there’s a weird, alien thrum running through it, “so you can fly? For real?” 

You glance up, and Clark’s eyes are sliding to the side, avoidant. “Yeah…” 

“Take me out” —spike in that uncanny rhythm— “on a flight.” 

He sighs, ribs swelling in your arms. You hold on tighter and grin at him. “Ma was right. You’re wild.” 

iii. spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words

Metropolis is cold in the wintertime. 

This year, Clark decided to invite everyone—that being you and his parents—to his humble Midtown apartment for the holidays. It’s a little cramped, with Ma and Pa Kent in his bedroom and he on the couch. 

Your suitcase is parked in the corner by the door, right next to the shoe rack. Clark’s loafers, which take up the top row, have all lost their glossy shine and are scuffed at the toe box. One of them fell off and turned over, revealing worn soles that looked like the barnacled hull of a ship. 

You had been weirdly endeared by that. He really does care for his things until they’re on the brink of falling apart. 

The sill of his floor to ceiling windows are piled with inch-thick snow. The glass has been cracked open just enough so that Clark can come home without hovering outside for someone to let him in. 

Standing close to the window with a blanket wrapped around your shoulder, your breath fogs slightly and condenses on the glass. 

The city lights dance below you, glimmering and warm through the nighttime marine haze settling between the buildings. A few car horns go off here and there, merging with the old holiday jingles crooning from a neighbor’s radio, or a large LED display. 

Won’t be the same dear, if you’re not here with me… 

Endearingly, Clark still believes in Santa. There’s a pantry full of cookie ingredients and supplies, and he���s lined the seams of his walls with blinking lights. 

They’re off right now, but you know his first order of business when he flies in through that window will be to turn them on. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ma Kent says from her perch on the couch; she’s knitting something. Clark’s pillow and blankets are folded and stacked in the corner, and she leans against the pile. The TV flickers from the opposite wall. “Come sit.” 

“I’m alright Mrs. Kent,” you smile, soft. “The couch’s small, and” —jutting your chin at her husband, slumped against the cushions and closing his eyes— “I don’t wanna wake him up.” 

Pa Kent has been complaining of back issues lately. They flared up after the flight from Wichita Airport, so he’s assigned to bed (or couch) rest for the next few days. By Clark’s orders, of course. 

“You’re too sweet,” she croons, weathered face crinkling with her grin. “I keep telling our boy, he should have a girl like you.” 

Your throat gutters at her words. Ma Kent is still smiling when she turns back to her knitting project, humming softly to the song filtering in through the open window. 

Cheeks growing hot, you cough to soften the dryness in your mouth. “That—I don’t—” 

“Don’t be silly,” Pa Kent rasps, popping an eye open. You’re half-startled by the suddenness of it. “He really loves you.” 

The Kents look at each other, sidelong. Martha nods, Jonathan shrugs. It’s this little secret language that’s reminiscent of you and Clark, too. 

You just hadn’t realized until now that you probably copied it from his parents. 

“Oh.” 

“Yes,” Ma Kent says, still eyeing her husband with a knowing look. “Hm.” 

Knock on the glass. Speak of Superman, and he shall arrive. 

Just in time, too. Another minute spent being the subject of the Kents’ speculations, and you would have jumped out yourself. You grin at Clark on the other side of the window as he waves, superimposed with the city’s lights reflecting off the glass. 

He’s a whirlwind. Swept by the evening air, his hair is falling out of place, slowly melting back into the curls he usually has; miraculously, there isn’t a single flake of snow on him. The grin he returns is brighter than the sun, face blooming with wild joy as you pry the glass the rest of the way open. 

Flash of red. A wave of ozone, wind, and corn silk fills your senses as Clark barrels into you with a loud, windchime laugh. You swear you roll over twice before landing on his chest, still caught in an embrace. 

He can barely speak straight with that wide, boyish grin dawning on his face. “Why—oh my god, when? I told you to text me when you landed!” 

Your heart somersaults. Does a flip, too, maybe. 

You hope he’s not listening too closely. 

“Sorry,” you say, hiding your face in his chest. Just like you remember, solid and radiating heat like a furnace. You could burn and you wouldn’t mind. “I wanted to surprise you.” 

“Consider him surprised,” his mom calls from the couch. Embarrassment flickers through you, sparking against your ribs. Right—you aren’t alone. 

“Hi, Ma,” Clark pipes up, gently nudging your shoulder with his hand. You slide off him to sit cross-legged on the floor. He pushes himself up and that stupid, kind of cute grin is still plastered on his face. “Hi, Pa.” 

The urge to kiss him becomes so strong that you curl your hand into a fist, pressing your knuckles against the carpet. Clark turns his attention back to you, eyes blown wide and smile beginning to settle into something softer, fonder. Like when a honeymoon phase fades, and a comfortable, content feeling takes its place. 

“I missed you.” 

— 

“It says here—” 

Irritation flares in your stomach. “Man, it’s already melted—” 

“Shh!” Clark sticks his index finger up, laying it perpendicular to his mouth. He nods in the direction of the hallway, where his parents are. “They’re sleeping, remember?” 

Making cookie batter at midnight in a pitch-black apartment might be the worst idea in the world. For one, you’re keeping it dark so his parents can recover from jet lag, but you can hardly see with Clark’s huge frame blocking the lantern set on the island. 

It’s only the muted, fluorescent flicker from the string of multicolored lights lining the ceiling and the warm glow of the microwave that make the mess you’re in navigable. 

You don’t mind it much, though. Clark is softer in the dim light, every facet of his face splashed with a different color, like a mosaic. 

He wears an old Metropolis Uni sweater, dark blue and gold and riddled with holes in the collar and cuffs. His glasses are set beside the lantern—not that he needs them—and now you can see the face you know so well. 

He pinches his mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. 

“Fine,” you whisper. The ceramic bowl sitting in the center of the microwave is drenched in yellowed light, steam pouring out of the lip. You stick your finger in and jump back when you touch the bowl. "Ow, ow.” 

He comes up behind you, right arm reaching forward to lean against the counter. His smile comes off smoothly, dimples sinking into his cheeks like the most natural thing in the world as he murmurs next to your ear, “Allow me.” 

“Knock yourself out, Prince Charming.” 

Another thing about trying to make cookies while his parents are asleep: you’re practically having the cookies made for you. 

Clark is a stand mixer and oven packed into one tall, well-built man. Superpowers are cool for saving the world, sure, but they also make life a whole lot easier. 

He reaches in and hooks his fingers around the bowl, unfazed by the butter popping inside. It’s a miracle that it didn’t explode in the microwave. Liquid gold streams into the mixing bowl on the counter, joining the nondescript lump of flour, sugar, eggs, and other things you’ve lost track of. 

“Are you sure this is the right order to combine the ingredients?” he hisses, gathering the larger bowl into the crook of his left elbow. “I don’t remember how Ma did it.” 

“Well, we can’t wake her up to ask,” you whisper back, sliding a drawer open and picking through the contents for a whisk. “Besides, it’s our first time doing it. It’s not like Santa’s gonna leave a lump of coal in your stocking for trying.” 

Your best friend frowns, ever endearing. “I guess. But what if he does?” 

You tiptoe over and tap the whisk against his shoulder. Clark blinks at you, blue eyes clear and bright in the dark. “Then I have a better gift.” 

You don’t know why you said that. It just seemed like the best thing to say, you suppose. 

“I would really like to know what could beat the gift I have in mind,” Clark says, plucking the whisk out of your hand.  

He starts mixing, arm flexing beneath his old sweater as he mashes everything together. He’s quieter than a stand mixer, and faster too—you might start calling him when you have a whim to bake something. 

The tines of the whisk sigh softly when they brush against the sides of the bowl. Clark isn’t even breaking a sweat, but his inky curls are bouncing around wildly. 

Now, heat flares in your stomach, taking over the irritation you felt earlier. 

“Really,” you laugh quietly, crossing your arms before him, “and what did you want?” 

He shrugs, brows scrunched in thought. Stopping his mixing, he dips his index finger into the dough and tastes it before offering it to you. “It’s not bad.” 

“That’s gross, Clark,” you say. Shrugging, he scoops a dollop with his pinky instead and smears it along the corner of your mouth. The batter is warm with friction, and when you scrape it off your cheek and onto your tongue, it melts perfectly. 

He must notice the way your face changes, because he’s suppressing a grin ready to burst. 

You roll your eyes, sticking your own finger into the mix and smearing the dough on his cheek. “Don’t tease.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You’re about to.” 

Clark scoffs out a laugh, setting the bowl onto the counter. He gestures to his face, “How are we going to clean this up?” 

Shuffling forward, you reach for his collar and pull him closer to you. His exhale shivers as he waits for you to make your move, long eyelashes fluttering as he looks at you expectantly. 

Daring, even. Clark is painfully pretty as his eyes dart around your face, searching for a sign of something. 

“What?” you whisper, an uncontrollable grin beginning to take root. “I’m just inspecting my work of art.” 

“I have an idea,” he mumbles, eyes flicking downward. Slowly, not to startle, he raises a hand to cup your face. “But you have to trust me.” 

“’Course,” you choke out, throat running dry. “You’re my best friend.” 

The cute pouch of fat lining the bottom of his eyes emerges as he stifles his smile. You fear your heart is about to burst. Forget the cookies, forget the gifts, forget the dough still smeared on his cheek. 

Clark pitches his head forward and presses his lips to your cheek. 

This is different that all the times you’ve kissed each other’s cheeks. He’s more held-back now, thumb grazing the apple of your cheek as he presses his mouth harder against your skin. 

You kind of want to cry. Here is your best friend, the one who’d you trust with the entire world, cradling you so sweetly even though you both know you’d let him do whatever he wanted to you. 

“The dough’s a little sweet,” he says, voice low, plush lips still pressed to your burning cheek. A shiver runs through you. "How's that for a gift?"

You throw all caution into the wind, nose nudging his as you twist your head slightly and meet his lips. 

The kiss is slow, soft. It’s not with fireworks like it is in the movies. This is familiar, more than you expected it to be. 

This is Smallville summer in Metropolis winter. Clark’s mouth fits over yours like second nature, like two pieces of pottery meant to be reunited. This is slipping into bed after a hard day and finding warm arms already waiting; it’s tumbling down a hill and having a caring hand sooth over a bruised knee. 

The last twenty-seven-odd years of trying to put into words what you feel for your best friend have flipped a new page. 

Clark Kent is home, and you are in love. 

— notes!! hallo.... writing this was a total fever dream like what happened LMAO. clark kent my sweetheart best friend, im so soft for him..... pls lmk if u enjoyed my very long ramble on friends to lovers slow burn yearning!!

once again a huge huge thank u with kisses to 400 followers, many more dc fics to come for all u dearly beloved people <33

[matthsluv]

[matthsluv]

one cup at a time has officially hit a 100 notes !! so happy and grateful for the love you’ve given to this fic. more fics to come !! 😁🤍

one cup at a time - matt murdock oneshot

a/n : a break from the angst of "sidelines", my slow-burn, friends to lover, currently 60k word fanfic T-T hope you enjoy reading !! wrote this while i was palpitating on my 3rd cup of matcha

crossposted on ao3

synopsis : You’ve always had a love-hate relationship with caffeine. Love, because you can’t survive a day without it. Hate, because your intake borders on… alarming. Coffee, matcha, energy drinks... you’ve tried them all, sometimes in the same day. Matt notices, of course. And he’s had enough. Maybe one cup, and one Matt Murdock is enough to get you through the day.

tags : fluff, domestic fluff, estbalished relationship, caffeine addiction, slice of life, ooc matt idk?

pairing : matt murdock/gn!reader

wc : 2,857

You’d barely slept the night before. Briefing deadlines, paperwork spilling into your living room, and you’d powered through with the help of not one, not two, but four cups of coffee by midday.

By the time Matt came home from the office, you were jittery. Not the “oh I’m alert and awake” kind of jittery, but the “my heart feels like it’s trying to sprint out of my chest” kind.

He didn’t even take off his coat before his head tilted, his brows knitting together.

“Sweetheart.”

You tried to play it off, curled up on the couch with your laptop. But of course, Matt didn’t miss a thing. “Yes?”

His lips pressed together, like he was deciding whether or not to say what you both knew he wanted to. He walked over, slipping his cane against the wall. “Your heart’s going a mile a minute. Again.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Just… caffeine. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal when I can hear your heartbeat from the hallway before I even open the door.” He crouched beside you, one hand brushing over your wrist, checking the flutter there. “How many cups?”

“…Define cups.”

“(Y/N).”

“Four,” you admitted sheepishly. Then, under your breath: “Fine. Five.”

He sighed, the sound equal parts fond and exasperated. “You know this isn’t sustainable.”

“I had deadlines! And caffeine helps me focus.”

Matt straightened, reaching to pluck the mug from your hands. “Not when it makes you feel like your ribcage is about to explode.” He poured the rest down the sink before you could protest.

“Hey! It’s really not that bad, I feel fine.” You tried to grin, but your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the empty mug. “See? Totally fine.”

Matt simply raised his eyebrows and shaked his head in response.

The truth was, you were not totally fine . You had definitely noticed the side effects. Racing pulse, jitters, the occasional dizzy spell if you pushed too far. But caffeine had been your reliable crutch for so long that you didn’t know what a normal day without it looked like.

But you promised him, begrudgingly that you’d cut back . Which, in your mind, meant “find a loophole.”

The loophole came in the form of a bright green powder you’d ordered online the next day.

“Matcha,” you announced proudly as you whisked it in a bowl, trying not to look too smug. “It’s healthier. Antioxidants, less caffeine than coffee. So really, I’m fixing the problem.”

Matt leaned against the counter, arms folded, listening to the soft froth-froth-froth of your whisk. His head tilted, skeptical. “How much caffeine is in it?”

“Less,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Less is not none.”

You handed him the mug. “Taste it before you judge, Counselor.”

He humored you, sipping carefully. “Not bad,” he admitted. Then, quieter, “Still don’t like what it’s doing to your heart right now.”

You pretended not to hear that last part, already whisking a second serving for yourself.

For a while, the matcha worked. At least until you started brewing it two, three, four times a day.

By the end of the week, Matt leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, listening to the delicate whisking of powder and water. “You do realize,” he said, voice warm but teasing, “you’re basically just drinking green coffee at this point.”

“Still healthier than coffee.” You said, lifting the cup for a cautious sip.

Matt smirked, leaning against the counter. “Healthier, sure. But you’re still vibrating enough to power the entire block.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips.

“That’s your last matcha for today,” Matt declared, arms still crossed, eyes glinting with mischief.

“What? This is my first one,” you protested, setting the cup down.

Before you could say anything else, he leaned in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your lips. The faint, earthy bitterness of matcha clung to your lips, mingling with the warmth of you and filling his senses. Pulling back just enough to smirk, he murmured, “Liar.”

You groaned, a mix of exasperation and amusement, but your cheeks warmed anyway. “You’re impossible.”

The loopholes didn’t stop at matcha.

Because when coffee was off-limits and matcha was “monitored,” you got… creative. Which is how Matt came home one evening to the unmistakable pshh-click of a can opening.

His head immediately snapped toward the sound. “…Was that—”

“No,” you blurted, too fast.

He took a slow step forward. “Sweetheart.”

You froze, mid-sip of neon-blue liquid, caught like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar. “It’s not coffee.”

Matt’s brows furrowed. “No, it’s worse.”

“It says zero sugar ,” you argued weakly, holding up the can.

“Your heart doesn’t care about sugar content.” He sighed, running a hand down his face like he was physically restraining himself from lecturing. “How many?”

“…One.”

His head tilted.

“…Fine. Two.”

“(Y/N).”

“…Three?” you squeaked, then winced.

Matt looked so utterly done, you almost laughed. Almost.

“You drink coffee, then energy drinks?” he asked incredulously, crouching beside you like he expected you to keel over at any second. His hand pressed lightly against your chest, feeling the hummingbird flutter of your heartbeat. “I genuinely don’t know how you’re not flatlining.”

You snorted. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not. I can hear your heart racing. It’s like—” He gestured vaguely. “Like you’re sprinting and sitting down at the same time. It’s awful.”

Your grin wavered, guilt slipping in. “Okay… maybe it was a bad idea.”

Matt stepped closer, plucking the can from your hand. “Not maybe. Definitely.” His tone softened. “You don’t need this much, sweetheart. You don’t have to run yourself into the ground just to keep up. Just take a nap with me, and I promise you’ll wake up feeling better than any caffeine could ever make you feel.”

The words sank in, warming you from the inside out more than any coffee or energy drink ever could.

The next morning, you woke to find the fridge mysteriously empty of all neon-colored cans. You figured that was fine, matcha it is. But when you went to look for that, it was gone too. Panic rising, you tore through every cupboard and drawer searching for your coffee stash. Nothing. It was nowhere to be found. The it clicked. Only one person could be responsible for this. 

“Matt.”

“Yes?” he answered innocently from the kitchen, where the smell of toast and eggs filled the air.

“You confiscated my caffeine stash?”

“Confiscated,” he repeated, setting a plate on the table. “Correct.”

You flopped into a chair dramatically. “You’ve gone full prohibition on me.”

“On your heart, yes.” He set down a single steaming mug of coffee in front of you. “One cup. Properly measured. And breakfast, so you don’t run on caffeine fumes.”

You tilted your head up at him. “You’re really gonna ration my drinks like I’m on caffeine probation?”

“Exactly.”

“Dictator.”

“Concerned boyfriend,” he amended, lips quirking.

You rolled your eyes, but when he kissed you, slow and sweet, you figured maybe caffeine wasn’t the only thing that kept your heart racing.

After the energy drink incident, he’s become even more of a tyrant about your so-called caffeine addiction. What started as a few gentle reminders has morphed into full-blown intervention. Matt has practically declared himself the authority on what goes into your system, especially if it has even a whisper of caffeine.

Now, he’s basically running his own personal caffeine rehab program. He checks the clock like a warden to make sure you’re in bed before midnight, nudges you toward naps when your eyelids get heavy, and hands you water bottles with the same kind of gravity other people reserve for holy relics. Also, herbal teas have invaded your cupboards like an army.

“Matt!” you call out. “Why does this look like the stockroom of an apothecary?”

He appears in the doorway, a grin plastered on his face. “Options. Chamomile, peppermint, ginger, hibiscus—”

You hold one up, laughing. “This one literally says Sleepytime. ”

“Perfect for you,” he says, lips twitching. “Because I’m not letting you stay up until two a.m. scrolling through case notes anymore.”

You roll your eyes, but when he brushes past to put the boxes away, his shoulder lingers against yours.

 “You know this is bordering on obsession, right?”

“Only with you,” he says smoothly, leaving you flustered with nothing but a tea bag in your hand.

You’re still flustered when you retreat to the table and bury yourself in paperwork. A few minutes later, a cool glass of water slides into your field of vision.

“Drink,” Matt says, tone leaving no room for argument.

You arch a brow at him. “You sound like my mom.”

“Your heart rate spikes every time you drink coffee,” he replies evenly. “Water evens it out. So yeah, I’ll take the title.”

You take the glass with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But I’m not calling you Mom.”

His mouth quirks. “Good. I was hoping for something a little more flattering.”

You snort, taking a sip to hide your grin.

The next time you yawn, you don’t even notice until his hand closes gently around your wrist, pulling the pen from your fingers.

“Matt—”

“You need a nap,” he says firmly.

“I do not.”

“You’re cranky, rubbing your eyes, and yawning every thirty seconds. So yes, you do.”

“Manipulative lawyer tactics,” you mutter, but you still let him guide you toward the couch.

“Exactly,” he says, steering you down until you’re half-reclined. He drapes a blanket over your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you actually rest.”

“You can’t just babysit me while I nap.”

He settles onto the couch beside you, close enough that the heat from his body radiates through the blanket. His voice softens.

“Sure I can. Besides, I read somewhere people sleep better next to their partner.”

Your face warms. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe. Want to test the theory?” His voice dips teasing, but there’s a gentleness underneath.

You want to argue, but your eyelids betray you by slipping shut, and when you finally drift off, it’s to the faint, steady rhythm of his breathing beside you. The quiet weight of his presence blur the edges of your thoughts.

Ridiculous or not, you’re asleep within minutes.

Later that week, you tried to be sneaky.

You were practically giddy when you slipped into the café on your lunch break. Just one coffee. Just one. You’d drink it all there, finish it before heading home, and Matt would never know. Well… probably he would , since he seemed capable of detecting caffeine from three blocks away, but whatever—you’d deal with that later.

You stood at the counter, already imagining the first sip when the barista asked for your order.

 “Vanilla latte. Extra shot,” you said, voice light with anticipation.

“That’ll be—”

“I’ve got it,” came a familiar voice from just behind you.

You froze. Slowly, you turned, already knowing who it was. Matt stood there, cane in hand, that maddeningly calm little smile tugging at his lips.

“Matt,” you said, half-guilty, half-defensive. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he teased. Then, turning slightly toward the barista: “And a chamomile tea, please.”

“Chamomile? Really?” Of all the teas in the world, he picks the one you’ve been chugging like water at home? You swear, if you have to drink another cup of this stuff, you might actually lose your mind.

Matt doesn’t reply, but a smug expression is plastered on his face. The barista glanced between the two of you, clearly amused, but took the card Matt held out anyway.

Your rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

When the cups came out, he pressed the warm paper sleeve of the tea into your palm. You sighed dramatically but accepted it, sneaking a sip. It wasn’t the creamy, sweet caffeine hit you craved, but the floral calm of it settled oddly well in your chest.

“See?” Matt murmured, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Not so bad. And maybe your heart will thank me later.”

Heart maybe? But your sanity? That’s another question. You tried to look annoyed, but the way he leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth in front of the entire café made it hard to keep up the act.

It was well past midnight when you finally curled onto the couch, blanket draped over your shoulders and a steaming mug cradled in your hands. The glow of your laptop bathed the room in pale light as you scrolled half-heartedly through work emails you’d ignored all day.

A faint thump at the window made you startle. Before you could react, Matt swung gracefully through it, landing silently beside you, dressed in all black with the mask around his eyes from his patrol.

He tilted his head, nostrils flaring just slightly. He quirked his eyebrows. “Tea?”

“Chamomile. Proud of me?”

“Always,” he said simply, settling beside you and pulling you close. 

After a moment, he reached up and tugged the mask off, setting it gently on the coffee table. His hair fell slightly into place, and the tension in his shoulders eased.

You studied him carefully, scanning from head to toe for any signs of trouble. No major bleeding, no broken bones it seemed, and nothing was swollen. But a small cut on his cheek caught your eye, and you reached up to gently caress his face, letting your fingers trace the faint line.

“It’s just a small cut,” he reassured softly, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you pressed a quick, tender kiss to his cheek.

Matt gave a quiet hum of amusement and leaned back slightly, taking the cup of tea from your hands. He took a slow sip and smirked. “It’s past midnight. You’d normally be working through a pot of coffee by now.”

You glared at him over the steam. “Well, someone bullied me into quitting, remember?”

“Suggested,” he corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

“Suggested,” you echoed flatly. “Like a tyrant suggests things.”

That earned you a low chuckle, warm enough to break through your mock scowl. His head tilted toward you, and you could feel the weight of his focus even without his eyes on you.

“You want coffee right now, don’t you?” he asked, quiet but certain.

Your lips twitched against the rim of your mug. “…Yes. Desperately. With every fiber of my soul.”

He smirked. “Knew it.”

“Don’t sound so smug. It’s not like you don’t drink coffee too.”

“Yeah,” he countered smoothly, leaning back against the couch like he had all the time in the world, “a normal amount of it.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, nearly sloshing tea on your blanket. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmured, catching your hand before it dropped away, thumb brushing your knuckles with easy familiarity,“you still put up with me every night.”

You tipped your cup toward him with a sly smile. “What can I say? Besides caffeine, I’m pretty sure I’m addicted to you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a slow smirk. Before you could take another sip, he leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to your lips. 

“Mm,” he murmured, still close enough for you to feel the curve of his smile. “You sure you didn’t sneak any coffee? ’Cause your heart’s beating fast.”

You gave him a flat look and a short laugh. “Ha-ha. Very Funny.”

He smirked and pointed at your mug.“You going to make it through the night without giving in?”

You sighed, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Probably not. I already promised myself if I dream about coffee one more time, I’m giving up this whole tea experiment and going back to my one true love.”

His brows lifted, teasing. “Dreaming about it?”

“Yes. And don’t you dare make that sound like I need a support group.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said innocently, though his smile gave him away. Then, with a tilt of his head, “Also, I thought I was your one true love?”

You turned your face into his shoulder to hide your laugh, heat creeping up your neck. “Don’t push it, Murdock.”” 

A smile ghosted over Matt’s lips. “You really are trying, though.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, grumbling half-heartedly. “Trying and failing.”

“Trying,” he repeated firmly, like he wanted the word to stick. “That’s enough.”

The room settled quiet after that. The soft hum of your laptop fan, the warmth of his arm against yours,  and the faint curl of chamomile steam drifted between you. 

You leaned your head against him and closed your eyes. The craving for coffee and the exhaustion of the day faded. All that remained was him, the quiet of the night, and the comfort of being together. Matt shifted slightly and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. You let out a quiet sigh, savoring the moment. Being here with him was all you needed.

a/n : this is lowkey based on a true story ... i used to drink a energy drink in the morning, then maybe 2 glasses of coke during lunch and stop by my school's cafeteria to buy some coffee after.

bf bought me matcha but in a diff flavor from the place i always buy from and my heart started beating really fast.

bf was like “stop drinking??” i was like “nah it’s fine.”

lunch time i decide to buy matcha from the same place, i start palpitating again. bf again was like “dont drink it anymore ??? you had too much matcha”

but of course i dont listen cause i didnt want to waste my ₱180 matcha and it took me over 5 hours to finish the drink cause anytime i would take a sip my heart would like beat really fast 🧍‍♀️

NOT A FLEX, do not do this 😭

[matthsluv]

no one cares but can you guys help me pls 😭😭

im about to start “college” technically. im going to a culinary school which is only 1 year and i have a guaranteed international intership after, after that my mom thinks i should go back to another technical school again for hospitality (hrm) so i have broader options for work. i totally agree with her but there’s another school that i’m looking at that’s 2 years which has culinary + hrm, but has subjects like sales and accounting 😭😭

what do you guys think i should go for? while the 2 year option seems obv the better one, it doesn’t have clear paths for international interships and it isn’t really a known school compared to the culinary school so idk ACKKKKK

[matthsluv]

hello! for all the people that have sent in request, ill be getting them done by next week. currently busy handling school stuff and other personal stuff in my life, so it may take some time for me to write :D thats all, love u guys <3

[matthsluv]

need to be sandwhiched between smallville clark kent and superman (2025) clark kent

[matthsluv]

hello!! pls send in request plspls, i’ll write about anything and anyone about the fandoms im in 😭🙏

[matthsluv]

one cup at a time - matt murdock oneshot

a/n : a break from the angst of "sidelines", my slow-burn, friends to lover, currently 60k word fanfic T-T hope you enjoy reading !! wrote this while i was palpitating on my 3rd cup of matcha

crossposted on ao3

synopsis : You’ve always had a love-hate relationship with caffeine. Love, because you can’t survive a day without it. Hate, because your intake borders on… alarming. Coffee, matcha, energy drinks... you’ve tried them all, sometimes in the same day. Matt notices, of course. And he’s had enough. Maybe one cup, and one Matt Murdock is enough to get you through the day.

tags : fluff, domestic fluff, estbalished relationship, caffeine addiction, slice of life, ooc matt idk?

pairing : matt murdock/gn!reader

wc : 2,857

You’d barely slept the night before. Briefing deadlines, paperwork spilling into your living room, and you’d powered through with the help of not one, not two, but four cups of coffee by midday.

By the time Matt came home from the office, you were jittery. Not the “oh I’m alert and awake” kind of jittery, but the “my heart feels like it’s trying to sprint out of my chest” kind.

He didn’t even take off his coat before his head tilted, his brows knitting together.

“Sweetheart.”

You tried to play it off, curled up on the couch with your laptop. But of course, Matt didn’t miss a thing. “Yes?”

His lips pressed together, like he was deciding whether or not to say what you both knew he wanted to. He walked over, slipping his cane against the wall. “Your heart’s going a mile a minute. Again.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Just… caffeine. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal when I can hear your heartbeat from the hallway before I even open the door.” He crouched beside you, one hand brushing over your wrist, checking the flutter there. “How many cups?”

“…Define cups.”

“(Y/N).”

“Four,” you admitted sheepishly. Then, under your breath: “Fine. Five.”

He sighed, the sound equal parts fond and exasperated. “You know this isn’t sustainable.”

“I had deadlines! And caffeine helps me focus.”

Matt straightened, reaching to pluck the mug from your hands. “Not when it makes you feel like your ribcage is about to explode.” He poured the rest down the sink before you could protest.

“Hey! It’s really not that bad, I feel fine.” You tried to grin, but your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the empty mug. “See? Totally fine.”

Matt simply raised his eyebrows and shaked his head in response.

The truth was, you were not totally fine . You had definitely noticed the side effects. Racing pulse, jitters, the occasional dizzy spell if you pushed too far. But caffeine had been your reliable crutch for so long that you didn’t know what a normal day without it looked like.

But you promised him, begrudgingly that you’d cut back . Which, in your mind, meant “find a loophole.”

The loophole came in the form of a bright green powder you’d ordered online the next day.

“Matcha,” you announced proudly as you whisked it in a bowl, trying not to look too smug. “It’s healthier. Antioxidants, less caffeine than coffee. So really, I’m fixing the problem.”

Matt leaned against the counter, arms folded, listening to the soft froth-froth-froth of your whisk. His head tilted, skeptical. “How much caffeine is in it?”

“Less,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Less is not none.”

You handed him the mug. “Taste it before you judge, Counselor.”

He humored you, sipping carefully. “Not bad,” he admitted. Then, quieter, “Still don’t like what it’s doing to your heart right now.”

You pretended not to hear that last part, already whisking a second serving for yourself.

For a while, the matcha worked. At least until you started brewing it two, three, four times a day.

By the end of the week, Matt leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, listening to the delicate whisking of powder and water. “You do realize,” he said, voice warm but teasing, “you’re basically just drinking green coffee at this point.”

“Still healthier than coffee.” You said, lifting the cup for a cautious sip.

Matt smirked, leaning against the counter. “Healthier, sure. But you’re still vibrating enough to power the entire block.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips.

“That’s your last matcha for today,” Matt declared, arms still crossed, eyes glinting with mischief.

“What? This is my first one,” you protested, setting the cup down.

Before you could say anything else, he leaned in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your lips. The faint, earthy bitterness of matcha clung to your lips, mingling with the warmth of you and filling his senses. Pulling back just enough to smirk, he murmured, “Liar.”

You groaned, a mix of exasperation and amusement, but your cheeks warmed anyway. “You’re impossible.”

The loopholes didn’t stop at matcha.

Because when coffee was off-limits and matcha was “monitored,” you got… creative. Which is how Matt came home one evening to the unmistakable pshh-click of a can opening.

His head immediately snapped toward the sound. “…Was that—”

“No,” you blurted, too fast.

He took a slow step forward. “Sweetheart.”

You froze, mid-sip of neon-blue liquid, caught like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar. “It’s not coffee.”

Matt’s brows furrowed. “No, it’s worse.”

“It says zero sugar ,” you argued weakly, holding up the can.

“Your heart doesn’t care about sugar content.” He sighed, running a hand down his face like he was physically restraining himself from lecturing. “How many?”

“…One.”

His head tilted.

“…Fine. Two.”

“(Y/N).”

“…Three?” you squeaked, then winced.

Matt looked so utterly done, you almost laughed. Almost.

“You drink coffee, then energy drinks?” he asked incredulously, crouching beside you like he expected you to keel over at any second. His hand pressed lightly against your chest, feeling the hummingbird flutter of your heartbeat. “I genuinely don’t know how you’re not flatlining.”

You snorted. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not. I can hear your heart racing. It’s like—” He gestured vaguely. “Like you’re sprinting and sitting down at the same time. It’s awful.”

Your grin wavered, guilt slipping in. “Okay… maybe it was a bad idea.”

Matt stepped closer, plucking the can from your hand. “Not maybe. Definitely.” His tone softened. “You don’t need this much, sweetheart. You don’t have to run yourself into the ground just to keep up. Just take a nap with me, and I promise you’ll wake up feeling better than any caffeine could ever make you feel.”

The words sank in, warming you from the inside out more than any coffee or energy drink ever could.

The next morning, you woke to find the fridge mysteriously empty of all neon-colored cans. You figured that was fine, matcha it is. But when you went to look for that, it was gone too. Panic rising, you tore through every cupboard and drawer searching for your coffee stash. Nothing. It was nowhere to be found. The it clicked. Only one person could be responsible for this. 

“Matt.”

“Yes?” he answered innocently from the kitchen, where the smell of toast and eggs filled the air.

“You confiscated my caffeine stash?”

“Confiscated,” he repeated, setting a plate on the table. “Correct.”

You flopped into a chair dramatically. “You’ve gone full prohibition on me.”

“On your heart, yes.” He set down a single steaming mug of coffee in front of you. “One cup. Properly measured. And breakfast, so you don’t run on caffeine fumes.”

You tilted your head up at him. “You’re really gonna ration my drinks like I’m on caffeine probation?”

“Exactly.”

“Dictator.”

“Concerned boyfriend,” he amended, lips quirking.

You rolled your eyes, but when he kissed you, slow and sweet, you figured maybe caffeine wasn’t the only thing that kept your heart racing.

After the energy drink incident, he’s become even more of a tyrant about your so-called caffeine addiction. What started as a few gentle reminders has morphed into full-blown intervention. Matt has practically declared himself the authority on what goes into your system, especially if it has even a whisper of caffeine.

Now, he’s basically running his own personal caffeine rehab program. He checks the clock like a warden to make sure you’re in bed before midnight, nudges you toward naps when your eyelids get heavy, and hands you water bottles with the same kind of gravity other people reserve for holy relics. Also, herbal teas have invaded your cupboards like an army.

“Matt!” you call out. “Why does this look like the stockroom of an apothecary?”

He appears in the doorway, a grin plastered on his face. “Options. Chamomile, peppermint, ginger, hibiscus—”

You hold one up, laughing. “This one literally says Sleepytime. ”

“Perfect for you,” he says, lips twitching. “Because I’m not letting you stay up until two a.m. scrolling through case notes anymore.”

You roll your eyes, but when he brushes past to put the boxes away, his shoulder lingers against yours.

 “You know this is bordering on obsession, right?”

“Only with you,” he says smoothly, leaving you flustered with nothing but a tea bag in your hand.

You’re still flustered when you retreat to the table and bury yourself in paperwork. A few minutes later, a cool glass of water slides into your field of vision.

“Drink,” Matt says, tone leaving no room for argument.

You arch a brow at him. “You sound like my mom.”

“Your heart rate spikes every time you drink coffee,” he replies evenly. “Water evens it out. So yeah, I’ll take the title.”

You take the glass with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But I’m not calling you Mom.”

His mouth quirks. “Good. I was hoping for something a little more flattering.”

You snort, taking a sip to hide your grin.

The next time you yawn, you don’t even notice until his hand closes gently around your wrist, pulling the pen from your fingers.

“Matt—”

“You need a nap,” he says firmly.

“I do not.”

“You’re cranky, rubbing your eyes, and yawning every thirty seconds. So yes, you do.”

“Manipulative lawyer tactics,” you mutter, but you still let him guide you toward the couch.

“Exactly,” he says, steering you down until you’re half-reclined. He drapes a blanket over your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you actually rest.”

“You can’t just babysit me while I nap.”

He settles onto the couch beside you, close enough that the heat from his body radiates through the blanket. His voice softens.

“Sure I can. Besides, I read somewhere people sleep better next to their partner.”

Your face warms. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe. Want to test the theory?” His voice dips teasing, but there’s a gentleness underneath.

You want to argue, but your eyelids betray you by slipping shut, and when you finally drift off, it’s to the faint, steady rhythm of his breathing beside you. The quiet weight of his presence blur the edges of your thoughts.

Ridiculous or not, you’re asleep within minutes.

Later that week, you tried to be sneaky.

You were practically giddy when you slipped into the café on your lunch break. Just one coffee. Just one. You’d drink it all there, finish it before heading home, and Matt would never know. Well… probably he would , since he seemed capable of detecting caffeine from three blocks away, but whatever—you’d deal with that later.

You stood at the counter, already imagining the first sip when the barista asked for your order.

 “Vanilla latte. Extra shot,” you said, voice light with anticipation.

“That’ll be—”

“I’ve got it,” came a familiar voice from just behind you.

You froze. Slowly, you turned, already knowing who it was. Matt stood there, cane in hand, that maddeningly calm little smile tugging at his lips.

“Matt,” you said, half-guilty, half-defensive. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he teased. Then, turning slightly toward the barista: “And a chamomile tea, please.”

“Chamomile? Really?” Of all the teas in the world, he picks the one you’ve been chugging like water at home? You swear, if you have to drink another cup of this stuff, you might actually lose your mind.

Matt doesn’t reply, but a smug expression is plastered on his face. The barista glanced between the two of you, clearly amused, but took the card Matt held out anyway.

Your rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

When the cups came out, he pressed the warm paper sleeve of the tea into your palm. You sighed dramatically but accepted it, sneaking a sip. It wasn’t the creamy, sweet caffeine hit you craved, but the floral calm of it settled oddly well in your chest.

“See?” Matt murmured, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Not so bad. And maybe your heart will thank me later.”

Heart maybe? But your sanity? That’s another question. You tried to look annoyed, but the way he leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth in front of the entire café made it hard to keep up the act.

It was well past midnight when you finally curled onto the couch, blanket draped over your shoulders and a steaming mug cradled in your hands. The glow of your laptop bathed the room in pale light as you scrolled half-heartedly through work emails you’d ignored all day.

A faint thump at the window made you startle. Before you could react, Matt swung gracefully through it, landing silently beside you, dressed in all black with the mask around his eyes from his patrol.

He tilted his head, nostrils flaring just slightly. He quirked his eyebrows. “Tea?”

“Chamomile. Proud of me?”

“Always,” he said simply, settling beside you and pulling you close. 

After a moment, he reached up and tugged the mask off, setting it gently on the coffee table. His hair fell slightly into place, and the tension in his shoulders eased.

You studied him carefully, scanning from head to toe for any signs of trouble. No major bleeding, no broken bones it seemed, and nothing was swollen. But a small cut on his cheek caught your eye, and you reached up to gently caress his face, letting your fingers trace the faint line.

“It’s just a small cut,” he reassured softly, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you pressed a quick, tender kiss to his cheek.

Matt gave a quiet hum of amusement and leaned back slightly, taking the cup of tea from your hands. He took a slow sip and smirked. “It’s past midnight. You’d normally be working through a pot of coffee by now.”

You glared at him over the steam. “Well, someone bullied me into quitting, remember?”

“Suggested,” he corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

“Suggested,” you echoed flatly. “Like a tyrant suggests things.”

That earned you a low chuckle, warm enough to break through your mock scowl. His head tilted toward you, and you could feel the weight of his focus even without his eyes on you.

“You want coffee right now, don’t you?” he asked, quiet but certain.

Your lips twitched against the rim of your mug. “…Yes. Desperately. With every fiber of my soul.”

He smirked. “Knew it.”

“Don’t sound so smug. It’s not like you don’t drink coffee too.”

“Yeah,” he countered smoothly, leaning back against the couch like he had all the time in the world, “a normal amount of it.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, nearly sloshing tea on your blanket. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmured, catching your hand before it dropped away, thumb brushing your knuckles with easy familiarity,“you still put up with me every night.”

You tipped your cup toward him with a sly smile. “What can I say? Besides caffeine, I’m pretty sure I’m addicted to you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a slow smirk. Before you could take another sip, he leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to your lips. 

“Mm,” he murmured, still close enough for you to feel the curve of his smile. “You sure you didn’t sneak any coffee? ’Cause your heart’s beating fast.”

You gave him a flat look and a short laugh. “Ha-ha. Very Funny.”

He smirked and pointed at your mug.“You going to make it through the night without giving in?”

You sighed, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Probably not. I already promised myself if I dream about coffee one more time, I’m giving up this whole tea experiment and going back to my one true love.”

His brows lifted, teasing. “Dreaming about it?”

“Yes. And don’t you dare make that sound like I need a support group.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said innocently, though his smile gave him away. Then, with a tilt of his head, “Also, I thought I was your one true love?”

You turned your face into his shoulder to hide your laugh, heat creeping up your neck. “Don’t push it, Murdock.”” 

A smile ghosted over Matt’s lips. “You really are trying, though.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, grumbling half-heartedly. “Trying and failing.”

“Trying,” he repeated firmly, like he wanted the word to stick. “That’s enough.”

The room settled quiet after that. The soft hum of your laptop fan, the warmth of his arm against yours,  and the faint curl of chamomile steam drifted between you. 

You leaned your head against him and closed your eyes. The craving for coffee and the exhaustion of the day faded. All that remained was him, the quiet of the night, and the comfort of being together. Matt shifted slightly and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. You let out a quiet sigh, savoring the moment. Being here with him was all you needed.

a/n : this is lowkey based on a true story ... i used to drink a energy drink in the morning, then maybe 2 glasses of coke during lunch and stop by my school's cafeteria to buy some coffee after.

bf bought me matcha but in a diff flavor from the place i always buy from and my heart started beating really fast.

bf was like “stop drinking??” i was like “nah it’s fine.”

lunch time i decide to buy matcha from the same place, i start palpitating again. bf again was like “dont drink it anymore ??? you had too much matcha”

but of course i dont listen cause i didnt want to waste my ₱180 matcha and it took me over 5 hours to finish the drink cause anytime i would take a sip my heart would like beat really fast 🧍‍♀️

NOT A FLEX, do not do this 😭

[matthsluv]

may or may not be cooking up an adrian fic rn

[matthsluv]

sidelines — chapter 1. friends...?

a/n : hii !! ive been working in this for like a month now and i really hope you guys like it :D english isn't my first language, and this isn't proof read so i apologize for the mistakes 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i also havent written anything in a loooong while so this might be a tough read idk

synopsis : you have has always felt like you're on the sidelines of matt's life, silently longing for something more that you know will never come. but what you don't know is that Matt’s been watching you just as closely, never once seeing you on the sidelines—only right at the center of it all.

tags : friends to lovers, slow burn guys like actually this was literally just supposed to be a one shot but i got carried away, yearning, idiots in love and angst

warnings : might be ooc matt, i havent watched in a while ... dual pov shifts idk i was trying something new , will be adding more as chapters go on probably

pairings : matt murdock x fem!reader

word count : 658

series masterlist : 1 | 2 | 3 | ...

"Why do you do that?" Matt asks, and you quirk your eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"Whenever we're out in public, you're always so... far away. You act like we're just colleagues and you're always so formal," he explains. There’s a faint crease between his brows, the kind that only shows when something truly matters. His tone is casual, laced with a teasing edge, but beneath it, there’s a quiet weight, like he’s testing the waters for something deeper.

A chuckle escapes your lips, causing a smile to form on Matt’s face. "Aren’t we colleagues, though?"

He listens closely, closer than you could ever know. He hears the subtle hitch in your breath, the faint tremble you try to hide in your exhale. It’s small, barely there, but to him, it’s as loud as a confession. And for a fleeting moment, he wonders if the storm churning in his chest might have a mirror in yours.

"You know we’re more than that," Matt says earnestly, and your heart skips a beat. More than that? What did he mean? There’s a sliver of hope inside you, tender and flickering, like the soft glow of a candle in the wind, trying to stay lit despite the breeze of doubt.

"We’re friends, practically family, you know?" he adds, and just like that, the flame goes out. The hope disappears in a wisp of smoke, leaving behind only the faint scent of what could’ve been.

You nod, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach your voice. "Right. Friends."

Matt tilts his head slightly, catching the subtle tension in your breath, the stiffness in your posture. You look away, pretending to focus on the paperwork in front of you, but he knows, he feels that something’s shifted.

You hope he can’t tell. But Matt can. He hears the difference in your silence, the ache hiding in the spaces between your words. He doesn't push, though. He just sits there, the words me too resting heavy on his tongue.

But like so many things between you, they never make it out.

Normally, silence felt easy, like slipping into a familiar rhythm, no words needed. But this? This silence feels sharp around the edges, like it’s holding its breath. It stretches too long, filled with everything you’re both too afraid to say.

Matt shifts slightly in his seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table. It’s a quiet motion, but there’s a tension to it, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. 

You keep your eyes on the paperwork, but the words blur together, meaningless. Your mind is still caught on the way he said it—we’re more than that. And then how quickly he pulled it back.

Of course, you can’t be more than friends. That’s the part you keep reminding yourself.

He’s Matt Murdock. Confident, brave, always in control. He walks through fire for the people he loves. And you? You’re the one who lingers on the sidelines. The quiet constant in his life, organizing case files, remembering the little things, laughing at his jokes, like it doesn’t sting to know that’s all it will ever be. You’re the steady rhythm in his chaotic world, the person who fades into the background so everything else can shine.

It’s always like that with Matt. Moments that almost become something, before retreating into the safety of familiarity

So when he says we’re more than that, your mind stumbles. Not because you don’t want it to be true, but because deep down, you’ve always believed it couldn’t be. Not for you. Not with him.

He turns his head in your direction. “You okay?”

“Yes,” You answer quickly.

He doesn’t press. But his fingers stop drumming. Some part of you wants him to call your bluff, to reach across the space between you and say he didn’t mean family the way you heard it. But you both stay in your corners, careful and quiet.

next chapter — 2

a/n : hi !! hope you're liking it so far. i know this chapter's short, but it's only cause the next one is long in comparison. anyways, will try to update this as reglarly as i can :DD

[matthsluv]

sidelines — chapter 2. icu

a/n : i really like this chapter and in hindsight i could just post this whole thing as a one shot but i feel like since it's long, splitting it up would into parts would make it easier to read.

synopsis : you have has always felt like you're on the sidelines of matt's life, silently longing for something more that you know will never come. but what you don't know is that Matt’s been watching you just as closely, never once seeing you on the sidelines—only right at the center of it all.

tags : friends to lovers, slow burn guys like actually this was literally just supposed to be a one shot but i got carried away, yearning, idiots in love and angst, y/n's an overthinker shes js like me fr

warnings : might be ooc matt, i havent watched in a while ... dual pov shifts idk i was trying something new , will be adding more as chapters go on probably

pairings : matt murdock x fem!reader

word count : 3,097

series masterlist : 1 | 2 | 3 | ...

The next day, the office hums with its usual quiet energy. Files are passed around, phones ring softly in the background, and the scent of coffee lingers in the air. You’ve buried yourself in paperwork; anything to keep busy to avoid the small, flickering thoughts that have been gnawing at the back of your mind since yesterday. 

The door opens with a soft click, and Karen steps in, her presence filling the room. She waves her hand as if to greet everyone in general, but her gaze lands first on Matt. 

“Hey Matt.” She said, a smile plastered on her face.

Matt responds immediately, his voice warm, familiar. "Good morning, Karen."

You glance up, just for a second, enough to catch a glimpse of them both. Karen leans slightly toward Matt’s desk, and he responds, his voice a touch softer than usual, almost too relaxed. It doesn’t make sense. Why does it bother you so much? You’ve seen them talk a thousand times. It’s just the usual—Matt and Karen, laughing, talking like they always do. But today, it’s different. Today, it feels too much.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you shuffle the papers in front of you, trying to steady your thoughts. Matt’s voice reaches you through the noise, but you can’t look up, can’t bring yourself to look at him yet. You can’t meet his smile right now. Not with the weight of the space between you, not with the feeling that something inside you is slowly unraveling.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked, his tone softer than before, the hint of concern threading through his words.

“I’m fine.” The words leave your mouth quickly, too quickly, as if convincing yourself more than him. You don’t want to look weak, don’t want him to see the turmoil swirling in your chest. But the lie feels like a heavy weight on your tongue, and you’re not sure if Matt buys it, even though he doesn’t press any further.

But Matt’s not fooled. He can hear the difference in your voice, the subtle dissonance between what you say and how you sound. 

You turn your attention back to the papers before you, but the words blur again. Your mind keeps drifting back to the way Karen leaned toward Matt, the softness in his voice when he responded. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t feel this twist in your stomach, this sting of something unspoken. But you do.

“If you need anything, I’m here,” he pauses, then adds, “you know that, right?”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, frozen in place as his words settle into the space between you. If you need anything, I’m here. You know he means it; that much is clear. But it doesn't ease the weight in your chest. The air feels thick with everything you're not saying, everything you're afraid to say. 

You hum in response, the sound low and almost lost in the space between you, but it’s enough. Matt nods, but you can tell he’s not convinced. You wonder if he’s waiting for you to say more, but you can’t bring yourself to speak. The lie “I’m fine” still clings to your thoughts, heavy and suffocating.

The room is quiet as the others go about their tasks. papers shuffle, phones ring in the background, and the quiet tapping of keyboards fills the space. Everyone is lost in their work, focused and busy, but you can’t shake the heavy silence that’s settled between you and Matt.

The longer the silence stretches, the more the feeling of distance creeps in, making the air thick with unspoken words. You try to push it down, but it won’t go away. It’s like a weight pressing on your chest, and all you can do is sit with it, pretending it doesn’t matter when it matters more than anything.

Matt shifts again, the quiet sound of his chair moving almost like a question. You don’t look up, though. You can’t. Instead, you force yourself to focus, pretending that everything is fine, pretending that the storm swirling inside you isn’t there.

But it is. And you both know it.

The silence is disturbed as Foggy enters the room. It breaks the fragile tension that has hung between you and Matt like a veil. His presence fills the air with a new energy, a welcome distraction. He waves as he walks in, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Morning, guys," he says cheerfully, glancing at Matt before his eyes flicker briefly over to you. He raises an eyebrow, sensing something's off but not pressing the issue. His usual easy-going nature seems to cut through the thick silence with a warm familiarity.

You glance up at Foggy, offering him a tight but genuine smile. “You seem extra happy this morning.” 

Foggy’s grin grew wider. "Won the case. Big win today."

Karen’s eyes brighten, and she claps her hands together. “Congratulations!” she says, her voice full of admiration. She gives him a playful wink. “So, drinks right?”

You chuckle, feeling the tension in your chest loosen just a little at the easy banter. It’s comforting to be surrounded by familiar energy, to let the distractions carry you away from the heaviness of your thoughts.

Foggy raises his hand as if making a grand gesture. “Alright, drinks on me. We can all go to that new place down the street. You know, the one with the great tapas?”

Matt chuckles, “As much as I would love to celebrate now, we still need to deal with this.” Matt gestures to the stack of papers on his desk, the work still unfinished despite the victory that Foggy is so eager to celebrate. 

“Fine, fine,” she teases, crossing her arms. “But you’re buying me a drink later, Murdock. And I’m holding you to it.”

“You know I can’t say no to you, Karen,” he says, his voice laced with a familiar fondness that makes something inside you twist.

Karen grins, satisfied. "That's the spirit."

You let out a small, involuntary sigh, your gaze fixed firmly on the papers in front of you. The familiar weight of disappointment settles back into your chest as the conversation continues around you, but it feels distant, like you’re no longer part of it. The laughter, the easy camaraderie, the way Matt and Karen exchange those small, affectionate moments, it all seems to happen in another world, one that you can observe but never quite join.

"Guess we’ll just celebrate at Josie’s later,” Foggy said, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tone is light, but something in the way he looks at you, and then Matt, tells you that he’s aware. Of what, exactly, you’re not sure. But the knowledge feels like another weight pressing down, the kind you can’t shake off.

The night at Josie’s feels like a haze, the music and chatter in the background blending in a blur. The usual warmth of the place, the dim lighting, the clink of glasses, and the hum of conversation seem distant to you tonight. You’re sitting on the edge of the booth, your mind not quite with the rest of them. 

The night continues with the usual ease, the chatter, and the clink of glasses surrounding you. Karen and Foggy, ever the pair to indulge in a little friendly competition, decide to head over to the pool table. Karen teases Foggy about his skills, a challenge in her voice that has him laughing and calling her out.

“Alright, alright. Prepare to lose, Page,” Foggy said, a grin spreading across his face as they walk over to the pool table.

With them off to the pool table, the booth feels quieter, more intimate. You glance at Matt, and for the first time tonight, the noise from the bar seems to fade into the background. He turns toward you, his voice lower than before, but there's something more sincere about it.

“Did you ever think you’d end up working here? I mean, back when you first started, did you picture it being like this?” 

The question takes you by surprise, not because it’s unexpected, but because it feels more personal than you anticipated. You pause, considering it for a moment, then let out a small laugh.

"Honestly? No," you admit, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "I always thought I’d be doing something else, something… less this, less stuck in an office." You shrug, the words coming out almost automatically. "I guess I kind of always felt like I was just watching the world happen around me, you know?”

Matt’s brow furrows slightly, and he tilts his head. He listens intently, as if trying to read between the lines of your words. There’s a pause before he speaks again, his tone firm but gentle.

"You’re part of it. What you do, even from behind the desk, matters. You help people, help with cases, and make sure everything runs smoothly. It's all connected. You might not see it, but you're helping to make sure things happen for the people who need it most." He said, voice low and reassuring.

And for the first time since yesterday, you finally meet his gaze, a little surprised by the weight of his words. There's no joking here, no teasing. His words settle in your chest, not like a spark but like something solid, something you can hold onto. And this time, you don't doubt them. You let yourself believe it, fully and without hesitation, because if there’s anyone you can trust to mean it, it’s him.

"But still," you tease, trying to lighten the moment, "I think I’d make a pretty great superhero or vigilante. You know, like Daredevil or something. Maybe that would make me really important." You let out a small laugh, trying to ease the lingering tension in your chest.

At the mention of Daredevil, Matt’s lips quirk into a smile, and before he can stop it, a soft chuckle escapes him. The sound is warm and genuine, something rare in the midst of the usual seriousness of his life. He leans in slightly, like the moment between you has shrunk the world around you down to just the two of you.

As he laughs, a fleeting thought crosses his mind: If only you knew how close you are to the truth... He immediately shuts it down, though. He can’t let you know, not yet. Instead, he simply smiles, hoping it’s enough to let you know that, despite everything, you matter. You’re more important than you realize, even without a hero mask.

"You’d make a terrible vigilante," he teases gently, his voice light, playful. "Too kind. You’d spend more time talking the criminals out of their bad choices than actually fighting them."

You laugh, warm and real this time, the kind that feels like it comes from a lighter part of your chest, the part that hasn’t ached in days. For the first time in what feels like forever, things feel okay. Maybe not perfect, and certainly not everything you wish they could be, but okay. The kind of okay you can live with.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy or sharp. It’s warm, familiar. Easy. You smile to yourself, letting it settle in your chest like a soft blanket. Maybe… maybe this is enough. And even if you wanted more, even if every part of you ached for something beyond the safety of friendship, you’d take this. Because having Matt in your life, even just as your friend, was better than not having him at all.

You feel the nudge of your bladder and make a face. “Ugh. Be right back. That second round of soda was a mistake,” you mutter with a little groan, scooting out of the booth. Matt chuckles again, nodding as you slip away toward the restroom.

And in that moment, your heart feels light. Hopeful, even. Maybe things really are going back to normal.

But when you return, all of that dissolves in an instant.

Matt’s no longer sitting alone. A woman now leans against the edge of the booth. She's tall, confident, the kind of effortless charm that seems to come naturally. She laughs at something Matt says, and he smiles in return, the curve of his mouth soft and open in a way that hits you like a punch to the gut. His body angled slightly toward her, his attention completely hers, like the world had narrowed again, but this time it didn’t include you.

You freeze for just a beat, that earlier warmth in your chest replaced by something sharp and cold.

It shouldn’t hurt. You have no right to feel this way. He’s not yours. But still, it does. Whether it’s Karen, or this girl, or the next one—it’s never going to be you.

You blink, forcing your face into something neutral, your steps quick and quiet as you turn to the pool table as if you’d planned to head back to the pool table all along.

Karen and Foggy are still at the pool table, mid-laugh, arguing over the last shot. You make a beeline for them.

"Hey!" you call out, your voice louder than you meant it to be, too chipper. Too forced.

Karen turns with a smile. "Hey! There you are, we were just about to start round two. Foggy thinks he can beat me now."

“Because I can,” Foggy chimes in, wagging his cue stick. “It was a warm-up game.”

You laugh because you have to and move to stand beside them, wrapping your arms around yourself despite the warmth of the room.

Karen starts to reset the table, humming as she arranges the balls. Foggy, however, watches you a second longer than necessary. He narrows his eyes slightly, not unkind, just observant.

“You alright?” Foggy asked, his voice casual. But his eyes flick toward you, searching. “You’ve got that face… the one that usually means something’s on your mind. Or maybe someone.”

You offer him a small smile, the kind that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’m just tired. Long day, you know how it is.”

Foggy nods and smiles. “Tell you what, to make your night better, I’ll let you win a game.” 

A chuckle escapes your lips, and you roll your eyes, “Wow. Such generosity, Nelson. Truly, you’re too kind.”

He grins. “I have my moments.”

As the game begins again, you do your best to focus on the feel of the cue in your hands, the click of balls colliding, the playful taunts Karen tosses your way, and Foggy’s over-the-top dramatics every time he sinks a shot. It helps. Not completely, but enough. Enough to keep your mind from drifting back to the booth. Enough to keep you from looking over your shoulder.

You finally sink a ball, an easy one, but a win is a win. The solid thunk of it dropping into the pocket sends a tiny pulse of satisfaction through your chest. 

Karen claps her hands in applause. “Look at that, she’s coming for the throne.”

You chuckle and prepare to take another shot, but a familiar voice breaks through the noise, startling you.

“There you are,” Matt’s voice is familiar, warm, and laced with something you can't quite pinpoint. It makes you stiffen for a moment, the subtle flicker of uncertainty curling in your stomach.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing at the edge of the pool table, his head tilted slightly. 

“I thought you disappeared on me,” Matt adds, his tone lighter than before, though his concern still lingers underneath.

You force a small smile, leaning casually on the pool cue even though your heart’s rattling inside your chest. "Didn’t want to cockblock you," you say, voice light and teasing even though the words taste sour on your tongue.

Matt huffs a laugh and shakes his head. "You couldn’t if you tried," he said easily. 

You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms loosely across your chest. "What about the girl?" you ask, nodding toward the direction where she’d been earlier, laughing too loud, clinging a little too close.

Matt just shrugs, as if brushing dust off his shoulder. "She was just being friendly. Nothing important."

You narrow your eyes slightly and scoff, “If that’s your definition of friendly, I must be doing it all wrong.” Your voice has hints of bitterness, and you clear your throat, hoping he doesn't notice. 

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he says, his voice smooth but with a playful edge. There’s a soft, playful smile plastered on his lips.  

“Right.” Because of course, you’re not doing anything wrong.  You’re playing your part perfectly. The loyal friend.  The safe one. The one who never asks for more, who never risks tipping the balance. With you, the line never blurs, never threatens to turn into something messy or real. Not like it would if it were someone else,  someone he could actually fall for. Someone who isn't you.

You let out a breath that’s a little too sharp, a little too quick, as if to push the discomfort away. You tilt your head back toward the pool table, watching as Karen lines up another shot. You tune everything out and focus on the sound of the cue ball breaking the cluster of stripes and solids. 

Karen nudges me and says, “You’re up,” tossing you a playful look as she steps back from the table.

You blink, realize she’s talking to you, and step forward with the cue still clutched too tightly in your hand. The table swims in your vision for a second, the angles and colors blurring together, before you suck in a breath and steady yourself.

One shot. That’s all you need to focus on. Not him. Not the way his presence hums against your skin like static. Not the way the air between you always feels heavier than it should.

Just the shot.

You lean over, sight along the cue, and let yourself believe that just for a second, that it’s enough.

You miss by a mile.

There’s a chorus of groans and a few exaggerated boos, but it's his soft chuckle you hear clearest. It skates along your nerves, warm and easy, like he doesn’t see the way you’re fraying at the edges.

But when you finally risk a glance at him, he's already looking away, laughing at something Foggy said, the moment slipping through your fingers like it was never yours to hold in the first place.

And you know … you know, you’ll play your part a little longer.

Because it's safer that way.

Because it has to be.

next chapter — 3

a/n: hopefully you guys are liking it so far !! feel free to give me some criticism or tips BUT pls be nice im sensitive. this chapter is longer as i promised ily guys mwa. chapter 3 is basically finished but i kinda wanna change some things so idk when ill post it 😭😭

[matthsluv]

have been to lazy to post the updates of sidelines on here 😅 go on ao3 where it already has 18 chapters up!

sidelines — series masterlist

synopsis : you have has always felt like you're on the sidelines of matt's life, silently longing for something more that you know will never come. but what you don't know is that matt’s been watching you just as closely, never once seeing you on the sidelines—only right at the center of it all.

pairings : matt murdock x fem!reader

tags : friends to lovers, slowburn, angst, fluff,yearning, pining lots of it, unspecified time skips

c/w : none so far, will add as chapters go on

w/c : 5,952 so far

ao3 : iluvmatths

— chapter index

chapter 1 : friends...?

chapter 2 : icu

chapter 3 : static

more chapters coming soon !!