˗ˋˏ I Love Fictional Men ˎˊ-

a fanfic a day keeps the doctor away ⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

[wishesnwings]

greetings from hell’s kitchen!

𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦:

hanna 8teen she/her ꒰১ age gap lover ໒꒱ multifandom 𝜗ৎ matt murdocks wife/daredevil’s gf ˚. ˖ . ݁ jack abbots lover

i write fanfics about many fandoms, so make sure to check out my masterlist ⋆˚࿔

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ this blog has sfw but will contain some nsfw content too!

⋆.𐙚 ̊ reblogs are welcomed such as comments! :)

⤷ ゛ ˎˊ˗ 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠

#madebyhan 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁

[wishesnwings]

the pitt masterlist

Jack Abbot

𝜗ৎ bestie’s dad

𝜗ৎ biceps

𝜗ৎ we shouldn’t have…

Michael ‚Robby‘ Robinavitch

𝜗ৎ too late

𝜗ৎ different side

𝜗ৎ puppy eyes

Frank Langdon

𝜗ৎ his girlfriend

𝜗ৎ jealousy

𝜗ৎ exhaustion

Other (includes both or three of them in one story)

𝜗ৎ new resident

(stories are coming very soon)

#madebyhan 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁

[wishesnwings]

marvel masterlist

Matt Murdock / Daredevil

୨ৎ behind the mask (mini series)

୨ৎ unexpected pregnancy

୨ৎ don’t lie to me

୨ৎ framed

୨ৎ i hate you, i love you

୨ৎ photo booth pictures

୨ৎ when the devil wept

୨ৎ rough

୨ৎ manhandled

Frank Castle / Punisher

….

Benjamin Poindexter / Bullseye

…

Eddie Brock

…

#madebyhan 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁

[wishesnwings]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘖𝘝 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 | 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 | 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 | 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 | 𝘔𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 | 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 | 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 20𝘴

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 3.532𝘬

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘢𝘩𝘩𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 9, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

The next morning feels different.

Not because anything in the world has changed.

But because you have.

Or maybe it is just the memory of last night still sitting quietly in your chest, refusing to fade the way you expected it to. You wake up earlier than usual. Stare at the ceiling for a few seconds longer than you should. And think about him.

Matt.

The name comes easier now. More natural. Less like something you are guessing at, and more like something you are slowly learning to understand. You tell yourself it is nothing serious. Just a small crush. Just someone who makes your mornings at the café a little less exhausting.

That is all.

It has to be.

But even as you get ready for work, you catch yourself wondering if he will come in today. And that thought alone is enough to make you pause. Because you never used to wait for anyone.

At the café, everything is already in motion when you arrive. The smell of coffee, the sound of cups, the low hum of conversation. Normal. Familiar. Safe.

But something about it feels slightly off.

Like you are stepping back into a rhythm that is missing a beat.

You tie your brown apron, take your place behind the counter, and try to focus. Orders come in. People come and go. Time moves the way it always does. And still—

Every time the bell above the door rings, your head lifts before you can stop it.

The first time, it is a stranger.

The second time, another customer you barely register.

The third time, you tell yourself to stop doing it.

And then—

The bell rings again.

This time, you don't even need to look properly. You just know. Something in the air shifts. Subtle. Immediate. And when you look up, he is there.

Matt.

Standing at the entrance like he has always belonged there. Like the last week never happened. For a second, you forget to breathe.

He looks… different. Not in appearance. In presence. Lighter, somehow. More certain. Like something inside him has settled into place. And when his eyes find yours—

He smiles. Small. Easy. Familiar.

Your heart reacts before your mind does. Too fast. Too obvious. So you force yourself to look away first, pretending to adjust something on the counter.

“Good morning,” he says when he reaches you. Like nothing ever changed. Like there wasn’t a week of silence between you.

You clear your throat. “Morning.” Too normal. Too careful.

But he notices anyway. He always does.

“You’re busy today,” he says, glancing around the café.

“Same as always,” you reply.

A pause.

Then, softer—

“You disappeared for a while.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. Not accusing. Just honest. He doesn’t react immediately. Just studies you for a second longer than necessary. “I know,” he says finally. That is all. No excuse. No explanation. Just acknowledgment. And somehow, that is worse. And better. At the same time.

You nod once, pretending it doesn’t matter more than it does. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Simple. Familiar. Safe again.

You turn to prepare it, grateful for something to do with your hands. But you can feel him still there. Watching. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable. In a way that makes you aware, of everything.

When you place the cup in front of him, your fingers almost brush. Almost. But not quite.

“Thank you,” he says. And then, after a beat— “It’s good to be back here.”

You look up at that. “Here?”

He nods slightly. “At this time of day.”

A small smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. “That’s a very specific preference.”

“It is.” He says it like it matters. Like you matter.

And that thought alone is enough to make you look away again. Because you are not supposed to feel like this. Not about a customer. Not about someone you barely know.

And yet—

He feels familiar in a way you cannot explain.

Like something you have been missing without realizing it.

The café continues around them. Noise. Movement. Life. But between you, something quieter begins to rebuild itself. Not new. Not unfamiliar. Just… paused. And now starting again. Slowly. Carefully. Like neither of you is willing to risk breaking it this time. And for the first time since he disappeared—

You don't feel like you are waiting for him to leave again.

You feel like he actually came back.

—

The rest of the morning passes differently.

Not faster.

Not slower.

Just… more aware.

Like every small moment between you both now carries weight it didn’t have before. He doesn’t leave right away. That is the first thing you notice.Usually, he comes in, orders his coffee, stays for a short while, and then disappears back into whatever world he belongs to.

But today—

He stays.

Not in a way that draws attention. Not in a way that feels forced.

Just… present.

Sitting by the window like he used to, fingers loosely wrapped around the cup you made for him, eyes occasionally drifting toward you when he thinks you aren't looking.

But you are. You always are.

And every time your eyes almost meet, you look away first.

Not because you wants to. Because you have to.

Eventually, the rush slows. The café quiets.

And you find yourself standing near his table without really planning to. “You’re still here,” you say before you can overthink it.

He looks up at you. A faint smile. “I said I was coming back.”

“I didn’t think you meant staying.”

That earns a small exhale of amusement from him. “Was that a complaint?”

You hesitate. Then shrug. “Not sure yet.”

That makes him smile a little more. And something about that expression—calm, easy, almost relieved—makes your chest tighten in a way you don't fully understand.

There is a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just full. Like there are too many things neither of you is saying. He leans back slightly in his chair. “You were different this morning.” You blink. “Different how?” “Like you were expecting me not to show up.” The honesty catches you off guard. You look down at the counter you are wiping, even though it is already clean. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

A beat.

Then quieter—

“I just didn’t know if I should.”

Silence.

Not heavy.

But careful.

When you look up again, he is watching you more closely now. Not in a way that makes you nervous. In a way that makes you feel seen.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

The question is simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You shake your head quickly. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You open your mouth. Closes it again. Because how do you explain something like this? How do you explain that a person you barely know has started to feel like a constant in your life? That their absence felt louder than their presence should have?That you noticed the space they left behind more than you want to admit?

“I thought maybe you were avoiding me,” you say finally.

It comes out smaller than you intended.

He looks genuinely surprised by that. “Why would I do that?”

You give a half-shrug. “I don’t know. People do that.”

A pause.

Then, softer—

“Especially when things get… complicated.”

That word hangs between you. Complicated.

He repeats it quietly, like he is testing it. “Is that what this is?”

You hesitate. Your fingers tighten slightly around the cloth in your hands. “I don’t know what this is,” you admit. And it is the most honest thing you have said all day.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The café hums around you, but it feels distant now. Like the world has stepped back just enough to give you space. He looks down at his cup. Then back at you. “I didn’t avoid you,” he says.

Simple.

Direct.

“I just… wasn’t sure I should come back.”

That makes you frown slightly. “Why not?”

A pause.

Longer this time. Because this is the moment where he almost says it. Almost tells you the truth he has been carrying. Almost lets everything fall into place. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly.

“Because I thought you had someone else in mind.”

Your expression changes immediately. Confusion first. Then realization. “Oh.”

Just that.

One small sound.

He watches you carefully. “I was wrong?” he asks.

You shake your head quickly. “No—no, it’s not like that.”

A pause.

Then you look down again, almost embarrassed. “I think you misunderstood.”

That makes him still. “About what?”

You hesitate. Then, quietly—

“The person I mentioned… it wasn’t what you think.”

His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion, but focus.

“I don’t think I ever knew what I thought.”

That makes you let out a small, nervous laugh. “Fair.”

Another pause.

Then you continue, more carefully now. “It’s not someone I’m with.”

He doesn’t respond.

So you keep going. “Just someone I… think about.”

That word again. Think. It lingers.

He nods slowly, like he is processing it. “And they know?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so.”

Silence again. But this one feels different. He sets his cup down. Carefully. Like he is deciding something. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he says. Your attention sharpens immediately. “What?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Long enough that you start to feel it again. That strange awareness. That pull you can’t explain. “I come here more than I should,” he says finally.

You blink. “That’s not a confession.”

A faint smile. “It is for me.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He continues. “And I remember things you say when you don’t think I’m listening.”

Your heart stutters. “That’s… kind of creepy.”

“Probably.”

A pause.

Then softer—

“But I don’t want to stop.”

That lands differently. He doesn’t look away when he says it. And neither does you. The air between you shifts again. Not tense. Not heavy. Just… real.

You swallow. “I think I like that you don’t stop.”

The words come out before you can rethink them. And for a second, everything goes still. Even him. Then, a small breath from him. Almost a laugh. Relief, maybe. Or something close to it. “You do?” he asks.

You nod once. Slow. Honest. “I think I do.” A pause. Then, quieter—

“I like you, Matt.”

And that is it.

The moment everything changes. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just simply. Like something that was always going to happen finally deciding to exist out loud. He doesn’t speak immediately. Just looks at you.

Like he is trying to memorize the exact way you said it.

Then, very softly—

“I was hoping you would say that.”

And for the first time since he walked into your life, he doesn’t feel like he is standing at a distance anymore. He feels like he is finally where he is supposed to be.

—

For a moment after the words leave your mouth, everything feels suspended.

Not frozen.

Just… delicate.

Like one wrong movement could break something neither of you knows how to fix.

“I like you, Matt.”

It still echoes in your head. Even though you were the one who said it. Even though you meant it. He doesn’t move right away. Just looks at you like he is trying to understand how something he has been hoping for could sound so simple when it finally arrives.

And you suddenly becomes very aware of yourself.

Of your hands still resting on the counter.

Of the way your heartbeat is far too loud in your chest.

Of the fact that you cannot tell if you should stay or run.

“So…” you start, then stops.

Because you don't know what comes after that. He notices. Of course he does. A small, almost careful smile appears on his face. “So,” he repeats softly, giving her space instead of pressure.

That alone makes you relax a little. Just a little. You exhale. “This is the part where you’re supposed to say something back,” you say, trying to make it lighter than it feels.

A quiet breath leaves him, almost like a laugh. “I am thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It is.”

That makes you smile despite yourself.. And for a second, it feels normal again. Like you are just two people talking in a café instead of standing on the edge of something neither of you fully understands yet.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “I didn’t expect you to say it first,” he admits.

“Neither did I,” you reply immediately. That earns a real smile from him this time. Not polite. Not careful. Real. And it does something to you. Something you don't want to name.

“I thought I was the only one overthinking this,” you add quietly.

“You’re not,” he says. Simple. Honest. No hesitation.

That makes you look at him more closely. “Then what were you thinking?”

A pause. Long enough that you almost regret asking. But then he answers. “I was thinking I should stop coming here.” Your expression shifts instantly. “Oh.”

He nods once. “Because I thought I was making it harder for you to focus on someone else.”

You frown slightly. “I already told you that’s not—”

“I know,” he interrupts gently. Not sharp. Just certain. “I know now.”

Silence settles again. But this one feels different. Less uncertain. More open. You look down at your hands. “I’m glad you didn’t stop,” you say quietly.

That makes him still. Just for a second. Then he leans back slightly, like he is letting that sink in. “So am I,” he admits. A pause. Then, softer, “I would’ve regretted it.”

Your chest tightens at that. You don't know why. Or maybe you do. But you don't say it out loud.

Instead, you shift slightly, glancing toward the empty café around them. “We’re technically closed,” you say.

“I noticed.”

“You’re still here.”

“I noticed that too.”

That makes you laugh quietly. And the tension between you loosens again. Not gone. Just softer. More human. You walk around the counter slowly, finally stepping closer to his table instead of staying behind it.

“Do you want me to kick you out?” You ask.

He looks up at you. A small pause. Then—“No.”

That answer is immediate. Too immediate. It makes your smile widen slightly.

“Confident.”

“I’m trying something new.”

“And how’s it going?”

“Better than last week.”

That makes you pause. “Last week was bad?”

His expression changes slightly. Not dramatic. Just thoughtful.

“I thought I lost my chance.”

Your breath catches a little at that. “Because of me?”

“Because of what I thought,” he corrects.

You study him for a moment. Then sit down across from him without really deciding to. The chair scrapes softly against the floor. Now you are level. Face to face. No counter between you. Just space. And something unspoken filling it.

“I thought you were avoiding me too,” you admit.

“I wasn’t.”

“I know that now.”

A pause. Then quieter—

“I think we’re both bad at this.”

That makes him smile again. “Maybe.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Is this usually easier for you?”

“No.” That answer is immediate. Honest. Almost amused.

“Good,” you say.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” you shrug slightly. “Would’ve been unfair otherwise.”

That makes him look at you differently. Like he is seeing something new in you again. Or maybe just seeing you more clearly. There is a long pause. Not uncomfortable. Just full. Then he speaks again. “Can I ask you something?” You nod. “Always dangerous, but go ahead.” A faint smile. “Why me?” The question is simple. But it lands heavily. You blink. “Why you?”

“Yes.”

You look away for a second. Then back at him. “I don’t know,” you admit. Honest again. “I just… feel calm when you’re here.” That makes him still. “And when you’re not?”

You hesitate. “Louder.”

A quiet breath leaves him. Like that answer means more than you realize. He leans forward slightly again. “I feel the same,” he says. And this time, there is no hesitation in his voice. No distance. No uncertainty. Just truth. Your heart stutters again.

And you realize something very clearly in that moment. This is not confusion anymore. This is not curiosity. This is something real. Something that has already started.

You look at him for a long moment.

Then quietly—

“Matt…”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

A pause.

Then his expression softens completely. And for the first time, there is no careful distance left in his eyes.

Just you.

Just the two of you.

“I think I’ve been trying to say it for a while,” he admits.

And the space between you finally stops feeling like distance.

It starts feeling like a possibility.

—

For a moment, neither of you moves. Not because there is nothing left to say. But because there is suddenly too much. Too many things sitting between the words you just spoke and the reality of what they mean.

You arethe first to break the silence.

Not with a question.

Not with hesitation.

Just a quiet breath. “I didn’t think it would feel like this,” you admit.

His gaze stays on you. “How does it feel?”

You think about it. Really think about it. And then you answer honestly.

“Like I should’ve been scared… but I’m not.”

That makes something in his expression soften even more. As if that was the answer he didn’t know he needed. “I was scared,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head slightly. “Of me?”

A pause. Then—

“Of losing this before it even started.”

Your chest tightens again. But this time, it doesn’t hurt. It just feels… full. You look down for a second, gathering yourself. Then back up at him. “You know,” you say softly, “you make it sound like I was going to disappear.”

A faint, almost tired smile appears on his face. “I didn’t know what you were going to do.”

“That’s fair,” you admit.

A beat.

Then you add, quieter— “I’m not going anywhere.” That lands differently.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Just looks at you like he is trying to memorize the way you said it. Like it matters more than it should.

“Good,” he finally says. Simple. But real.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy anymore. It’s settled. Comfortable in a way neither of you expected.

You lean back slightly in your chair, exhaling. “So what now?” You ask.

He raises an eyebrow slightly. “That depends.”

“On what?” A pause. Then, carefully—

“On whether you still want this when it’s not just a feeling in a quiet café.”

You study him. “You think it only exists here?”

“I think it’s easier to believe things in places like this.”

That makes you quiet for a moment. Because he’s not wrong. But you shake your head slightly. “I don’t think it’s just here,” you say.

His gaze sharpens slightly. “No?”

“No,” you repeat. Then, softer— “I think I’ve been thinking about you outside of here too.”

That makes him still again. Completely still this time. Like the world has narrowed down to just that sentence. You notice. And suddenly feel a little braver. “I just didn’t say it out loud,” you add.

A quiet breath leaves him. Almost like relief. Almost like disbelief. “You should’ve,” he says.

“I am now.”

That earns a small, real smile from him again. And this time, it doesn’t fade. He looks at you for a long moment. Then finally says—

“I don’t want to mess this up.”

You nod slightly. “Then don’t.”

A pause. Then you add, with a faint smile—

“Or if you do, I’ll tell you.”

That makes him laugh quietly. A real one. Low and warm. And it changes something in the air between you again. Eases it. Softens it. He leans back slightly, exhaling. “I think I can work with that.” “Good.” Another pause. Then you stand up slowly, pushing your chair back.

“I should probably lock up,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves right away. Because leaving now feels different.

Not like an ending.

More like a pause both of you don’t want to break too quickly.

You walk back behind the counter, but this time you don't feel the distance between you the same way. It’s still there. But it doesn’t feel empty anymore. He stands after a moment, adjusting his jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.

It’s not a question of hope. It’s a question of certainty trying to become real.

You look up at him. And smile. “Yeah,” you say. “Tomorrow.”

He nods once. Then turns toward the door. But before he leaves, he pauses. Just for a second. Looks back at you. And something unspoken passes between you again.

Not words.

Not promises.

Just understanding. Then he leaves. The bell above the door rings softly behind him. And you stand there for a moment longer than necessary. Smiling to yourself.

Because for the first time in a long time…

Tomorrow doesn’t feel uncertain.

It feels like something you already want..

[cup1dssorrow]

Tear You Apart

𑁤 ghostface!dean winchester & fem!reader

𑁤 6.6k words

𑁤 scream au, slasher horror, smut, a bit of angst.

𑁤 age restriction & cw: 18+ MDNI I WILL CALL YOUR MOM!!!!!!! -> porn with a bit of plot, dark!dean, dubcon territory, bloodplay, knifeplay, gunplay, coercion(?), manipulation (?), violence, unprotected piv, fingering, inflicted pain(both sexually and not), threatening, mentions of murder, reader is kinda easy LOL but she's held at both knife AND gunpoint and it's dean we're all easy for him, nightmares and trouble with sleeping is mentioned, reader is slightly paranoid, gore is slightly mentioned, cumming inside, dacryphilia, dead dove territory (?). that’s all i can think of let me know if i missed any🤍

𑁤 director's notes: i had this idea and i sent it to @sacr1ficialang3l (bc she matches my freak HARD) and then decided to give it a go bc i was going insane :p i actually enjoyed writing it it was kicking my ass at first but i figured it out(kinda) @filthgf helped me sm so ty bbg ;)) this my first actual smut guys give me a medal! anyway enjoy!!

living alone has its perks. you wake up, sleep, go out, come back whenever you please. you make new rules, get rid of old ones without anyone questioning it. the world is your oyster. but of course just like anything, it has its cons; you need to pay for everything all by yourself instead of half like you would if you were living with a roommate, your apartment specifically has the security of a bag of chips. the door would break open with the slightest force. the fact your town has a new member doesn’t help either.

ghost-face as everyone calls him. it all started with eliza, your highschool friend being found hanged by her intestines inside her house. it hasn’t stopped since. bodies dropping one by one. it has been two weeks and no one has even seen the killer besides those who died and the ghost mask the killer dropped, obviously purposefully.

your uncle being the sheriff helps a little since he comes by to make sure everything is as it should be, to change the locks every week, to check the footage of the security camera he installed outside of your apartment. basically all the safety precautions he can take to protect you.

you still constantly feel uneasy, like you're being watched and are seconds away from becoming a human kebab. you can’t help it. the killer feels really close. like he would jump out of your closet and stab you to death at any moment.

you keep your closet open for this exact reason. the doors to your rooms are no longer closed, you had changed your bed so no one would be able to crawl and hide under it. you put extra safety measures on your car. multiple alarms and locks to make sure nobody can get you. you have the police on speed dial in case anything happens. you don’t go anywhere unnecessary. just work, grocery shopping and sometimes going over to dean and sam’s house to hang out. you used to have a habit of running in the evenings but now you don’t do it anymore to keep yourself safe. it was a way to keep yourself together. it cleared your head. but being alive and insane is better than dead.

your life is insanely boring now. it seems that everyone else is in the same boat as you. everyone has stopped their life. the only thing the whole town is doing at the moment is drive to work or school, come back home, lock the doors and stay in until the next day just to repeat everything again. and of course the police—no offence to your uncle who you love dearly—hasn’t done anything. they haven’t found a single clue. no dna, no number, no face. nothing. you’re not sure if the killer is insanely good at his job and is as slippery as an eel or is the police force extremely incompetent. maybe both? who knows?

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

one month has now passed. people are still dying by the hands of ghost-face. thankfully less frequently than the beginning. it seems like everyone decided to continue on with their lives instead of hiding away in their homes. so have you. you’ve taken on running again. gosh how you missed it. it really clears your head.

today is like every other. you go out on your daily runs but you don’t run for long though. you have to get back because in a few hours you have go meet up with dean winchester. your best friend since birth basically. Your parents were friends so that made you two friends automatically. he was there for you when your parents died in a car crash, and you were there when his parents died in a ‘hunting accident’ as he put it.

you’re walking towards your apartment when suddenly someone grabs you. but whoever it was immediately puts you down after you start shrieking and thrashing trying to free yourself. you turn around expecting to see ghost-face but instead you see…dean. usually seeing him immediately makes your mood better but now, with a killer on the loose, not all of his jokes are funny.

“what the fuck is wrong with you? you scared me, dean!” you push him and scoff when he barely moves. he starts cackling and running after you when you start walking again, rolling your eyes.

“it’s movie night!” he stops in front of your door, not allowing you to get by.

“it’s 5.15 dean. we had scheduled it for 8.” you show your phone screen to him.

“i know. i just wanted to help prepare. sam was being boring so i left early.”

“whatever,” you sigh as you open the door but give in and smile a little when you see him give that stupid proud grin he has when he gets what he wants.

once you get to your flat, dean immediately lets himself in. you drop your bag and go to the kitchen to make a charcuterie board with everything that is bad for you instead of cheese. a tradition you two have had since highschool. you spend the whole night watching movies back to back and eat junk food.

“we’re watching horror by the way,” he plops down on your couch and starts going through all the movie cds you own—you like watching your movies the old fashioned way—scoffing whenever he sees a rom-com film.

“uh, nope. let me remind you that there’s a killer on the loose. i’m already on edge as it is. we’re watching anything but horror.”

“oh come on! it’s not like he’s gonna kill us while we’re watching a movie. even if he tried, i’d protect you, sugar.” he says, his smile wide. that smile drops when you throw a gummy bear at him.

“don’t joke about this. i knew half the people who were killed, dean.”

“yeah, so did i. we live in a small town remember? of course we knew half the people. chill.”

you sigh for what it feels like the millionth time today and continue making the board. your mind drifts to the images of the victims you saw on the news. they all died in grotesque ways. in ways no one deserves to die in. you can’t imagine how someone could have the heart to do this.

lately, because of the town’s current situation, you've been having trouble sleeping and when you do you’re having nightmares about it. you keep wondering when you’re next. you’re not scared of dying per se but you’re scared of being in pain and suffering before it which is something the killer apparently really enjoys causing.

once your done with the board, you call dean to help you. you take the bottle of wine you bought for the movie night and he brings the board. you get comfortable, sitting next to him, putting your head on his chest as he throws his arm around you. all normal friend stuff. obviously.

“halloween? really?” you look up at him, disappointed. why isn’t he taking your concerns seriously?

“it’s a classic! don’t shoot me for liking good movies. we’re also watching rosemary’s baby tonight.”

“you’re doing this on purpose, do not think i can’t tell.” he just chuckles and shakes his head.

after hours of watching horror movies back to back, you check the clock. 12.00. you sigh in relief. if the killer were to come here, he would’ve been here already.

your phone rings and you jump in your seat, receiving a laugh from dean. you pick it up, immediately wishing you hadn’t.

“hello,” a distorted voice comes out for the other end.

“who is this?”

“that’s the last of your worries, i'm afraid. rosemary’s baby is a good choice though. i oughta ask though, do you like scary movies?” you freeze, slowly looking at dean. he furrows his brows as if asking ‘what’s wrong?’ you shake your head “speaker.” he mouths and you oblige, putting the phone on speaker.

“how do you know that? who the fuck are you?” you ask again.

“wouldn’t you like to know? despite being the niece of the sheriff you have very shitty security. it doesn’t take a genius to disable the cameras and break your lock. it’s like he wants you to be gutted,” the caller laughs. “i’ll ask again. do you like scary movies? it’s just for a trivia,”

“go to hell asshole!” you hang up, dropping your phone on the couch as if it was burning you.

“do you think that was the killer or someone just being a jackass?” dean asks, worry and fury written across his face.

“how did he know we were watching this movie… oh god what if he has a camera installed in here! shit!” you’re gonna be sick. you’re actually going to throw up.

“calm down. i don’t think so but i’m gonna check.” dean stands up, looking through everything thoroughly, checking for cameras. it dawns on you that you’re the next victim. next to die, next to be displayed in a stomach churning way for the police.

“no cameras. you’re good.” dean comes back after a beat and sits next to you again. he puts a hand on your thigh in a comforting manner. you barely acknowledge it, thoughts spiralling in your head. “you okay?”

“i think i might be the next to die, dean…” you whisper, looking down at the floor. “i don’t wanna die.”

“don’t say that! i’m here for you. so is sam, bobby, ellen, jo, your uncle. everyone. basically the whole scooby gang has your back. you’ve nothing to worry about, darling. besides, i think it was just some asshole wanting to scare us. ghost-face has been killing less people so we’re good.” he pulls your chin to make you look at him.

as if the universe enjoys mocking you, the door busts open, the killer standing there, knife in hand, head tilted. you and dean jump from your seats, not knowing what to do. dean pushes you behind him, ready to protect you like it’s his natural instinct.

“get the fuck out while you can buddy. leave us alone, ‘cause i ain’t the one.” dean threatens. but ghost-face doesn’t listen. instead he shakes his head, walking in slowly.

dean quickly picks up the wine bottle and throws it at the killer and pushes you to your room to keep you safe before ghost-face can get to you.

“don’t come out until i get you, okay? stay in here!”

“what about you, dean?”

“i hunt vampires for fucks sake i can handle it. stay inside!” he pushes you more inside and closes the door. you back up from the door, listening in anticipation and fear. you hear things breaking, groans, cuss words coming from dean.

after a while the noises stop. you need to check if dean is okay but if he is still out there, you’re done for.

just as you’re weighing your options, the door cracks open and dean steps in, limping. “he ran like a bitch. we’re safe, don't worry.”

“why are you limping?”

“got thrown across the coffee table…i’ll buy you a new one. you should stay with me and sam for a while. just to be safe.”

“i don’t know, dean. i don’t want to be a burden, y'know…”

“a killer is after you,” he hold you by your shoulders. “and you can’t be a burden to your friends. you let us crash when we were being chased by a shifter, no? it’s time for us to pay you back.”

“okay, let me pack a bag.” you sigh.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

you’ve been staying for the winchesters for a week now. you called your uncle the day after and your apartment is still swarmed with the police. your uncle insisted that you stay with the winchesters until the killer is found. other than the location, your life is the same. you’re slightly jumpier than usual which is more than normal considering you just saw freaking ghost-face. and lived.

both brothers were excited to have you. upset that you went through that but happy that you’re all together again. you don’t have a problem with living with your two idiots. really. but you miss living on your own. you love the winchesters but you prefer to live alone and hang out with them occasionally rather than living with them. roommates aren’t really your thing.

“that’s just terrible, i mean why would he attack you? i lowkey get why he’d kill eliza or brad or whatever because they were all some type of asshole. but you? have you been a cunt without telling me or what?” your friend lisa said, sitting on the guest bed you’re currently using at the winchesters’ house, hugging a pillow, confusion and worry written across her face.

“i have no idea. i mean what could he possibly want with me? what’s his motive? it’s not like i’m actively trying to get his attention. in fact i do the opposite. i try to keep away.” you shake your head. it feels like you’re in a movie. nothing feels real.

“maybe he wanted to be mayor but couldn’t so he decided to hold a grudge or something.” lisa joked, pulling a slight laugh out of you. “anyway, i gotta go pick up my dry cleaning and take my dog to the vet for his shots. love ya!” you waved back and watched as she stepped out of the room. you let out a sigh when she left. you wish she stayed for longer. you need to keep ranting until you’re empty but lisa just left, sam is at the library, and dean is god knows where. guess you have to ride this out on your own.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

this morning you woke up in a particularly good mood despite everything. you were supposed to go to the mall with dean but he cancelled on you last minute but he said you could take baby and go with lisa. you haven’t seen her since she came by the winchesters when you had told her what happened so you decided to surprise her and pick her up. you’re just hoping she doesn’t have other plans. you wouldn’t blame her you haven’t told her you’re hanging out yet. you got dressed and went to the kitchen for breakfast had an actual meal instead of your usual milk and cake—you’re a little lazy when it comes to breakfast because you’re always too moody and tired when you wake up— you still haven’t seen dean. you know sam left way earlier than you but dean is supposed to be in the house. he’d tell you if he had plans. you need his keys. he promised.

“yo dean where are your car keys?” you say, barging in his room without knocking, expecting him to be in bed, snoring. you didn’t expect to see dean, in a black robe, with the ghost-face mask on his bed. shit. you freeze as you put the pieces together.

dean turns around, taking his voice changer to his mouth, speaking over it. “you weren’t supposed to see me in costume sweetheart. i was about to do something important and you ruined it. should’ve went straight to lisa…” he speaks slowly, tilting his head, his voice mockingly disappointed.

you say nothing and just bolt down the stairs to get out, to get to lisa, the police or anyone. you just need to get out before you die. fuck.

you’re fast but dean is faster. he catches up in second and grabs you and slams you into the door. he doesn’t waste time and locks the door before you can run away. his hold is bruisingly harsh and gives you no room to move.

“it was you? it was always you?” he nods, mocking you.

“b-but that night you were with me. i-it was someone else.” your breath staggering, heart beating so hard it hurts. your best friend, the man who you did everything with, talked about everything without shame. the man to whom you had told secrets, dreams, goals to. he is a killer. he murdered your friends, people you cared for in cold blood. this cannot be real. all of those times he comforted you, telling you to not worry, that you have nothing to be scared of because ‘he’d protect you’ wasn’t real. it was all an illusion

“that was sammy. he mostly helps with getting rid of my tracks and planning the game but he has to get his hands dirty sometimes to throw people—you off. you’re smart, you’d get suspicious and we can’t have that.” he grins, his knife going through your hair. he raises his eyebrows, grin widening when he hears your breath hitch.

“game? this is-this is a game to you?”

“of course it is! why else would i go through the trouble of washing off blood? you’re a girl, you know how much of a pain in the ass it is!”

“no one was playing dean, how could you?”

“ha! you think i care? it’s a two-player game. just a brother-bonding game between me and sam. those were just the quests, sweetheart. plus they were all assholes some way or another so good fucking riddance!” you try to squirm again but he slams your back into the door again, stopping you. you wince in pain but he doesn’t seem to care.

“i’ve always had a thing for you, y’know. you were too busy fucking guys who didn’t deserve you to see it. weird how they all have empty stomachs now, no?” joking about the fact that they all had their insides on their outside. he’s sick.

“you killed my friends!” you spit on his face. dean’s eyes flash red with anger. he takes his knife and holds it against your neck. tears pool in your eyes.

“do that again. do it again and see how i gut you and leave you for your uncle to find you. huh? huh? you wanna try that shit again?” he yells, you shut your eyes, trying to get your neck away from the knife.

“don’t worry, even though you pulled whatever that was, i’m not gonna kill you. yet.” he pulls the knife slightly back, giving you room to breath a little. your heartbeat picks up if that’s even possible.

“y’know, i don’t think you hate this. i think you’re enjoying it. you like the adrenaline you’re feeling right now don’t you? why else would you want to purposefully piss me off?”

“i- no dean. you’re scaring me.” it’s the truth. he is scaring you but that’s not the only thing he’s making you feel. you feel yourself getting wetter by the minute. you feel ashamed. he’s going to kill you yet here you are, fucking aroused. maybe you’re just as sick.

his free hand starts roaming down from your hair, shoulder, arm, your waist. he stops for a second when he gets to the waistband of your shorts. he looks up at you. smiling so wide when he sees your eyes widen, breath coming out choppy.

“wanna play a game? just the two of us?” you shake your head.

you have a theory on what this game would be. you can feel something hard against your thigh it doesn’t take a detective to figure it out. you lowkey want to play. you’ve always wanted to play but you don’t want to give in that easy. he is a killer afterall. not to mention you’re still scared and don’t want to die. you try to get rid of your filthy thoughts by imagining him covered in blood, knife in hand, looking psychotic under the mask but it just makes everything worse.

“no? okay. i guess i’ll just kill you and be done with it…how should we end this?” he says, as he pretends to think about the choices he has.

“fine! fine! you wanna play? let’s play. just don't kill me.” the whole sentence comes out so fast as if it was a single word. so much for not giving in easily.

“this is a different game, sweetheart. you can’t just say okay if your heart ain't in it.” he gets so close to your face you feel his breath on you.

“what other choice do i have? you’d kill me.”

“i was joking. like i said, i’m not planning on killing you yet. i’m not gonna do anything other than just tying you up here. which is something i just have to do. sorry but i’m not risking getting caught.” he whispers, his breath hot on your face.

“i said fine.”

“you’re gonna regret that for the rest of your life, honey.” he chuckles, taunting you. he pulls the knife away, tucking it in his waistband. instead he pulls out a gun. the same gun he used when he taught you how to use one. the same weapon that took many lives—human or not. “you’re gonna do whatever i tell you okay?” you nod slowly, your heart in your throat. “i’m gonna need words. you're not mute are you?”

“okay.” you say, but your voice is nothing but a whisper.

“open your mouth,” he commands, his gun grazing your chin.

“why?”

“i don’t have to explain it to you. open up or i’ll blow your brains out. i don’t think either of us want that.” he tilts his head again. you don’t say anything.

you open your trembling mouth, waiting in anticipation. he slowly pushed his gun into your mouth, taking in how your eyes widen. “good girl, now kneel.” he commands again. you listen and slowly get on your knees in front of him. you look up at him, waiting for his next move. what the hell are you doing? he’s a killer. he’s ghost-face.

“see, listening isn’t hard, darling.” he smiles down at you. “everything is easier when you just listen.”

he starts slowly moving his gun inside your mouth; out, in, out, in, making you suck it.

despite being in a humiliating and terrifying situation, you’re turned on. you’re genuinely not okay. this is the type of thing you wouldn’t even admit to your therapist. the type of thing that would get you banned from church, burnt at the stake if it were still the 18th century.

you close your eyes but open them wide again when dean thrusts the gun in the back of your throat, causing you to gag. “keep your eyes open. in fact, keep them on me.” he barked.

if any other person had done this, had any other person even attempted to treat you this way, you’d react and act differently but this is dean we’re talking about. despite him being behind the murder of many, he’s still your dean and deep down you have a feeling he wouldn’t actually hurt you…not that bad at least.

“you have no idea what you do to me. this view is to die for. it’s to kill for.” his eyes are filled with lust. lust for blood, lust for you, lust for your blood.

he takes his gun out of your mouth and puts in on your temple instead. your breath hitches as you look up at him. what is he doing? he said he’s not going to kill you. had he lied?

he crouches so that you’re face to face and he presses a hard kiss onto your lips. the click of his gun causes you to flinch. “relax, i only turned the safety off.” as if that’s supposed to make you feel better. he drags the gun from your temple down to your throat and chest, your belly twitches from the cold metal. “so responsive…” he says, mostly to himself, you think.

he continues dragging the gun across your thighs. he pushes them apart with it and slowly, tauntingly goes towards your heat. you can’t form words all you’re capable of is looking at him with doe like eyes, waiting for his next move. him pressing the gun on your cunt over your shorts makes you squirm.

“i’d fuck you with this but i’d get jealous that something else is in you…stand up.” he pulls you off your knees by your arm.

he switched the gun with his knife again. “may i?” he says showing you the knife. the metal blinding as the light hits it. you nod automatically. you don’t even think. you don’t know what he’s asking permission for.

“i’ll stop if you tell me to.” he looks in your eyes with an intense look in his as he waits for your response.

“no, don’t stop.” that is all that he needs. he brings the knife to your lips, cutting it slightly, causing it to bleed. you hiss in pain when he smashes his lips against yours, licking your blood. he drags his lips towards your cheek, your temple, back your lips again, smearing your blood as he does.

tears drop down your cheek from pain when he bites down on your already cut lip—hard. he pulls back for a moment, taking in your appearance. you couldn’t look any more gorgeous as you do now. fear and lust taking over your eyes, blood all over your face. the tear? the cherry on the cake. he feels himself get impossibly harder the more he looks at you. dean leans in and lick your tear that was mixed with your blood off your cheek. pain and euphoria mix in together, stopping your brain from forming a single thought.

“you taste as beautiful as you look, angel.” he whispers against your cheek, his breath choppy and hot. “i need more. can you give me more, pretty?”

“yes, dean.” you whisper. you’ve lost your voice. nothing but whispers come out.

dean wastes no time unbuttoning your shorts, taking off your t-shirt, leaving you in your bra and panties. you can see his brain short circuit for a second before he’s back on you in a flash.

he drags the blunt side of the knife all over your torso, taking in how fast your chest heaves, how a trail of goosebumps is revealed inch by inch where the knife had previously kissed. he pushes the knife between your bra and chest, blunt side burning your chest, the sharp side tearing your bra right in the middle.

hearing your loud gasp, dean pauses for a moment, looking deep into your eyes. “you’re still playing, sweetheart?” you try to avoid eye contact but dean is quick to force your eyes back on him by pulling your hair from your scalp and pushing the blunt of the knife against your neck, making it hard to breath comfortably. “tsk. when i ask you a question, you answer and you keep eye contact okay? don’t make me do something i’d regret. i’ll ask again. are we still playing?”

“yeah…yes, dean. i’m still playing,”

"good. 'cause i'm not done with you yet." he takes the knife off your neck but it still lingers there, as if he's daring you to attempt to move. you don't.

dean lets go of your hair and take his off his glove hastily with his teeth and throws it on the ground. he slowly pushes his hand in your panties, knife still lingering on you neck. his hand just lingers on your cunt, not moving. just feeling you. "told you, you're enjoying this. fuck if i had known i would've done this ages ago."

"dean..." you whisper, hoping he would take the hint and move his hand, and give you something. anything.

"aw, you're so eager, baby. it's adorably pathetic." he lets out a breathy chuckle, clearly enjoying your state. fucking sadist. "tell me, how does it feel to know you're this pathetic for a fucking killer?"

"i don't care, dean." you say, hoping he'd reward you for that. his hand is still unmoving as a stone and it’s torture.

"no? you're just as twisted as me, angel. i hope you're aware." boy are you aware. painfully aware.

he finally moves his hand, pushing two fingers inside you without warning, drawing a pained moan from you. he thrusts in and out of you, draws circles on your clit with his thumb, turning your legs to jello. you’ve been with others before but you never felt like this from only fingers. it’s like his hands were sculpted to be inside you.

you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. moans loud and broken. just as you are about to break, dean takes his hand out of your pussy, and watches how you whine at the loss.“you’re not cumming like this.” he takes his fingers covered in you, and puts it in your mouth. your tongue twirls around his fingers, moaning as you taste yourself.

taking his finger out of your mouth, you try to guide his hand back to where it’s supposed to be but he violently pulls his hand away and grips your jaw with force instead.

“you don’t call the shots here. you do that again, i’ll tie you and leave your ass. then you won’t ever be able to cum.” you open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out. you’re so ruined by him all you hear in your brain is dean,dean,dean,dean.

you’re never like this you’d never let someone degrade you like he is now. what changed? is it because of the fear of the killer in front of you or the lust you feel for him? he has ruined your ability to tell fear and lust apart and it hasn’t even been an hour. you’re not sure what you would turn into if he had you for a whole day.

you’re brought back to reality when you feel a sharp pain right below your belly button. “fuck, dean” a yelp comes out of you. looking down you see a line of blood start to pool and run down.

“don’t worry it’s not deep enough to kill you or make you pass out. you just needed to be reminded of who’s in charge.” dean whispers, smearing the blood from the cut all over your stomach.

he throws the knife on the ground and starts kissing you from your neck, down your chest, until he’s face to face with the cut he inflicted. licking the blood and pressing a light kiss to it, he moves down to your heat. with a pace so slow it feels more painful than any knife, he brings your panties down to your ankles. he presses a kiss to your heat and flicks your clit with his tongue for a few seconds before coming back up again, not letting you get comfortable.

“i’m gonna fuck you now, sweetheart. if you’re still playing, that is.” he looks up at you with eyes so blown out you’d forget he ever had green in them—if his green eyes weren’t so striking they permanently burned their color onto your brain, making it impossible to forget.

“i want you to fuck me, dean.”

“yeah? how bad?” he smirks, still kneeled before you.

“so bad. i have for a while now…” you softly mutter.

upon hearing those words, it’s as if something in dean shifts. he stands up, takes his robe off, leaving him in a t-shirt and jeans. he’s quick to take them off and attach himself on your lips again.

this kiss feels different. unlike the ones you had previously received from him. this one—though still rough—felt more loving. like rage and lust isn’t the only thing he feels anymore. you’re probably reading too much into it because you yourself no longer want to run away from him. you’re still scared but you’re okay with your current situation.

dean breaks the kiss and hastily takes off his boxers. the sheer size of him makes your mouth water. you can’t help but stare. you hear him chuckle and say something but you’re too out of it that it sounds like it’s coming from far away.

“what did i say about eye contact, angel?” that snaps you back. you say nothing—shocker—but you kiss him so hard your teeth collide. he grips your face with one hand and your neck with the other. the kiss is messy. you’re honestly making out with his whole face.

you feel his hand move to his dick, pumping it a few times before lining it up to your pussy. your leg wrapping around his waist automatically. you mentally prepare yourself. can you even take a dick that big? as if he can hear you, he strokes your face. “it’ll fit. stop thinking, angel. i’ll be slow.” and he keeps his promise. he moves impossibly slow as if you’d break which is ironic considering what he was doing to you moments before.

inch by inch you feel yourself get fuller off him. the burn quickly becomes euphoric. when he finally bottoms out you hiss in pleasure and pain combined and claw at his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. dean lets out a groan. is there a noise that doesn’t sound beautiful coming out of his mouth? he’s truly perfect in every way.

“fuck, harder” that confuses you. he was furious when you took his hand and now he's asking you to scratch him? his behaviour gives you whiplash.

“what-”

“i said, harder” you dig your nails in his biceps. hard, just like he said, drawing more blood. the moan he lets out and the way he twitches inside of you almost makes you cum right there.

after letting you get used to his size, he starts moving, slow but hard and deep. and you thought his fingers felt perfect. this is entirely something else. not even heaven can compete with this.

you can’t help but moan so loud it sounds like a scream. you try to hold it in, to be more quiet but the way he hits that spot inside you over and over and over again, makes it impossible to do so. you find yourself on the edge once again, clenching around him, giving a sign that you’re close. dean immediately picks up on the signal and moves his hand to rub your clit in fast, hard circles. you cum fast and quick, feeling him cum with you—in you. your moans and groans mix in together, creating a beautiful harmony that you’d want to record and play on repeat. nothing ever sounded so beautiful, so erotic.

you try to stabilize yourself by holding on to his biceps, your bloodied fingerprints staining him.

both of you just stand still for a moment, coming down from your high. neither of you say a word. perhaps neither of you dare to. because you know once the silence breaks everything changes. he’d probably put up his walls again and you’d cry yourself to sleep for weeks, mourning your best friend whom you’d die for. not because he’s dead but because he’s now no different from the things he hunts. the only difference between them being the fact that he’s human.

dean breaks the spell by slowly pulling out of you, causing you to let out a wince as he does. “you okay?” he asks, looking deep into your eyes with something you can’t put your finger on. is it concern? you’re not entirely sure. but you nod regardless.

“we’re selling the house. we’re moving out of town in a couple of weeks.”

“what? why?” you question. so he did all this just to move out? to leave?

“you know why. i trust you won’t tell anyone but you might slip and we can’t have that. you can forget this ever happened.” how fucking dare he? how dare he make this choice for you? how dare he leave you like this?

“you’re not serious are you? i mean, after everything, and i mean everything you put me through. you’re just gonna leave and move on like that?”

“you don’t understand-”

“no, dean. i understand perfectly. i let you do things, treat me in ways i’d never let anyone else do. y-you held a gun at me, safety off mind you, you cut me, threatened me, lied to me dean! you fucking lied to me, made me believe i was safe when i clearly wasn’t and now you want to run away? like that? well guess what. you do that and i swear to you i’ll find you and hunt you like those monsters you hunt. you leave me after all of this and i’ll become someone you regret meeting. you’re not leaving.”

"yeah, well, that's not up to you. you don't get a say in this and as for the hunting thing i'd sure love to see you try, sweetheart. pack your bags. you're leaving first thing tomorrow." all you can do is shake your head. all you can do is look at him and feel an emotion bubbling inside you that you had thought was impossible to feel about him. hatred. yeah, hatred. you hate him. hate his guts. hate his sick mind, hate his face, his eyes, his voice. the way he sounds when he moans, the way he's leaving you like that-after you gave him all you had. you hate how he could do the worst thing on the planet yet you would still love him. you hate that one the most.

"fuck you, dean." you whisper, looking at the floor. you need to get to your room right now before you start sobbing in front of him. you've given enough you're not giving this. "seriously, i think i regret you more than anything." lies. you don't regret anything. you never can. you can tell he wants to say something but he can't. you want to tell him to say something. but you can't.

you take your clothes off the floor and get dressed as does he. both in silence. both hate it. neither do anything about it.

once youre done you run upstairs to your room, slamming the door. you immediately throw yourself on the bed and break down crying. not because of what you had just done with dean but because you lost him. all these memories you have with him will be all bitter. it will all torture you forever.

what you don’t know is dean is standing behind the door, listening to your sobs. did he take it too far? perhaps. he wants to open the door, to comfort you. but how could the reason for your current state possibly comfort you? he says nothing and just goes back to his room.

the next day you wake up to an empty house. you’re not sure when you had fallen asleep. carefully, you step out of the room and scan the house for dean or sam. neither are there. you don’t want to see them you don’t think. going back to your room, you start packing fast and leave.

you go back to your flat, telling your uncle to tell his police force to leave, but you feel like you cant breath here. too many memories, too much dean. he wants to leave and move on? then so are you.

you don’t even unpack. you just take your laptop out of your bag and start looking for apartments in new york. somewhere you’ve always wanted to live in.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

two years has now passed. you’re in new york, living in a new flat with a new job. lisa moved with you. you two share the same apartment, different flats which is fantastic. you’re doing great. you never tried to reach the winchesters and they didn’t either. memories of dean haunt to sometimes but you manage. the scar on your lower belly is the only loud memory of him.

you’re making your morning coffee when you hear your phone ring. not looking at who the caller is you answer.

“hello, sweetheart.”

shit.

𑁤 director's notes: ghostface!dean is very special to me and its not a fic written by marlene if it’s angst free🤞also is it obvious that idk how sex works LMAO if this is cringe turn the other cheek its my first time 😓

[wishesnwings]

this story deserved it own repost omg, go ahead and read it!!

[wishesnwings]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘖𝘝 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 | 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 | 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 | 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 | 𝘔𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 | 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 | 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 20𝘴 | 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 2.514𝘬

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘢𝘩𝘩𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 8, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

A week had passed.

Seven days since he had last walked into the café.

At first, you convinced yourself it wasn’t something worth thinking about.

People got busy.

People changed their routines.

Someone coming into your workplace every morning for a few weeks didn’t mean they were suddenly a permanent part of your life. That would be ridiculous. And yet…

The empty chair near the window kept catching your attention. You hated that it did.

The café was still full of life. Customers came and went, conversations filled the room, and the sound of cups being placed on tables blended with the quiet music playing in the background. Nothing had changed. Except the fact that you noticed his absence.

You didn’t even realize how much you had gotten used to him being there until he wasn’t. You had gotten used to the way he always greeted you with a small smile. The way he asked how your day was and actually waited for the answer. The way he made ordinary conversations feel like they mattered. You missed that. More than you wanted to admit.

“Still waiting for him?” Your coworker’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

You immediately looked away from the empty chair. “I wasn’t waiting.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You were staring.”

“I was thinking.”

“About him?”

You sighed. “You’re annoying.”

She smiled. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

You grabbed a towel and started cleaning the counter, even though it was already clean. “I just hope he’s okay.”

The honesty of your own words surprised you.

Your coworker’s expression softened. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The truth.”

You looked down. You didn’t know what to say. Because the truth was confusing. You didn’t know why you cared so much. You didn’t know why someone you barely knew had managed to become someone you noticed missing. You didn’t know why a week felt longer than it should have.

Across the city, he was having a similar problem.

He sat across from his closest friend in their small office, barely paying attention to the papers in front of him. Foggy had been watching him for almost ten minutes.

Finally, he sighed.

“You’re doing it again.”

He looked up. “Doing what?”

“Thinking yourself into a hole.”

A tired smile appeared on his face. “I’m fine.”

Foggy immediately laughed. “No, you’re not.”

He leaned back in his chair. “You haven’t been fine all week.”

Silence followed. Because they both knew he was right. Foggy studied him carefully.

“It’s about her, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The silence said enough.

Foggy sighed. “Talk to me.”

“There isn’t much to say.”

“There clearly is.”

He looked away. “She likes someone else.”

Foggy's expression changed slightly. “Did she tell you that?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

Matt hesitated. Because the truth sounded stupid when spoken aloud. “I just know.”

Foggy shook his head. “No. You think you know.”

He didn’t respond.

Because maybe that was true.

Maybe he was just assuming the worst.

But every time he thought about the way she smiled when she talked about that person.

Every time he remembered the warmth in her voice…

Matt couldn’t imagine that person being him.

“Did she say his name?”

“No.”

“Did she say it was someone from work?”

“No.”

“Did she say anything that proves it’s not you?”

The question stayed between them. He didn’t have an answer. Foggy leaned forward “You’re afraid.”

He frowned. “Of what?”

“Of hoping.”

That hit harder than he expected. Because that was exactly it. Hope was dangerous. Hope meant there was something to lose.

And he had already lost enough.

Foggy sighed and stood up. “You know what your problem is?”

He looked over.

“You always assume you’re the person people leave behind.”

He didn’t respond. Because somewhere deep down…

He knew there was truth in that.

Meanwhile, back at the café, you watched another customer leave. The door closed. The bell stopped ringing. And for the first time all day, you allowed yourself to admit something. You missed him. Not the attention. Not the routine.

Him.

And that realization scared you more than you wanted it to.

—

That night, the city feels colder than usual.

Maybe it is because you are tired.

Maybe it is because the streets always seem different after the sun disappears.

During the day, Hell’s Kitchen can almost convince you that it is ordinary. People rushing to work. Children playing outside. Small shops opening their doors.

But at night…

The shadows return. The streets become quieter. And every corner feels like it could be hiding something.

You pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you make your way home, your footsteps echoing softly against the pavement. Usually, this walk feels heavier. Usually, you find yourself looking over your shoulder more than once.

But tonight…

For some reason, you don’t feel completely alone. You don’t know why. Maybe it is just the memory of someone who once walked beside you. Maybe it is because you have gotten used to the idea that somewhere above these streets, someone is watching. Someone is making sure people like you get home safely.

You almost laugh at yourself.

It sounds ridiculous. Trusting a stranger you barely know. Someone who hides behind a mask. Someone whose real name you don’t even know.

And yet…

You trust him. The sound of movement above you makes you stop. Your eyes lift toward the rooftops. For a moment, there is nothing, just darkness. Then a figure lands silently nearby.

Your heart jumps before calming again.

“You disappeared.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Daredevil tilts his head slightly. “Is that a complaint?”

You try to hide your smile. “Maybe.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. It is small. But you notice it. You always notice.

“I’ve been busy.”

You nod. “Right.”

The answer is simple, but something about your voice makes him pause. Because he hears it. The disappointment you are trying to hide.

“You were worried.”

You look away. “No.” A small pause. Then you sigh. “Maybe a little.”

The confession surprises both of you. For a moment, neither of you says anything. Then he steps closer. Not too close. Just enough. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

You shrug. “I know.”

And you do. That is the problem. You know he never tries to hurt you. You know he disappears because he has responsibilities you don’t understand. You know he carries things you will probably never see. But you still missed him.

“You were different.” His voice is quiet.

You look at him. “What?”

“Before.”

You frown slightly. “When?”

“The last time we talked.”

You understand what he means. Your eyes lower. “I was confused.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He never does. You take a breath.

“There is someone.”

The words make him still. Not visibly. Not enough for you to notice. But enough.

Someone.

Again.

You continue before he can say anything. “I think I was trying to create distance because I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

He stays silent.

“And I know that sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.” His answer comes immediately.

You look at him. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.

A small smile appears on your face. For the first time in days, things feel a little easier. You walk together again. Slowly. Like before. The conversation returns naturally.You tell him about your day. About the customers at the café. About the little things that annoyed you. And he listens. Like he always does. Eventually, the conversation returns to the person you mentioned.

“You really like him?” The question is gentle. Not jealous. Not accusing.Just curious.

You look down at the ground. “I think I do.”

A strange feeling moves through him. But he hides it. Because he doesn’t want you to notice. “What is he like?”

You smile. And that smile almost gives him away.“He is kind.”

Daredevil stays quiet.

“He makes me feel like I’m actually being seen.”

His breathing changes slightly.

But you don’t notice.

“He is patient.” You laugh softly. “Sometimes too patient.”

“Sounds like a good person.”

“He is.” A pause. Then, without thinking…

You say it. “I mean, that’s what I like about Matt.”

The world almost stops. Just for a second. The name. Your voice. The way you said it. It all connects. A smile appears before he can stop it. Not a small one. Not the careful expression he usually wears. A real smile. A smile so full of relief that it almost feels impossible to hide.

Because after all this time…

After thinking he had already lost his chance…

After convincing himself you were talking about someone else…

He finally understands. But the moment passes quickly. He catches himself. Turns his face slightly away. The smile disappears back into something calmer. You don’t notice. You are too busy looking at the ground, embarrassed that you said the name out loud.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I just didn’t mean to say his name.”

A quiet warmth fills his chest. “You don’t have to apologize.”

You look at him.

And for a moment, you wonder why he sounds almost happy. But before you can think too much about it, he changes the subject. And you let him.

Because somehow… tonight feels different.

Lighter.

You don’t know why. You don’t know what changed.

But for the first time in a week…

You feel like maybe you didn’t lose him after all.

—

The night continues after the accidental name slip.

For a moment, everything feels almost too normal again, like the world has quietly decided to pretend nothing important just happened. But inside him, nothing is normal. The name is still there, echoing in his mind.

Matt.

It fits together too easily now. Too perfectly.

And suddenly, all the confusion from the past week starts to make sense in a way that almost makes him want to laugh. Not because it is funny. Because it is relief. Because he had been standing right in front of the answer the entire time and still managed to miss it.

He keeps his expression steady as they walk, forcing himself to stay calm, to stay in control, to not let anything slip through. Because he can’t tell you. Not yet. Not like this.

If you like Matt… if that is who your heart is already leaning toward… then it has to be real.

Not influenced.

Not tangled up in masks and nights and shadows.

You deserve that. Even if it means stepping back. Even if it means staying silent. Still, the feeling in his chest is hard to hide. Light. Strangely light. Like something he didn’t realize he was holding has finally been set down.

You glance at him after a while, your steps slowing slightly.

“You’re quiet.”

He turns his head just a little. “I’m fine.”

It comes out automatically. Too quickly.

She narrows her eyes slightly, not convinced. “That didn’t sound like fine.”

A pause. He almost smiles again, but stops himself just in time. “I’m just tired.”

It’s not a complete lie. But it’s not the truth either. Because tired isn’t the right word for what he is feeling. He is overwhelmed. Relieved. Careful. And something dangerously close to happy.

You seem to accept it, though not fully convinced, and after a moment you let it go. You both fall back into your rhythm again. It happens easily now. Like it always does when you stop overthinking it. You talk about small things from the café, about customers who complain too much, about quiet moments between the rush, about how the day felt longer than it should have.

And he listens.

Always listens.

Occasionally he teases you lightly, just enough to make you roll your eyes, just enough to bring that familiar spark back into her voice.

It feels… normal.

Comfortable.

Almost like before. But there is something different now. Something softer between you. After a while, you slow your steps again. This time, you don't look at him immediately.

“I thought you stopped coming because of me.”

The words catch him off guard. He turns toward you slightly. “What?”

You hesitate, then shrug like you're trying to make it sound less important than it is.“I don’t know. After I talked about… him… I thought maybe I made things weird. Like I said too much or made it awkward or something.”

He stops walking for half a second. Not because of what you said. But because of what you thought. “You thought I didn’t want to see you anymore?”

You look away. “Maybe.”

There is a quiet pause between you.

The city moves around you, distant and unaware.

He studies you for a moment, something tightening in his chest. “Why would you think that?”

You hesitate again, then finally answer. “Because I thought I made it complicated.”

His brow furrows slightly. “You didn’t.”

You let out a small breath. “I just didn’t want to make it weird between us.”

A beat. Then he understands. Not just what you are saying. But what you aren't saying. You thought you pushed him away. He thought he was giving you space. Both of you had been standing on opposite sides of the same misunderstanding, neither of you realizing the other was still there.

Still waiting.

Still showing up in their own way.

He exhales slowly, looking forward again. “I didn’t stay away because of you.”

You glance at him.“Then why?”

A pause. He chooses his words carefully.

“Because I thought you needed space.”

You blink. “I didn’t.”

A small, almost helpless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he can stop it. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think I’m starting to realize that.”

The tension between them shifts.

Not gone.

But lighter.

Less sharp.

You started walking again. Closer this time, without really meaning to be. The silence between you both is no longer heavy. It is just… calm. Familiar.

You bump your shoulder lightly against his as you walk, like you used to. “You’re kind of bad at this, you know.”

“Bad at what?”

“Reading people.”

He lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I’ve been told.”

You smile. And for a moment, neither of you says anything else. Because something has changed. Not everything. Not enough to be spoken out loud.

But enough to be felt.

And as you continue walking through the quiet streets, side by side again, neither of you realizes just how close you are to the truth finally catching up with you.

—

The walk doesn’t end the way it usually does.

Normally, there is a point where the night naturally pulls you apart—where you turn toward the street, and he disappears into the city the way he always does, without explanation, without goodbye.

But tonight feels different.

Slower.

Like neither of you is ready to let the moment end.

You notice it first. The way he doesn’t immediately step back when you reach the usual corner. The way he lingers just a second longer than necessary. “You’re not leaving yet,” you say quietly.

It isn’t really a question. He tilts his head slightly. “I should.” But he doesn’t move. That alone is answer enough.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how close he is standing. Not too close. But closer than before. Closer than he usually allows himself to be.

“I thought you were going to disappear again,” you admit after a moment.

The words are softer this time. Less guarded. More honest.

Daredevil looks at you for a long second. “I’m not trying to disappear.”

There is something in his voice that makes her pause. Something steady. Something real.You nod slowly, even though you don't fully understand it.

A quiet silence settles between you.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full.

Then you speak again, almost without thinking. “I’m glad you came back.”

The words land gently between you. But they stay. He doesn’t respond immediately. And for a moment, you worried you said too much. But then he exhales softly. “Me too.” Simple. But it feels like more than that. A lot more. You look down at the ground, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, your thoughts, the strange warmth building in her chest.

“I still don’t really get you,” you says lightly, trying to ease the tension.

A faint smile appears on his face. “That makes two of us.”

You let out a small laugh. “Comforting.”

“It’s honest.”

That makes you smile again. For a moment, everything feels almost normal. Almost easy. Then you glance up at him. And something slips out before you can stop it.

“I think I like Matt even more than I expected to.”

The air changes. Not dramatically. Not in a way you notice.

But he feels it immediately.

The way his chest tightens for half a second.

The way something sharp and warm and impossible all hits at once.

Matt.

Again.

This time, it isn’t just a name. It is confirmation. A truth you're carrying without even realizing what it means. He keeps his expression steady.Careful. Controlled. But inside, relief hits so suddenly it almost makes him dizzy. Because it is real. Not imagined. Not a misunderstanding.

You really are talking about him.

And you don't even know it.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to hide the reaction that almost slips through.

A smile.

Small.

Fast.

Uncontrolled. It appears for only a second before he forces it back down. Because you are still looking at him. Still unaware. Still completely in the dark.

“You really like him,” he says carefully.

Calm.

Neutral.

Like it doesn’t matter.

Like it isn’t changing everything.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “I think I really do.”

A pause. Then quieter: “It’s confusing.”

He nods once. “I can imagine.” And he means it. More than she knows.

The silence returns, but it feels different now. Heavier in a new way. Not from distance. From closeness. From something neither of you is ready to name yet.

You finally step back slightly, as if remembering the time. “I should go.”

He nods again. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves immediately. There is a moment where it feels like something could be said. Something important. Something that would change everything. But it doesn’t happen.

Not yet.

Instead, you offer a small smile. “See you.”

He hesitates. Then answers softly, “Yeah.”

And as you finally turn and walk away, he stays where he is for a moment longer than usual.

Watching.

Thinking.

Smiling again, just barely.

Because for the first time since this all began…

he is no longer wondering if he has a chance.

He is wondering how long it will take before you realize the truth.

[wishesnwings]

ACCOUNT RENOVATION

Currently in the progress of changing my whole tumblr account aesthetic :)

ofc it will be my fav things coded

so stay tuned!! Ahhh

ps: this is probably gonna take me a long time ugh…

Enjoy this cute gif of him and his sexy smirk

[thespaceloft]

when his abs cave in when he breathes i kinda melt a little

[wishesnwings]

nothing appropriate in mind right now 👀

[wishesnwings]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘖𝘝 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 | 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 | 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 | 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 | 𝘔𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 | 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 | 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 20𝘴 | 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 2.514𝘬

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘢𝘩𝘩𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 7, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

Three days.

Three long days had passed since you had last seen Matthew Murdock. 

At first, you hadn't thought much of it.

He was a layer.

Laywers were always busy.

You had told yourself he was probably buried beneath mountains of paperwork, sitting in some courtroom across the city while you stood behind the café counter making coffee for strangers. 

It wasn't unusual.  People came and went all the time. Customers found new places. Their routines changed. Life moved on. So why did it bother you?

You unlocked the café just as the sun began to rise over Hell’s Kitchen, the familiar bell above the door chiming softly as you stepped inside. The smell of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries welcomed you like it always did, wrapping around you with a comforting familiarity that usually made the early mornings a little easier.

Today, it didn’t.

You tied your apron around your waist before switching on the lights.

One by one, the café slowly came to life. The espresso machine hissed. The grinder whirred.

The first customers wandered in, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they ordered their usual drinks before rushing back out into the busy streets.

Everything was exactly the same.

Everything except…

Your eyes kept drifting toward the door. Not every time the bell rang. You had stopped doing that yesterday. Or at least, you thought you had. Now, it happened without you noticing. A customer walked in. Your heart lifted. Then immediately settled again. Not him.

You quietly sighed, reaching for another clean mug.

“This one’s for the gentleman with the cappuccino,” you murmured to yourself as you placed it onto a tray.

The morning continued much the same. Busy enough to keep your hands occupied. Quiet enough to leave your thoughts alone with you. You hated that. Thinking had become dangerous lately. Because every time your mind wandered, it found him. The way he smiled whenever you teased him. The soft laugh that escaped him when you caught him off guard. The calm way he listened, as though every word you said actually mattered.

You stopped yourself.

He was just a customer. A regular customer. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“You’re staring again.”

You blinked, looking over at your coworker.

“I am not.”

She didn’t even bother hiding her smile.

“You’ve looked at that door at least six times in the last ten minutes.”

“I was checking if anyone came in.”

“Mhm.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And was your lawyer behind any of those people?”

Heat crept into your cheeks. “He’s not my lawyer.”

“Then why do you look disappointed every time it isn’t him?”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you didn’t actually have an answer.

Instead, you busied yourself wiping down the counter.

Your coworker laughed quietly to herself.

“I’ve never seen you pay this much attention to a customer.”

“He’s just…” You paused. “…nice.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just nice?”

You shrugged, pretending to focus on the cloth in your hand. “People are allowed to be nice.”

“They are.”

“And I’m allowed to appreciate that.”

She smiled knowingly. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. The conversation ended there. Thankfully. Because you weren’t ready to admit the truth. Not even to yourself. You didn’t miss having another customer. You missed having someone who made your day feel a little lighter.

And somehow…

That realization scared you more than you cared to admit.

—

The café stayed busy as the morning slowly turned into midday, but your attention never fully settled back into the rhythm of it. Every time the bell above the door chimed, your head lifted before you could stop it, your body reacting faster than your thoughts could correct.

And every time—

It wasn’t him.

You were starting to hate how quickly disappointment had become familiar.

At some point, you caught yourself reaching for a clean cup and automatically pouring the exact amount of coffee you always made for him. Dark. No sugar. No milk. Just the way he liked it.

You froze.

The cup sat there in your hand, steam curling up into the air, untouched.

For a moment, you just stared at it. Then, slowly, you exhaled and poured it down the sink.

“Right,” you muttered under your breath. “Of course.”

You rinsed the cup a little too carefully, as if that would fix the fact that your routine had already started bending around someone who wasn’t even here.

Someone who hadn’t been here in days. You told yourself it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. But your hands didn’t seem to agree.

The bell above the door chimed again. You looked up automatically. This time, it wasn’t a regular customer.

It was Foggy.

You recognized him immediately, even before he fully stepped inside. There was something about the way he carried himself—slightly rushed, slightly distracted, like he was always halfway between two problems.

He spotted you almost instantly. And paused. Just for a second. Like he was confirming something in his head. Then he smiled.

“Hey,” he said, walking up to the counter. “You work here every day or is this just a very committed hobby?”

A small laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“Unfortunately, it’s a job.”

“Unfortunate for you,” he said, leaning slightly on the counter. “Great for me. I need caffeine to survive legal hell.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bad day?”

He let out a long sigh. “Let’s just say if I never see another contract again, it’ll be too soon.”

You nodded knowingly. “That sounds about right for a lawyer.”

“Hey,” he said, pointing at you lightly. “Don’t stereotype me. I’m a fun lawyer.”

You hummed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

That made him laugh, and for a moment, the conversation felt easy. Normal. Like any other customer.

But then—

His eyes flicked around the café.

Not casually.

Searching.

You noticed.

“Can I get a coffee?” he asked after a beat, like he was only now remembering why he came in.

“Sure,” you said automatically. “Black?”

“Yeah.”

You turned to make it, your movements smooth, practiced.

But something about the silence behind you felt different now.

He was still there. Still watching. Not in a creepy way. In a careful way.Like he was trying to decide something.

You placed the cup in front of him a moment later. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” he said, but didn’t pick it up right away.

Instead, he looked at you again.

“Hey,” he said more quietly this time. “You haven’t seen Matt around here lately, have you?”

The question landed heavier than it should have. Your hands paused on the counter. Just for a second. Then you shook your head. “No,” you said. “Not in a few days.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost to himself. “That sounds about right.”

You hesitated. “Is he… okay?”

Foggy looked up at that.

And for a moment, something shifted in his expression.

Like he noticed something in your voice.

Something you didn’t mean to show.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “He’s… fine. Just busy.”

You nodded, even though the answer didn’t really settle anything inside you.

“Good,” you said softly. “That’s good.”

Foggy studied you for a second longer than necessary.

Then he smiled again, but it was different now. A little more knowing. A little less casual.

“Yeah,” he said, picking up his coffee. “I’ll tell him you asked.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

“Oh—no, I didn’t mean—”

But he was already shaking his head.

“I know,” he said gently. “Don’t worry about it.”

He took a sip, then added, almost under his breath:

“He’ll be around again.”

You weren’t sure why, but that made something in your chest tighten.

“Right,” you said quietly. “Of course.”

Foggy gave you a small nod, then turned toward the door. But just before he left, he glanced back once more. Like he was thinking about saying something else. Then he didn’t.

The bell chimed as he stepped out. And the café felt quieter than it had all morning. You stayed still for a moment, staring at the empty space where he had been. Then you looked down at your hands. And realized you were still waiting for the door to open again. Even though you told yourself you weren’t.

—

Matt didn’t come back to the café the next day. Or the day after that. He told himself it was simple. He was busy. Work had piled up. Cases needed attention. People needed defending.

The city didn’t slow down just because he wanted it to.

So he stayed away.

At least… that was what he told himself.

But the truth was harder to ignore in the quiet moments. The ones between arguments in court. Between late-night patrols across the rooftops. Between silence that stretched just a little too long. Because every time he passed near that street. Every time he heard the faint echo of a café bell in the distance—

He thought of you.

And then he stopped thinking about you.

Or tried to.

Foggy noticed first. Of course he did.

“You’ve been off,” Foggy said one afternoon, dropping a file onto Matt’s desk a little harder than necessary.

“I’m fine,” Matt replied automatically.

“You’re always ‘fine’,” Foggy shot back. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Matt didn’t answer. He kept his focus on the papers in front of him, even though the words weren’t really registering anymore.

Foggy sighed, leaning against the desk.

“It’s that café girl, isn’t it?”

Matt’s hand paused for half a second. Then continued. “No.” It came out too fast. Too clean.

Foggy raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

Silence stretched between them. Matt could hear everything. The ticking clock. The distant traffic outside. Foggy’s steady breathing. And underneath it all—

The memory of your voice.

There might be someone.

The words replayed again.

And again.

And again.

Matt swallowed slightly, tightening his grip on the file.

Foggy watched him for a moment longer before speaking again, softer this time.

“Did she say something to you?”

Matt hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. Then shook his head. “No.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. Because she had said something. Just not to him. Not directly. Still, it had been enough. Enough to change the way she looked at him. Enough to change the way she spoke. Enough to make her step back without even realizing she was doing it. And Matt had noticed. Of course he had. He always noticed. He just hadn’t understood why.

Until now.

Until the pieces started forming in a way he didn’t like.

A laugh.

A name unspoken.

A “someone” that wasn’t him.

Foggy pushed off the desk. “Look,” he said carefully, “I don’t know what’s going on, but if you like her—”

“I don’t,” Matt interrupted quickly.

Foggy stopped.

Matt regretted the words immediately. Because they sounded like a lie. Even to him.

Foggy studied him for a long moment. Then sighed. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Then whatever this is… you’re still letting it mess you up.”

Matt didn’t respond. Because Foggy wasn’t wrong. And that was the problem.

Later that night, Matt stood alone on a rooftop overlooking Hell’s Kitchen. The city stretched out beneath him, alive and loud and endless. But he wasn’t listening to it. He was listening to something else. A memory. Your voice. Soft. Uncertain. There might be someone.

Matt exhaled slowly. His jaw tightened beneath the mask. So that was it. There was someone. Someone who made you smile like that. Someone who made your thoughts drift. Someone who stayed in your head long after the moment passed. He didn’t know who. He didn’t want to know. And yet—

The thought settled anyway.

Heavy.

Unwanted.

Unshakable.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he had no right to care. But as he stood there in the wind, listening to the city breathe beneath him… He realized something he didn’t want to admit. He had already started missing you. And you hadn’t even left.

Not really.

—

That night, you walk home expecting Daredevil.

He doesn’t appear.

For the first time since meeting him, you walk home alone.

The city feels louder than usual without his presence above you, like something familiar has been quietly removed and you’re only now noticing the space it left behind.

You keep glancing up at the rooftops out of habit, expecting movement, a shadow, the familiar sense of being followed at a safe distance. But there is nothing. Only empty brick, flickering fire escapes, and the distant glow of streetlights stretching across Hell’s Kitchen.

You try to tell yourself it’s normal.

That he’s just busy.

That he doesn’t owe you anything.

That you shouldn’t have gotten used to him being there in the first place. But none of those thoughts stop the quiet feeling settling in your chest. You miss him. And the realization comes too easily, too honestly, like it had been waiting for you to admit it.

Not just the way he appeared out of nowhere.

Not just the way he walked you home without ever asking for anything in return.

But the way you felt a little less alone when he was there. You slow your steps as you reach the middle of the street, the wind brushing softly against your face. For a moment, you stop completely. And you look up. The rooftops stretch above you, dark and silent, holding no answers.

“Where are you?” you think quietly, though you don’t say it out loud.

Somewhere far above, Matt stands on a rooftop ledge, completely still.

He has been there for a while.

Long enough to see you start your walk home.

Long enough to follow at a distance he knows you’ll never notice.

Long enough to hear the change in your heartbeat when you realized you were alone.

His jaw tightens slightly beneath the mask. He should leave. He told himself he would stay away tonight. He told himself it was better this way. But he didn’t. He never really does.

He watches as you look up at the rooftops again, your expression unreadable from this distance, but your silence louder than anything else in the city.

And for a moment, he wonders if you’re looking for him. The thought is immediately dismissed. It shouldn’t matter. It can’t matter. You have someone else in your mind now.

Someone who makes you smile like that.

Someone who isn’t him.

He exhales slowly, turning his head slightly as if to force himself to look away. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. Below him, you finally start walking again, disappearing further down the street, closer to home. And Matt remains where he is, watching until you’re gone from sight.

Only then does he move.

But even as he disappears into the night, he can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted.

Because for the first time…

he isn’t sure if you were waiting for him anymore either.

[bloodnguts17]

you’re at a bar after a particularly stressful shift at the ED. you and the other interns in the center of the dance floor, moving to a girly rap song. you couldn’t remember how many shots you took. 3? 5? all you knew was that your body felt free and loose, your hips gyrating to the music.

at the edge of the dance floor, jack and robby leaned against a table with discarded drinks and napkins. Jack brought his drink to his lips, whiskey, and took a large sip while his eyes tore into your ass.

“see that? I’m taking her to my bed tonight,” he leaned over to almost yell into robby’s ear.

he smirked and let out a chuckle. “right, you, old man? she’s ripe, probably has a boyfriend already.”

“yeah, me, old man,” jack threw back his drink, set it down, and made his way towards you through the crowd.

your hands were above your head as you twisted to the music, shaking your ass. suddenly there was a presence behind you, someone’s front coming into contact with your back. you jumped and spun around, ready to exclaim “well, excuse you—”

then you met jack abbot’s deep, puppy dog eyes, but now they were filled with mischief. “oh,” you breathed.

“nice moves,” he says, his eyes raking down your body.

“uh, thanks.” you didn’t know where to look. his arms looked so big in his black t-shirt. his silver hair almost shining in the purple light. you kept moving to keep your body busy so you didn’t grab him right there.

but he beat you to it. his hands came to your waist, then sliding up your back, pulling you closer. his crotch came in contact with you and you almost squeaked. you briefly looked around to see if anyone had seen your attending grinding on you. the other interns were in their own world, still dancing. you noticed robby in the background, clenching his drink and glaring at jack.

jack smirked down at you while his hands held you closer, his body pulsing with yours to the music. the alcohol had fully taken over now as you melted into his touch. you experimented with moving your hips further into him, and he responded. you could feel something hardening in his pants and felt a bit lightheaded. you knew he was big.

suddenly someone was at your back again, but you couldn’t turn around this time. his hands landed on your shoulders, running down your arms. you felt a thick beard at your ear and heard robby’s voice say, “had to get my hands on you. couldn’t let jack have all the fun.”

jack huffed but allowed his friend to sandwich you between them. all three of you moving as one together, to a steady beat.

robby’s groin against your ass was hot. you could feel sweat starting to drip down your back. and wetness pooling in your underwear. you wondered if jack could feel it, his thigh dangerously close to your center.

“can we buy you another drink?” jack cooed in your ear. “y-yeah,” you replied as the two men guided you off the dance floor. you were so worked up now, having two big men take such a liking to you. jack’s hand on your ass as you walked towards the bar.

your drunk mind was bold. “wait,” you stopped walking suddenly and the men turned to face you. “I have some really good wine at my place. it’s only a couple blocks from here.”

robby looked at jack. jack looked at robby. wordlessly, they took you by the arms and walked you out. visions of you getting pounded between them swimming in their minds.

[wishesnwings]

oh my gosh 😝😝😝

[wishesnwings]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

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𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘖𝘝 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 | 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 | 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 | 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 | 𝘔𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 | 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 | 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 20𝘴 | 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 4.739𝘬

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘢𝘩𝘩𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 6, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

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Somehow, without you even realizing it, he had become part of your routine. 

It wasn't something that happened overnight.

There hadn't been one specific moment where you suddenly woke up and thought about him differently. Instead, it happened little by little. 

One cup of coffee at a time. 

One conversation after another.

One smile that lingered in your mind longe than it probably should have. 

Life continued moving forward, just as it always had.

You still woke up before the sun had fully risen, dragging yourself out of the tiny bed that belonged to you since childhood. The apartment remained just as cold in the early mornings, the walls just as thin, allowing every sound from the neighboring apartments to seep through. Somewhere down the hallway, a baby cried while an elderly couple argued over something neither of them would remember by lunchtime. 

Your father was asleep.

Or passed out.

It was hard to tell the difference anymore.

An empty bottle rested beside the couch where he had decided to spend the night instead of making it to his bedroom. The television was still playing , its volume turned low enough to become nothing more than muffled voices echoing through the apartment. 

You quietly picked up the bottle and threw it into the trash before grabbing your jacket from the hook beside the front door. 

He didn't stir.

He rarely did anymore.

For a brief moment, you simply looked at him.

There had been a time when seeing him like this made your chest ache. When you cried yourself to sleep, hoping tomorrow would somehow be different. Now…

Now you only felt tired. 

You slipped out of the apartment as quietly as possible, gently pulling the door shut behind you.

The cool morning air immediately greeted your skin, carrying the familiar scent of rain-soaked concrete, fresh bread from the bakery down the street, and the faint aroma of coffee drifting from cafés beginning to open their doors. 

Hell's Kitchen looked almost peaceful this early. 

Almost.

The streets hadn't yet been swallowed by the constant noise of traffic or impatient pedestrians rushing to work. Store owners were unlocking their doors, delivery trucks were parked along the sidewalks, and pigeons scattered across the pavement whenever someone walked too close.

You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself and began your usual walk. 

It wasn't a long one.

Only fifteen minutes.

Fifteen quiet minutes where you could pretend, if only for a little while, that your life wasn't waiting for you back inside that apartment. Sometimes, you even took extra shifts, if that would make you come home later than needed.

By the time you reached the café, the sun had finally begun climbing above the rooftops, bathing the street in a warm golden light that almost made the old brick buildings look beautiful. Almost.

You unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The familiar little bell chimed softly above your head. Everything looked exact the way you had left it the evening before. The chairs were still stacked upside down on the tables. The coffee machine sat silently behind the counter. The smell of roasted beans lingered faintly in the air, comfort in a way you couldn't quite explain.

You smiled to yourself.

This place had become more of a home than your apartment was.

You switched on the lights one after another before tying your brown apron securely around your waist. Soon enough, the café came alive. The coffee machine hissed. Cups clinked together. Customers wandereded in one after another, many of the regulars who greeted you with sleepy smiles before ordering the exact same drink they bought every morning.

Everything felt familiar.

Comfortable.

Predictable.

It was the kind of routine you had grown to appreciate.

Yet…

Without realizing it, your eyes kept drifting toward the entrence. Every single time the bell above the door rang. Every single customer who stepped inside made your heart jump for the smallest fraction of a second. Only for it to settle again. Not him. You frowned slightly.

Why were you even expecting him? It wasn't as though he had promised to come back. Matt had every reason to find another café. One closer to his office. One with better coffee. One with more comfortable chairs. The thought shouldn't have bothered you. It really shouldn't have. So why did you keep looking?

"You're doing it again."

You blinked, looking over your shoulder toward your coworker.

"What?"

She nodded toward the front door without saying another word. You followed her gaze before realizing exactly what she meant. You had been staring. Again. "I wasn't." She laughed. "You absolutely were." "I wasn't just…" you searched for an excuse. "…looking outside." "Mhm." 

She folded her arms across her chest, a teasing smile slowly spreading across her face. "And I suppose you've just happened to be looking outside every five minutes for the last week?" You immediately looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, I think you do." 

She leaned against the counter, lowering her voice dramatically as if she were about to reveal some great secret. "So…" You already knew where this was going. "…where's your lawyer?" Heat immediately rose to your cheeks. "He's not my lawyer." "No?" She raised an eyebrow. 

"I've never seen him talk to another barista." You busied yourself wiping down the counter. "He probably likes the coffee." She laughed so loudly that one of the customers looked over. "Honey." She shook her head. "He drinks plain black coffee." "So?" "So nobody comes back four days in a row for plain black coffee." You rolled your eyes. "You're impossible." "And you're blushing." "I'm not blushing." "You are." "I'm warm."

She burst into laughter. "The coffee machine isn't even on."

You sighed dramatically, trying your best to hide the smile threatening to appear on your lips. "You've officially lost your mind."

"No." She grinned. "I just have eyes."

Before you could think of another comeback, the familiar bell above the entrance chimed once again. Instinctively, your head lifted. Your eyes found the door before you could stop yourself. Your heart betrayed you once more. Only to sink almost immediately. Just another customer. You quickly looked back down at the counter, pretend nothing happened. Unfortunately, your coworker had seen everything. 

She didn't tease you this time. Instead, she smiled to herself while quietly return to work. She didn't have to say anything. Because for the first time, you had noticed it too. You had been hoping he would walk through that door. And somehow…

That realization frightened you far more than it should have. 

—

The rest of the morning passes in a way that feels almost cruel in its normality.

The café fills and empties in steady waves, like the tide of a quiet sea that never quite reaches the shore. Regulars coming in, order their usual drinks, exchange the same tired greetings, and leave again with the same hurried footsteps. The espresso machine hisses, the grinder whirs, cups clink against saucers in a rhythm you could probably recreate in your sleep.

And still…

You keep looking at the door.

Not every time the bell rings anymore.

Just enough that you notice yourself doing it.

Just enough that it starts to feel embarrassing.

By midday, the sun has fully risen, spilling bright light trough the front windows and warming the wooden counter beneath your hands. You wipe it down for what feels like the third time, even though it doesn't need it. Your coworker has stopped teasing you, but you can still feel her watching you occasionally, like she's waiting for you to admit something you don't even understand yet.

You don't.

Because there's nothing to admit. 

He's just a customer.

A regular.

A man who drinks black coffee and leaves too quickly and somehow still manages to take up more space in your thoughts than he has any right to. You try to ignore it. You really do. But every time the bell rings— your heart still reacts before your mind can stop it.

And every time, it isn't him.

By the time your shift is halfway over, the feeling has settled into something quieter. Not disappointment exactly. Something softer. Something you don't have a name for yet. 

You're wiping down the counter when the bell finally rings once more. This time, you don't look up immediately. You tell  yourself not to.

You keep your eyes on the cloth in your hand, on the small circular motions you're making against the wood, on anything that isn't the door. 

"Hey."

The voice reaches you before you see him. And your hand stills. Because you know that voice. Slowly, you lift your head. Matt is standing at the counter. Same place. Same posture. Same calm expression that somehow always makes him look like he belongs exactly where he is, even when you know nothing about him should feel familiar yet.

Except—

Something is different.

He looks… tired.

Not in an obvious way.

Not in a way most people would notice.

But you do.

There's a slight tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. The faintest shadow under his eyes. The way his smile doesn't quite reach the same place it used to.

Still, when he speaks, his voice is warm.

"Sorry I've been gone."

Your heart does something strange at that. Something you don't understand. You force a smile. "It's fine." A pause. "It's just coffee." He nods slowly, like he's accepting the answer, but not fully believing it. "I've been busy." "Lawyer things?" A faint smile returns to his face at that. "Something like that."

You turn toward the machine automatically, your hands moving before your thoughts can catch up. The routine is familiar now. Almost comforting. You prepare his drink without asking, because you already know what he wants.

Black coffee.

No sugar.

No milk.

Nothing extra.

Just like always.

"You didn't have to remember that," he says quietly. 

You shrug. "It's not hard." But it is. Or at least, it shouldn't be as easy as it is. You place the cup in front of him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The café hums around you, but the space between the two of you feels strangely still.

He wraps his fingers around the cup. "You've been busy too," he says after a moment.

You glance at him. "How do you know?" 

A small pause. "I can hear it," he says simply.

You laugh lightly. "That sounds creepy."

"It's not," he replies, almost immediately, then adds softer, "You just sound… tired."

That makes you pause. Because you are. But you didn't think anyone would notice. You lean slightly against the counter, folding your arms. "Everyone's tired in Hell's Kitchen."

"Not like this," he says.

The way he says it makes you look at him again. Properly this time. And for a second, you forget to joke. Forget to deflect. Forget to keep things light. Because there's something in his expression that feels too steady. Too attentive. Like he's actually listen. Like he actually cares. 

The thought makes your chest tighten in a way you don't understand. So you look away first. "Don't start analyzing me, lawyer," you say lightly, trying to recover. A small smile returns to his face. "I'm not analyzing you." "Sure." "I'm just listening." That makes you quiet for a moment. Because no one really does that. Not like this. Not without wanting something in return. You clear your throat to straighten up.

"Well," you say, forcing a lighter tone, "you missed four days of very exciting coffee-making."

He hums softly. "I'm devastated I missed it."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile tugging at your lips now. "Liar."

"Caught me."

And just like that, the tension breaks. Not completely. But enough. Enough that you can breathe again. He stays longer than usual that day. Long enough that your coworker notices. Long enough that you notice too. He doesn't just drink and leave like before. He talks.

About small things.

About the city

About how loud the streets are getting lately.

About how Foggy apparently thinks he works too much.

You laugh more than you mean to. He does too. And somewhere in between all of it, you stop watching the door. You don't notice when it happens. But at some point, your attention stops waiting for something else to arrive. And starts staying right here. With him

When he finally stands to leave, the café is quieter again. The light outside has shifted slightly, turning warmer, softer. He places a few bills on the counter. "I'll try not to disappear again," he says. You shrug. "No promises?" A faint smile. "No promises." You nod like that's fine.

Like it doesn't matter.

Like it shouldn't matter.

But as he turns toward the door, something in your chest tightens again. Not pain. Not exactly. Something closer to awareness. You watchim for a second too long. And for the first time, you don't look at the door after he leaves. You look at the empty space he just occupied. And you realize something you don't say out loud. 

You didn't miss the café when he was gone.

You missed him.

And that thought—

Stays with you long after the bell above the door stops ringing.

—

The rest of the shift passes in a pleasant haze.

Customers continue coming and going, filling the café with familiar chatter, the hiss of steaming milk, and the rich scent of fresh coffee. Every now and then, you steal a glance toward the table where Matt had been sitting only moments ago.

It is empty now.

Yet somehow, it doesn't feel empty.

His laugh still lingers in your mind. 

The easy conversations.

The way he somehow always know exactly when you're trying to hide how exhausted you really are. You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus on stacking clean cups back onto the shelves.

You're overthinking.

You have a bad habit of doing that.

By the time your shift finally comes to an end, the afternoon sun has already begun sinking behind the tall apartment buildings of Hell's Kitchen. Golden light stretches across the pavement, slowly giving way to coole shades of orange and purple.

You untie your apron, folding it neatly placing it beneath the counter. 

"See you tomorrow," your coworker calls as she wipes down the espresso machine.

"If I'm still alive after another shift."

She laughs.

"You'll survive."

"I'd like to think so."

You grab your jacket from the staff room before stepping outside. The cool evening air immediately brushes against your skin. Unlike the past few nights, the streets are busier today. Office workers hurry toward subway stations, couples stroll hand in hand down the sidewalks, and children chase one another through the small park across the street while their parents call after them. 

For a moment…

Hell's Kitchen almost feels normal.

You find yourself smiling.

It is a rare sight. One that doesn't go unnoticed.

High above the streets, balanced effortlessly atop the ledge of a weathered brick building, another smile appears.

Matt watches you from beneath his mask.

Not Matt.

Not here.

Here, he is Daredevil.

The black fabric covering the upper half of his face flutters gently as the evening breeze rolls across the rooftops. He hadn't planned on following you tonight. At least… that is what he keeps telling himself.

But the moment he heard the café door open and recognized your footsteps among the dozens of others leaving work, his body had already begun moving before his mind could object.

Just to make sure you got home safely.

Nothing more.

That was the excuse he had been using for weeks.

It was becoming less convincing every day.

He waited until you had walked nearly half a block before silently making his way across the rooftops above. His movements were almost soundless. A practiced rhythm. One leap. Another. Then another. Each rooftop carrying him effortlessly across Hell's Kitchen while he kept pace with you below.

From up here, he could hear everything.

The engines of passing taxis. Arguments spilling from open apartment windows. A television playing somewhere five floors above the streets.

The rhythmic beating of your heart.

Steady.

Calm.

He found himself listening to it more often than he probably should. It had become strangely familiar. Comforting. Without realizing it, he slowed his pace whenever you stopped to admire a dog sitting outside a grocery store.

He smiled to himself as you bent down to scratch behind its ears, laughing quietly when it immediately rolled onto its back in search of more attention.

"You traitor," you murmured to the dog with a grin.

"I've known you for five seconds and you're already choosing me over your own owner."

The elderly man holding the leash laughed. "Happens every time."

You scratched the dog's head one last time before standing again.

"Have a good evening"

"You too, sweetheart."

Matt watched you continue down the sidewalk. His chest felt strangely light. There was something about moments like these that reminded him how gentle you really were.

After everything life had thrown at you…

After loosing your mother.

After the nights spent worrying about your father.

After growing up far too quickly.

You still stopped to pet stray dogs.

You still thanked cashiers.

You smiled at strangers.

You still looked for kindness wherever you could find it.

It made him admire you more than he cared to admit. 

A loud crash somewhere to his left instantly pulled him from his thoughts. His head turned. Three blocks away. Someone had thrown a bottle against a brick wall. Nothing unsual. His attention returned to you almost immediately. 

You had already crossed the street, your hands buried inside the pockets of your leather jacket as the evening breeze played with loose strands of your hair.

Matt's lips curved into the faintest smile.

Then…

His smile slowly disappeared.

Because he heard it. Your heartbeat. It had changed. Only slightly. But enough for him to notice. It had become quicker. Lighter somehow.

Almost…

Hopeful.

He frowned beneath the mask. You weren't afraid. You weren't in danger. So why had your heartbeat changed? His heightened senses caught something else. A quiet sigh escaping your lips. Then, barely above a whisper he heard you speak to yourself.

"I wonder if he'll come back tomorrow."

Matt stopped in his tracks. His brows furrowed. For a split second, something warm bloomed inside his chest. Until another thought followed immediately after.

Who?

You continued walking, completely unaware that someone several rooftops above had heard every word.

A soft smile appeared on your face.

One he couldn't see.

But he could hear it.

He could hear it in the gentle way your breathing changed. The slight lift in your heartbeat. The warmth behind your quiet laugh. Matt swallowed. His chest tightened unexpectedly. He didn't know who you were thinking about. But whoever he was…

The thought of him made you smile. And somehow, that realization bothered him far more than it should have. He remained on the rooftop for another moment, watching the fading sunlight stretch across the city.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he pushed the feeling inside.

He had no right to be jealous.

No right to wonder.

No right to hope.

Still…

For the first time since he had met you…

The walk home felt much longer than usual.

—

The thought lingers in Matt's mind far longer than he wants it to.

"I wonder if he'll come back tomorrow."

Those quiet words continue echoing in his head as he follows you across the rooftops.

Whoever you had been thinking about…

You had smiled.

Not the polite smile you gave customers. Not the tired smile you forced whenever someone asked if you were alright. This one had been different. Lighter. Warmer. It looked… happy. He tells himself it isn't his business. You are allowed to think about whoever you want. You are allowed to like whoever you want. Still…

His chest feels strangely heavy.  

With a quiet sigh, he pushes himself off the rooftop. The wind rushes past him as he drops onto the fire escape before landing effortlessly in the alley ahead of you. By the time you round the corner, he steps out from the shadows. Your footsteps immediately come to a stop. For the briefest moment, surprise flashes across your face. Then a familiar smile appears.

"There you are."

His shoulders relax almost instantly. "You were expecting me?"

You shrug with a quiet laugh. "Maybe." "I figured you'd show up eventualy."

Something about those words eases the knot that had formed in his chest. Maybe everything is fine. Maybe he's imagining things. He falls into step beside you as the two of you continue walking through the evening streets. 

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Usually, the silence between you feels comfortable. 

Tonight…

It feels uncertain.

He waits for you to joke about his dramatic entrances. You don't. He waists for you to ask if he's been getting himself hurt again. You don't.

Instead, you simply keep your eyes on the pavement ahead.

Your hands remain tucked inside your jacket pockets. Your thoughts somewhere else entirely. Matt notices every little difference.

The way you leave more space between the two of you than usual.

The way your heartbeat seems calmer than it normally is around him.

The way your voice sounds… distracted.

“You had a long day?”

You glance toward him before nodding.

“Yeah.”

“Busy?”

“A little.”

Your answers are short.

Polite.

But they don’t invite the conversation to continue.

He can’t remember the last time that happened.

Normally, talking to you feels effortless.

Tonight…

Every sentence seems to end before it really begins.

“You alright?”

You offer him a small smile.

“I’m fine.”

He recognizes the lie immediately. Not because of your heartbeat. Because he has heard those exact words from too many people before. People who were carrying the weight of the world while insisting they were perfectly okay. He lets the silence settle again. Maybe you’ll speak when you’re ready.

You don’t.

Instead…

Your thoughts drift back to the café.

Back to a blind lawyer with dark hair and gentle smiles.

Back to the way he had laughed that morning.

Without realizing it, you smile to yourself.

It’s small.

Barely noticeable.

But Matt notices.

He always notices.

He just doesn’t know what caused it.

And somehow…

That hurts more than he expects.

—

The silence stretches between the two of you.

Not awkward.

Just… different.

Usually, your conversations flowed without either of you having to think about what came next. You always had something to tease him about. A sarcastic comment about him showing up out of nowhere. A complaint about him getting himself injured again. A joke about how dramatic he looked standing on rooftops like some gargoyle watching over the city.

Tonight…

You have nothing.

Or rather—

Too much.

Your thoughts are so tangled that you don’t know which one to let out first.

The sound of your footsteps echoes softly along the sidewalk as the two of you continue walking side by side. A cool breeze drifts through Hell’s Kitchen, lifting loose strands of your hair before carrying them away again.

Daredevil breaks the silence first.

“You’ve been quiet.”

You glance at him for a brief moment before looking back ahead.

“I have?”

“You usually talk more.”

A small smile tugs at your lips.

“So you admit I talk too much.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

For a second, it almost feels normal again.

Almost.

But the conversation dies just as quickly as it started.

Matt notices.

He notices everything.

The way your smile disappears a heartbeat sooner than usual.

The way your hands remain buried inside your jacket pockets instead of moving as you speak.

The way your heartbeat keeps changing whenever your thoughts wander somewhere else.

“You sure you’re alright?”

You nod.

“Just tired.”

“You’ve said that before.”

You let out a quiet sigh.

“I know.”

He waits. He doesn’t pressure you. He never has. He simply walks beside you, giving you the space to speak if you choose to.Eventually, you do. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

You hesitate. Your eyes remain fixed on the pavement. “Have you ever…” You stop yourself.

He tilts his head slightly. “Ever what?”

You laugh under your breath. “This is going to sound stupid.”

“It won’t.”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you take another few steps before finally speaking. “Have you ever met someone… and they just kind of stayed in your head?”

Matt’s heartbeat falters for the smallest fraction of a second. He keeps his voice even.“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You smile to yourself, almost embarrassed. “They’re just…” You search for the right words. “…always there.”

“I’ll be making coffee, and suddenly I’ll remember something they said.”

“I’ll hear a joke, and I’ll think they’d probably laugh at it.”

“I’ll see something during the day and wonder what they’d think.”

You let out another quiet laugh.“It’s ridiculous.”

Matt’s chest tightens. He doesn’t recognize the man you’re describing. But he recognizes the way you’re talking about him. Whoever he is… you’ve been thinking about him a lot.

“No,” he says softly. “It isn’t ridiculous.”

You glance at him. “You don’t think so?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

A gentle silence follows.

You can feel your cheeks warming, even in the cool evening air.

“I’ve never really…”

You pause.

“…felt like this before.”

Matt lowers his head slightly. His hands curl into loose fists at his sides. He tells himself not to ask. Not to pry. Not to make this harder than it already is. But the question slips out anyway.

“Is there… someone?”

You don’t answer straight away.

Instead, your gaze drifts toward the glowing windows of the buildings across the street.

“There might be.”

His stomach sinks.

You don’t notice. “I don’t even know if he’d ever see me that way.” You laugh quietly, shaking your head.“He probably wouldn’t.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I doubt it.” Your smile is small. Almost shy. “I don’t even know why I like him.”

“You don’t choose those things.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“No.” You smile sadly. “I guess you don’t.”

Another silence settles between you.

This one feels heavier.

Matt tells himself not to ask another question.

He should leave it alone.

You deserve your privacy.

You deserve to be happy.

Even if that happiness isn’t with him.

Still…

One thought refuses to leave him.

Who is he?

Is he someone from your work?

A neighbor?

Someone you’ve known for years?

He doesn’t know.

And somehow…

Not knowing is worse.

You finally reach the familiar apartment building.

The old brick façade stands exactly as it always has, illuminated by the flickering streetlamp above the entrance.

You stop at the bottom of the steps.

“So…”

You look at him with a tired smile. “I guess this is where we say goodnight.”

He nods once. “Looks like it.”

You shift your weight awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”

“I know.” You smile. “But I want to.”

For a brief moment, neither of you moves.

Then you quietly say, “I hope you stay safe too.”

The words catch him off guard.

“You spend so much time making sure everyone else gets home.”

Your smile softens.

“I just hope someone makes sure you get home too.”

His breath catches. No one had ever said that to him before. Not like this. Not so simply. Not expecting anything in return. “I’ll… try.”

You nod. “Good.”

He takes a small step back. “I should go.”

“Yeah.”

You watch him for another second before turning toward the apartment entrance.

As your hand reaches for the doorknob, you glance over your shoulder one last time.

“Goodnight, Devil.”

“Goodnight.”

He waits until the apartment door closes behind you. Only then does he leap onto the nearest fire escape. The city stretches out before him, alive with sirens, traffic, and distant voices. Usually, patrolling clears his mind.

Tonight…

It doesn’t.

Because all he can think about is the quiet smile on your face when you spoke about another man. Whoever he was…

You sounded happy.

Matt tells himself that’s all that should matter.

So why…

Why did it feel like he’d just lost something he never really had?

[wishesnwings]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘖𝘝 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 | 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 | 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 | 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 | 𝘔𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 | 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 | 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 20𝘴 | 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 3621𝘬

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘢𝘩𝘩𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 5, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

The next few days pass in a blur.

Life settles back into the same routine it always has, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened. You wake up before sunrise, make yourself a quick cup of coffee, quietly slip out of the apartment before your father wakes up. You've been avoiding him since the night, you were supposed to bring him his so-called medicine. After he found out you came back empty handed, he lashed out. You try your best since then not to face him again. It's almost impossible. But you try your best. 

You spend most of your day behind the café counter serving customers with a smile that doesn't always reach your eyes.

Yet no matter how hard you try to lose yourself in your routine, your thoughts always drift back to two people.

One wears a tailored suit and carries a white cane through the streets of Hell's Kitchen with an ease that almost makes you forget he cannot see.

The other hides behind a black mask and disappears across rooftops before you ever get the chance to thank him properly. 

They couldn't be more different. 

One is calm where the other one is intimidating.  One spends his days in courtrooms while the other spends his nights fighting criminals in dark alleys.

And yet…

Every now and then, they remind you of each other in ways you can't explain. The quiet way they listen before speaking. The patience in their voices. The habit of saying "thank you" as though the words carried more weight than most people realized.

You catch yourself comparing them more often than you'd like to admit, only to immediately shake the thought away. It is ridiculous.

Matt Murdock is just a blind laywer.

Daredevil is…

Well.

Daredevil.

There is no reason your mind should keep trying to connect the two. So you stop yourself every single time. Or at least… you try. 

—

The small bell above the café door rings again.

You don't look up immediately.

You have learned not to. 

The morning rush has already started, and the last thing you need is to get distracted while three different customers are waiting for their orders and the coffee machine sounds like it is about to give up on life.

But then you hear it.  A familiar voice. "Morning."

Your hand pauses around the coffee cup you are holding. Slowly, you look up. And there he is. Matt murdock. Again. For a moment, you stare. Not because you are suprised he came back. At least, that is what you tell yourself.

You are just suprised because people don't usually become regular customers that quickly. Especially not someone who looks like he belongs in a much nicer place than your tiny café in Hell's Kitchen. A small smile appears on your face before you can stop it.

"You're back."

The words come out more like an observation than a question. Matt smiles slightly. "Is that a bad thing?" You immediately shake your head. "No." A pause. "Not at all." Something about the way he relaxes after hearing that makes you notice him more. 

Like he wasn't sure if he would be welcomed.

Like he expected you to be annoyed by his presence. 

And you don't understand why. Because honestly… you are glad he is here. 

"You know," you say while grabbing a clean up, "most people don't come back to a café after one visit just because of the coffee."

Matt tilts his head slightly. "You're saying your coffee isn't good?"

You look at him. "No."

A small smile forms. "I'm saying you're suspicious." 

"Suspicious?"

"Yes." You place the cup on the counter.  "Nobody willingly comes back for black coffee." "I do." "Exactly." He lets out a quiet laugh. And there it is again. That strange feeling. That tiny pull in your chest that you cannot explain. Because his laugh reminds you of someone else. Someone you promised yourself you would stop thinking about. 

You quickly focus on making his drink. "You always order the same thing?" "Usually." "That's boring." A small smile appears. "You judge people based on their coffee orders?" "Absolutely." "And what does mine say about me?" You pretend to think. "That you like things simple."

You hand him his coffee. "Or that you don't trust anyone enough to make something complicated for you." The second these words leave your mouth, you realize they might have been to personal. You look away. "Sorry. That was weird." But Matt doesn't seem offended. If anything, he looks surprised. Not because you were wrong. Because you noticed.

"You do that often."

You look back at him. "Do what?"

"See things." 

You shrug. "I guess."

"No." His voice is quieter. "You really do."

For a second, neither of you speaks. Because there is something about the way he says it. Like he isn't just talking about coffee. Like he is talking about everything. The things people hide. The things they don't say. You look down at the counter. "I think people show more than they realize." Matt's express softens. "Maybe." 

You don't know why, but that answer stays with you. 

A few minutes later, the bell above the door rings again. 

This time, a voice immediately follows.

"Matt." 

You glance up. 

A blond man walks into the café, looking around until his eyes land on the man sitting at the counter. Matt immediately recognizes his voice. And judging by his expression…

He already knows what is coming.

The man walks closer. "You ignored my calls." "I was busy." "You were drinking coffee." "I was busy drinking coffee." You try not to laugh. You fail. The man looks toward you. "Oh." His eyes move between you and Matt. A knowing smile slowly appears. "Interesting." 

Matt immediately turns his head. "Foggy."

"What?"

"Don't."

You raise an eyebrow. "Should I be concerned?"

The man laughs. "No, no I'm just saying it's impressive."

"What's impressive?"

"That Matt Murdock voluntarily goes somewhere that isn't his office or his apartment." 

You smile. "That sounds like a rare achievement."

"It is." 

Matt sighs. "She's making fun of me now."

"Good." Foggy grins. "Someone needs to."

You laugh quietly. And for some reason, seeing Matt like this feels strange. Different. Because you have only ever see him as this calm, collected person. But around this man… he seems lighter. More normal. Like he isn't carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. You like seeing that. You like knowing there is a version of him that isn't always so serious.

"Foggy Nelson," the man introduces himself, holding out his hand.

You tell him your name while shaking it. 

"Nice to meet you."

"You too."

Foggy looks between you and Matt again. And you immediately know what look. The same look people get when they think they under something you don't. You narrow your eyes. "Why are you looking at us like that?"

Foggy smiles innocently. "I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm really not."

Matt takes a sip of his coffee. "He's always like this." "Like what?" "Annoying." Foggy puts a hand over his chest dramatically. "I'm hurt." "You'll survive." The answer comes so natural that you smile. Because there is something comfort about seeing people who know each other this well.

People who have history. People who can joke without worrying about saying the wrong thing. 

For a second, you wonder what that must feel like. Having someone who knows you completely. Someone who stays. The thought disappears quickly. Because you have learned not to expect things like that. 

When Foggy finally convinces Matt that they actually need to leave, you find yourself feeling disappointed.

Again.

And you hate that.

Because you barely know him.

"See you around?" The words leave your mouth before you think. Matt stops. Then slowly smiles. "Yeah." A small pause. "I think so." You nod. "Good." He turns toward the door. But before leaving, he pauses.

"Take care of yourself." 

The sentence is simple. But something about it feels familiar. Like another person said the same thing before. Someone wearing a mask. Someone who disappeared into the night. You watch him leave. And you don't notice the way your fingers unconciously touch the pocket of your jacket.

The place where the rosary used to be.

Because somehow…

Even without it…

You still feel like he left something behind.

—

The rest of your shift passes slower than usual. Not because the café is empty.

Quite the opposite. 

By noon, every table is occupied, the air is filled with the rich scent of freshly ground coffee beans, steamed milk, and warm pastries, and the constant chatter of customers blends together until it becomes nothing more than background noise.

Usually, the hours slip by without you noticing. Today, they don't. Your mind keeps wandering. Back to Matt. Back to the easy conversation you shared that morning. Back to the way he smiled whenever you teased him. 

It had been… effortless.

Almost strange.

You couldn't remember the last time talking to someone felt so easy. There had been no awkward silence. No uncomfortable questions. No pity hidden behind someone's eyes after learning too much about your life. 

Just conversation. Just laughter. It had been nice. Dangerously nice.

Because getting attached to people had never ended well for you. You learned that lesson years ago. People leave. People change. 

Or worse…

They stay and slowly become someone you no longer recognize. You had seen it happen with your father. The man who once tucked you into bed and carried you on his shoulders had disappeared long before the alcohol took over completely. 

Sometimes you wondered if he had died years ago, leaving only an empty shell behind. You hated yourself for thinking it. But it didn't make it any less true.

"Earth to you." Your coworker's voice startles you. You blink, realizing you've been staring out the café window for almost a full minute. She waves a hand in front of your face. "You've been somewhere else all day." "I've just been tired." She folds her arms. "Mhm." "I have." you try to defend yourself. "If you say so." She gives you a knowing smile before walking away to take another customers order.

You quietly sigh. Apparently, you weren't as good at hiding your thoughts as you believed. The realization annoys you. You had spent years perfect that smile. The one that convinced everyone you were doing just fine. The one that made customers think you were simply another cheerful waitress. The one that kept people from asking questions you didn't want to aswer. Yet somehow…

Matt had looked straight through it. Without even looking. The thought makes you shake your head. No. You're doing it again. Comparing him. Comparing him to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. 

You grab a damp cloth and begin wiping down the counter with a little more force than necessary. "They're not the same," you wisper under your breath. You don't even know why you're trying to convince yourself.

By the time your shift finally ends, the sky has already darkened.

Heavy clouds hide the stars above Hell's Kitchen, leaving the streets illuminated only by old streetlamps, neon signs, and the occasional headlights of passing cars.

You pull your black leather jacket tighter around yourself as you step outside the café. The evening air is colder than you expected. You shove your hands into your pockets, letting out a slow breath as your shoes hit the damp pavement. Normally, you would have taken the longer route home. The safer one. The one with more people.

Tonight…

Your feet carry you down the familiar side streets without much thought. You know every cracked sidewalk. Every flickering streetlamp. Every shortcut between the apartment buildings. It doesn't make them safe, it just makes them familiar. The city feels quieter tonight. Not peaceful. Just… waiting. A siren echoes somewhere in the distance before disappearing again. A train rattles across the old tracks several blocks away.

Somewhere above you, a fire escape creaks as the wind pushes against it. You pull your jacket even closer. Your heartbeat just a little faster. You tell yourself it's because you're alone. Nothing more. 

Halfway home, you stop in front of a small convenience store to buy a loaf of bread and a carton of milk. Your father would probably complain there wasn't any beer. You ignore the thought. After paying, you thank the cashier before stepping back outside. The plastic bag swings gently at your side as you continue walking home. You don't notice the footsteps behind you. Not at first. You're too busy thinking.

Thinking about whether Matt would come back tomorrow. Thinking about how Foggy had looked at the two of you with that ridiculous grin. Thinking about how normal it had felt. For just a little while.

Then…

The footsteps become louder. Closer. Your grip tightens around the grocery bag. You don't turn around. Not yet. You tell yourself it's probably nothing. Just another person walking the same direction. 

Still…

The uneasy feeling crawling beneath your skin refuses to leave. You quicken your peace. So do the footsteps. Your stomach drops. You swallow hard, pretending not to notice. Maybe they'll keep walking. Maybe they'll pass you. Maybe—

"Hey." A man's voice cuts through the silence. You keep walking. "Miss." Another voice joins in. This one closer. "Didn't your mama teach you it's rude to ignore people?" 

You close your eyes for the briefest second. Of course. You knew this neighborhood too well. You knew exactly how these situations usually ended. Your fingers tighten around the grocery bag until the thin plastic begins digging into your skin. 

You don't answer.

You simply keep walking.

Behind you, the footsteps speed up. A laugh echoes through the empty street. "She's scared." "No kidding." Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs. You tell yourself not to run. Running only encourages people like them. Your breathing comes uneven anyway. One of them whistles. "Come on, sweetheart. We just wanna talk." You know that's a lie. You keep walking. Faster now. Your apartment is still several blocks away.

Too far. 

Much too far.

The footsteps are only a few meters behind you. Then… they suddenly stop. Silence. Complete silence. Even the traffic seems farther away. You frown. Slowly turning your head. The two men are no longer looking at you. They're looking upward. Their faces have gone pale.

Confused, you follow their gaze. A dark figure stands perched on the edge of the rooftop above you. Completely still. The wind catches the fabric of his suit, making it ripple softly behind him. Even from this distance… you recognize him immediately. Your heart doesn't race from fear. It settles. Relief washes over you before you can stop it. 

As if some invisible weight has just been lifted from your shoulders. The corners of your lips twitch upward ever so slightly. "You've really got to stop meeting me like this," you murmur. A second later…

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen jumps in. Landing effortless between you and the two men. His back faces you. Broad shoulders. Head slightly lowered. Every muscle in his body relaxed in that strangely dangerous way you've come to recognize. 

He doesn't say a word.

He doesn't have to.

The two men exchange nervous glances before taking a slow step backward. One mutters something under his breath. The other curses quietly. Neither of them looks nearly as confident as they did a moment ago. You remain excatly where you are. For the first time since leaving the café, you aren't afraid anymore.

The silence doesn't last long. One of the men scoffs, trying to sound braver than he feels. "The hell are you suppose to be?" Daredevil doesn't answer. He simply stands there, his shoulders squared, one foot slightly behind the other. His head tilts just enough to acknowledge the man's voice, but otherwise he remains perfectly still. 

You have never seen someone look so calm before. It is almost unsettling. The taller man takes another hesitant step forward, trying to puff out his chest. "Move." Nothing. Not even a twitch. The second man lets out a nervous laugh. "Forget it, man. It ain't worth it."

The taller one stubbornly ignores him and reaches into his jacket. Your heart skips. "Daredevil…" you barely get his name out before everything happens at once. The man lunges forward. Daredevil catches his wrist before the punch even lands. A sharp crack echoes through the alley as he twists the man's arm just enough to force him onto his knees. The other man charges from the side. 

Without looking, Daredevil ducks beneath the swing, drives his elbow into the man's ribs, and sends him stumbling backward into a pile of trash bags. The entire fight lasts less than thirty seconds. 

No dramatic speeches.

No unnecessary violence.

Just quick, precise movements. 

By the time you fully process what happened, both men are already scarmbling their feet. "Let's go!" Neither of them dares to look back. Within seconds, they disappear into the darkness they came from. 

The alley falls quiet once more. The only sounds left are your uneven breathing and the distant sirens somewhere across Hell's Kitchen. Daredevil remains where he is for another moment, listening. Making sure they are really gone. Only then does he turn toward you. "You alright?" His voice softer now. Almost gentle. You nod. "I am now."

He exhales quietly, a breath you aren't sure he even realized he was holding. "I told you these streets aren't safe." You look down at the grocery bag still hanging from your hand. "I know." "Then why keep walking home alone?" You shrug weakly. "Because someone has to pay the bills." The words come out quieter than you intended. You weren't looking for sympathy. It is simply the truth. For a long moment, he says nothing. His jaw tightens beneath the mask. You don't notice it.

But if you could see his face, you would know exactly how much those words affected him. "You work too much." You let out a small laugh. "You sound just like Matt." The sentence slips out so naturally that you don't think anything of it. Daredevil, however, freezes. Only for a heartbeat. Then he forces himself to answer. "Is… that a good thing?"

You smile faintly. "I think so." He nods once. "I'm glad." You begin walking again, this time much slower. After a few steps, you notice another pair of footsteps behind you. You glance over. "You don't have to walk me home." "I know." "But you're going to anyway?" "Yes." You roll your eyes playfully. "You're stubborn." "So I've been told." A quiet laugh escapes you. "You know…" you glance toward him.

"I'm starting to think you only show up because you don't trust me."

"I trust you."

His answer is immediate.

"So what is it then?"

He is quiet for a moment. "I don't trust this city."

You don't know why those words make your chest feels warm. Maybe because no one has ever admitted something like that so simply. Not as an insult toward you. But as a concern for you. The walk continues in comfortable silence. For once, it doesn't feel awkward. You don't feel pressured to fill every quiet moment with conversation. Somehow…

Silence with him feels peaceful.

After a few minutes, you finally reach your apartment building. The old brick walls look just as worn down as always. Several windows are dark. Others glow faintly behind old curtains. You stop at the bottom of the stops. "So…" you look at him. "…this is me." "I know." A small smile appears on your lips. "You alway know where I am."

The words were meant as a joke. But something about them makes him hesitate. "I've got good hearing." You chuckle. "I noticed." Another silence settles between you. Neither of you seems eager to end the night. You adjust the grocery bag in your hand. "I guess…" you clear your throat. "…thank you." He tilts his head. "For what?" You look at him as if the answer should be obvious. "For saving me." A small pause. 

"For walking me home."

Another pause. 

"…For making this place feel a little less scary." 

He lowered his head ever so slightly. "You don't have to thank me."

"I know." You smile softly. "But I wanted to."

For the first time since you've known him, he doesn't seem to know what to say. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath. Then, almost as if the words surprise even him, he quietly says.

"I'll always make sure you get home safely."

Your heart skips. You don't know why. Maybe because no one has ever promised you something like that before. Maybe because… you believe him. Completely. Before you can answer, he takes a step back.

"I should go." 

You nod reluctantly. "Right."

He turns toward the fire escape attached to the neighboring building. "Goodnight." You smile. "Goodnight…Devil." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. Then, with one effortless movement, he climbs onto the fire escape, disappearing onto the rooftops above. You stand there for another minute, staring up at the skyline. The rooftops are empty again. As if he had never been there.

Yet somehow…

The streets don't feel as cold anymore. 

With a quiet smile lingering on your lips, you turn toward your apartment and disappear inside, completely unaware that high above Hell's Kitchen, a pair of unseen eyes waits until the light in your bedroom flickers on. 

Only then does the Devil finally disappear into the night, knowing that, at least for one more evening…

You made it home safe.

[wishesnwings]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘖𝘝 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 | 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 | 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 | 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 | 𝘔𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 | 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 | 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 20𝘴 | 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵:

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘢𝘩𝘩𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 4, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

──────── ୨ৎ─────────

The rosary stays on your bedside table for three days.

Three days.

Not because you are attached to it. At least, that is what you keep telling yourself. It is just an object. Something someone lost. Something that belongs to some who probably needs it back. That is all. There is no reason for you to look at it every morning when you wake up. No reason to wonder if he has noticed it is missing. No reason to think about the way his fingers moved when he held a coffee cup. No reason to remember how different he seemed in the quiet of your bedroom compared to the person everyone feared outside.

You barely even know him. 

You don't know his name.

You don't  know his face.

You don't know anything about him besides the fact he wears a mask and risks his life every night for people who will probably never thank him. And somehow…

That is enough to make you think about him more than you would. 

You quickly turn away from the rosary while getting ready for work. Today is supposed to be normal. You need normal. Normal means focusing on your shift. Normal means not wondering if a masked vigilante is somewhere on a rooftop nearby. Normal means not replaying every conversation you had with him in your head. 

Unfortunately…

Your mind doesn't seem interested in cooperating. Because every time you close your eyes, you remember his voice. The quiet way he apologized. The way he said thank you like nobody had ever done something kind for him before. You hate that you noticed. You hate that you care.  Because caring about someone in Hell's Kitchen was dangerous. Especially someone you didn't even know.

—

The café is quieter than usual that morning. 

Rain taps against the window, turning the streets outside into blurry reflections of grey and silver. The kind of weather that makes everyone want to stay inside, wrapped in blankets and pretending the world outside doesn't exist. 

You are wiping down the counter when the bell above the door rings.

You don't look up immediately.

"Welcome in."

A familiar voice answers. "Busy morning?"

Your hand stops. Slowly, you lift your head. And there he is. Not him. Not the man in black. 

Matt Murdock.

The lawyer from a few days ago. The man with the dark suit, glasses, and white cane. The man who somehow feels strangely familiar despite being a complete stranger. 

A smile slowly appears on your face. "Matt." The second you say his name, his expression softens. Like he wasn't expecting you to remember. "I didn't know if you would." You raise an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't I?". He gives a small shrug. "People forget."

You don't know why that answer makes you sad. Maybe because it sounds like he believes it. Like he is used to being forgotten. "Well, I don't." The words leave your mouth before you think about them. And for some reason, they affect him. 

Only slightly.

But enough.

You notice.

You always notice.

"Coffee?" You ask, trying to move past the strange moment. He smiles. "Please." You turn around to make his drink. Behind you, Matt stands quietly. Listening. The sound of your movements. The way you hum softly when you concentrate. The familiar rhythm of your heartbeat.

He shouldn't be here. He knows that. He told himself he was only coming because of the rosary. A simple reason. An innocent reason. He wanted to see you again. And that thought scares him more than any fight he has ever been in. Because danger is something he understands. Feelings are not.

You place the coffee in front of him. "Here." His fingers brush the cup. Then he pauses. "Thank you." You smile slightly. "You say that a lot." A small smile appears on his face."Do I?" "Yeah." You lean against the counter. "You say thank you like it actually means something." 

For a second, Matt doesn't answer. Because it does mean something. More than you realize. People thank him all the time. After Daredevil saves them. Ater he wins a case. After he helps someone. But most of the time, those words disappear as quickly as they are spoken. Coming from you… it feels different. 

"Maybe it does." His answer is quieter than expected. And suddenly the conversation feels heavier. You look away first. Because something about him makes you feel like he sees too much. Not in a bad way. Just… too much. Like he notices the things you try to hide. "You know," you say, "you remind me of someone."

Matt goes still. Only for a second. "Someone?" You nod."Yeah." You don't know why you say it. Maybe because the thought has been bothering you since he walked in. "The way you talk." You look at him. "The way you listen." A pause. "It's strange." Matt's grip tightens slightly around his cup. "Strange?" You laugh softly.  "Not a bad strange."

You shake your head. "Just familiar." And for a moment…

Neither of you speaks. Because you don't know how close you are. 

And Matt does. 

—

The streets of Hell's Kitchen always felt different at night. 

During the day, the city could almost convince you it was normal.

People rushing to work. Children walking home from school. Cafés filled with tired customers needing their moning coffee. 

But once the sun disappeared and the streets became covered in shadows, everything changed. The city showed its real face. The one everyone tried to ignore. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself as you walked home, your footsteps echoing again the wet pavement. You hated being out this late. You always had. 

But sometimes life didn't care what you wanted. Sometimes you had to walk through dangerous streets because there was no other choice. Your fingers slipped into your jacket pocket without thinking. And they found it. The rosary. You stopped walking for a moment. You didn't even remember putting it there. 

You had left your apartment that morning with the intention of return it somehow. That was all. It wasn't supposed to become something you carried around. It wasn't supposed to mean anything. But somehow…it did. Your thumb brushed over the small silver cross. It was strange. 

You didn't even know the person it belonged to. You didn't know his name nor his face. You only knew the feeling of being near him. 

Safe.

Which was ridiculous. A piece of jewelry couldn't make you safe. A man you barely knew couldn't protect you. And yet…

Holding it made the empty streets feel a little less frightening. Like somewhere out there, someone was watching. Someone who would appear if something happened. Someone who had already proven he would. You let out a quiet breath and continued walking. "You're being stupid," you whispered to yourself. But you didn't put it away. You kept your hand around it the entire way home. 

And that's why you didn't hear the footsteps behind you. Maybe that was why, when a shadow moved above the rooftop, you weren't complete afraid. Because somehwere deep down…

You already knew.

He was there.

"You really shouldn't walk these streets alone." 

Your entire body froze. That voice. You turned around. And there he was. The mask. The black suit. The man who had become a memory you couldn't seem to forget.

Dardevil.

Your entire body freezes. For a second, you wonder if you imagined it. The exhaustion from your shift. The cold air. The darnkess surrounding you. Maybe your mind is just playing tricks on you. But then you hear it again.

"You're really making a habit out of walking home alone."

That voice.

Low.

Familiar.

A voice you somehow recognized before you even turned around. Slowly, you look up. And there he is. Standing at the end of the street. The same black suit. The same mask hiding half of his face. The same person who had appeared when you needed someone the most. 

Daredevil.

You don't know why your first reaction isn't fear. Maybe it should be. Anyone else would probably panic seeing a masked man standing in the shadows. But you don't. Not with him. Because you already know what he does. You know what kind of person hides behind that mask.

Someone who saves people. Someone who stays when everyone leaves. Someone who makes you feel safe in a city that rarely gives anyone a reason to feel that way. 

"You have a habit of appearing out of nowhere," you say quietly. A small smile forms beneath his mask. "And you have a habit of putting yourself in dangerous situations." You cross your arms. "I was just walking home." "At midnight." You glance away. "…Yes." "Through Hell's Kitchen." "It's not like I had much choice." The answer makes him quiet. Because he knows. He knows what it is like when life gives you choices that aren't really choices.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The city continues around you. Cars passing. Distant voices. The sound of footsteps somewhere far away. But somehow, standing there with him, everything feels quieter. Your hands slip into your pocket again. A habit you didn't even realize you had. And this time, he notices. Not because he sees it.

Because he hears the tiny change in your heartbeat. The way you become slightly nervous. "What is it?" You hesitate. Then slowly pull it out. The rosary. His entire body stills. Only for a second. But you notice. You always notice. "You left this." Your voice is softer." "I found it after you left." You hold it out toward him. "I wasn't sure when I'd see you again." A pause. "So I just… kept it." 

Matt's breath catches slightly beneath the mask. Because he knows exactly what it is. Not just the rosary. The meaning behind it. The fact you carried something so personal of his without knowing who he really was.

"Why?"

The question comes out quieter than he intended.

You look confused. 

"Why what?"

"Why did you keep it?"

You look down at the rosary in your hand. Honestly…

You don't really know. You could say because you wanted to return it. That would be the logical answer. But it isn't the truth. "I dont know." Your fingers tighten around the beads for a moment. "I guess…" You pause. "It made me feel safe." The words surprise even you. You immediately look away. "It sounds stupid."

"No."

His answer comes instantly. Too instantly. You look back at him. "It doesn't." The way he says it makes your chest tighten. Because he sounds like he means it. "After everything that happened." You swallow. "I know it's just a rosar." You give a small embarassed laugh.

"But when I held it, it felt like…"

You stop. Like you're saying too much. But he waits. He always waits. "Like you were still there." Silence. A heavy, meaningful silence. Matt doesn't know what to say. Because he has spent years believing he is only a shadow. 

But you…

You took a piece of him and somehow turned it into something comforting. 

"You shouldn't have to feel safe because of something I left behind."

Your eyebrows furrow.  "What?"

He looks away slightly.  Then corrects himself. "I mean…" A small pause. "You deserve to feel safe without needing someone to save you."

The words hit harder than expected. Because nobody has ever said that to you. Not like that. Not like he meant it. You look down. "Maybe." A faint smile appears. "But it's still nice knowing someone is out there."

His head tilts slightly. "Someone?"

You shrug. "Someone who cares."

The words are quiet. But they stay between you. Because both of you know what you mean. Matt has no idea how to respond. So instead, he reaches out. Slowly. Carefully. Taking the rosary back from your hand.

His fingers brush yours for the briefest moment. And just like before… you feel it. That strange electricity. That impossible familiarity. And for second, you wonder. Not who he is. But why being around him feels so natural.

"Thank you."

There it is again. That quiet gratitude. The same way he said it in your apartment. You smile softly. "You're welcome." He looks at you. Really looks at you. And even though you can't see his eyes behind the mask… you somehow feel like he is seeing every part of you.

The tired parts. 

The broken parts.

The parts you hide from everyone else.

"You should get home."

You nod. "Probably." 

Neither of you moves. For a few seconds, you both just stand there. Neither wanting to be the first one to leave. Finally, he steps back. "Goodnight." You hesitate. Then smile. "Goodnight, Devil." A small smile appears beneath his mask. And before you can say anything else…

He disappears into the night. Leaving you standing there. Safe. Confused. And somehow already missing him. You don't know why. You don't know him. Not really. But some part of you knows one thing.

And somewhere above the streets of Hell's Kitchen…

Matt Murdock knows the exact same thing.

[pluvial-lake]

﹙ 𝐃𝐃 𝐌𝐄𝐍 ﹚ 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ─── 𝗉𝗍. 𝟣

[wishesnwings]

I need all three of them

[sassatoru]

matt murdock x mute!reader

touch is your language, soft taps on his skin to communicate, it takes him longer than he likes to admit to realise you’re using morse code to talk.

it’s genius too, so smart, his smart sweetheart.

despite the complications in the beginning of your friendship, where it was a little more than hard to communicate, now? now he can read you easy with his hands.

it’s honestly just given him a bigger opportunity to linger, to touch you, to be close to you in a way he can’t get away with being with others.

his hand always curled around your elbow when walking in public, one of your hands always on his bicep to tap when you’re not really doing much.

you both use touch as your language, so much so that matt finds himself forgetting other people don’t talk like you do.

he enjoys laying his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat.

it’s adorable the way you try and make a little more noise with the things you do around the apartment just to indicate you’re still there.

and he’s noticed patterns.

like you shutting the door a little louder some days when you’re annoyed and just want time, or clicking it shut when big really just need him to hold you.

he loves it. loves you he thinks, no he knows.

loves your heartbeat.

your smart little indicators.

loves tracing his hands over your skin to memorise you, like your body holds the answer to every question he’s ever asked himself.

© sasstoru. do no copy/steal/translate or give to ai.

[wishesnwings]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

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𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘖𝘝 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 | 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 | 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 | 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 | 𝘔𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 | 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 | 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 20𝘴 | 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 2.954𝘬

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘢𝘩𝘩𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 3, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

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The strange thing about life was how quickly it returned to normal. Or at least how quickly it pretended to.

Only a few days ago, you were walking through the darkest parts of Hell's Kitchen with your heart pounding in your chest, convinced you were about to disappear without anyone noticing.

Then he appeared.

A man dressed in black.

A man who moved like he belonged to the shadows.

A man who saved you.

And now?

Now you were standing behind the counter of a tiny café, wiping down tables while the morning rush slowly started to fill the room.

The smell of the fresh coffee surrounded you, mixing with the sweet smell of pastries sitting behind the glass display. The small bell above the entrance rang every few minutes as customers came and went, most of them regulars who visited for years.

It was nothing special.

The café was old. The chairs were mismatched. The lights flickered sometimes. The coffee machine made a strong noise whenever someone ordered too many drinks at once.

But it was peaceful.

And after everything happening at home…

Peace was something you valued.

You tied your brown apron tighter around your waist, placing another cup of coffee on the counter before calling out the customer's order.

"Large black coffee."

The man grabbed it with a tired smile.

"You're a lifesaver."

You laughed quietly. "I just make coffee."

"Same thing in this city."

You smile politely before turning back to the counter. Your coworker, who had been watching you from beside the machine, raised an eyebrow.

"You've been smiling a lot today."

You immediately looked at her. "What?"

She shrugged. "You heard me."

"I'm always smiling."

She gave you a look. A look that clearly said she didn't believe you. You rolled your eyes and grabbed another order slip.

"Maybe I'm just having a good day."

"Really?"

You hesitated. Because technically… you were. Not because anything had changed. Your life was still complicated. Your father was still the same. Your apartment was still too small. Your problems hadn't magically disappeared overnight.

But something about that morning had felt different. You had woken next to someone who, despite everything, made you feel safe. Someone who didn't look at you like you were a burden. Someone who listened.

Your mind unconsciously drifted back to the small object that was still there. The rosary. You had found it after he left. At first, you thought about throwing it away. Not because you didn't care. Because you didn't know what else to do with it.

It felt too personal to simply keep it. But it also felt wrong to leave it somewhere where anyone could find it. So you kept it. Until you saw him again. If you saw him again. That thought made your chest tighten slightly. You immediately pushed it away. You didn't even know who he was. You didn't know his name. You didn't know his face.

You only knew the mask. The voice.

The way he had held you when you almost fell out of your own bed. The way he had whispered that he was sorry when he touched you.

You shook your head. You were thinking about a stranger way too much. A stranger who was probably already somewhere else. A stranger who probably saved people every night and forgot about you the second he left your apartment.

You grabbed another cup of and started making coffee. That was what you needed to focus on. Work. Not him. Definitely not him. The small bell above the door rang. You didn't look up immediately. Not until you heard the voice.

"Good morning."

Your hand froze. Not because you recognized it. You didn't. Not completely. It was just… something about it felt familiar. You looked up. A man stood near the entrance. Dark suit. Glasses. A white cane held loosely in one hand. He looked nothing like the person who had stood in your apartment a few nights ago.

Nothing like the man covered in black armor.

Nothing like the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

This man looked ordinary. Approachable. Human.

"Good morning," you replied with a small smile. "What can I get you?"

The man smiled back. "Something strong enough to convince me I slept last night."

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "That bad?"

"You have no idea."

There was something warm about the way he said it. Something that made you relax. You grabbed a cup. "What kind of coffee?"

"Whatever you recommend."

You look at him. "That's a dangerous amount of trust for someone who doesn't know me."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Maybe I have good instincts."

You didn't know why, but that answer made you smile. "Maybe."

You turned around to prepare his coffee. And behind the counter… Matt Murdock stood completely still. Because the second you spoke…

He knew.

Your voice.

Your heartbeat.

The quiet rhythm he had memorized without meaning to. The woman from the apartment. The woman who had cleaned his wounds. The woman who had given him the last bit of food she had without hesitation.

You.

And somehow…

You had no idea who he was.

—

You placed the coffee in front of him, watching as his long fingers carefully find the cup. There is something different about the way he moves. You can't quite explain it. It isn't the way someone who is blind would move.

At least…

Not the way you imagined someone would.

He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't search around awkwardly. Every movement seems intentional, almost like he already knows exactly where everything is.

You quickly tell yourself not to stare. It is rude. Especially when you don't even know him. "Careful," you say softly. "It's still hot."

A small smile appears on his face. "Thank you."

The words are simple. But the way he says them makes you pause. Something about it feels familiar. Not his voice exactly. More like…

The feeling behind it. You shake the tought away. You have been thinking about a masked stranger too much. That is the only explanation. "Do you need anything else?" He slightly turns his head toward you. "No." A small pause. "Actually…" You wait. "I was wondering if this place is always this quiet in the morning."

You glance around the café. A few people are sitting by the window. Someone is reading a newspaper. Another customer is typing on a laptop. It is calm. At least compared to most places in Hell's Kitchen. "Usually, yes." You lean against the counter. "Most people here just want their coffee and five minutes where nobody bothers them."

He smiles faintly. "Sounds familiar."

You raise an eyebrow. "You're saying you don't like being bothered?"

"Depends on who's bothering me."

The answer catches you off guard. You blink. Then you laugh quietly. "That's a very lawyer answer." The moment the words leaves your mouth, you realize you never asked what he does. He tilts his head slightly. "How did you know?"

You gestured toward his suit. "Because you look like one." A small smile apears. "Is that a good thing?" "I haven't decided yet." That makes him laugh. And again…

That feeling returns. That strange familiarity. You don't understand why. Maybe because both of you seem tired in a way that other people don't notice. Maybe because there is something behind his calm expression. Something hidden. You know that feeling. You know what it is like to smile while carrying something heavy.

"So," you say, trying to make conversation. "Do you work around here?" "Yes." "As a Lawyer?" His smile grows slightly. "That obvious?" "Kind of." You point toward his suit. "The expensive-looking suit gave it away."

He looks down at himself. Or at least, what you assume is him looking down. "You think my suit looks expensive?"

"Compared to most people around here?" You shrug. "Definitely."

A quiet laugh escapes him. "I'm Matt." The name catches you for a second. Not because it means anything. Just because hearing someone's name after talking to them feels natural. You smile.

"I'm—" You stop yourself. Then you realize you never introduced yourself. You tell him your name. The second you do, his express changes. Only slightly. Most people wouldn't notice. But you do.

A tiny pause. A moment where he seems almost caught off guard. Like hearing your name means something. You ignore it. Maybe you are imagining things.

"Nice too meet you." You smile.

"You too."

And the strange thing is…

You mean it.

—

Matt stays longer than he planned. At first, he tells himself it is because he needs coffee. Then because he wants to make sure you're okay. Then because leaving feels harder than it should. He listens to you move around behind the counter. The way you greet customers. The way you apologize when someone has to wait longer than a few minutes. The way you quietly help an older woman carry her bag to the door.

Small things.

Things most people would never notice. But Matt notices everything. He always does. And what he notices most…

Is that you are still the same person who helped him. The same person who had very reason to be scared but still reached for him instead. The same person who looked at him like he was human.

Not a symbol.

Not a weapon.

Not the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Just someone who needehelp.

"You always work this much?"

Your attention turns back toward him. "Hm?"

"You seem like you never stop."

You look down at your hands. A small smile appears. "I guess I don't."

"Why?"

The question is simple. But somehow, it feels heavier than it should. You shrug. "Someone has to." Matt goes quiet. Because he understands that answer too well. Someone has to. That has been his entire life. Someone has to protect the city. Someone has to fight. Someone has to take the pain. He just never expected someone else to carry the same weight.

"You should take care of yourself too."

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. You look at him. Almost suprised. Then you laugh softly. "That's a little ironic coming from you." His eyebrows raise. "Why?" "You look exhausted." A pause. "Do I?" "Yes." You smile slightly. "Like you haven't slept properly in years."

For a second…

Matt forgets how to respond. Because she isn't wrong. And because you said it in the same way you said everything else. Not judgmental. Not accusing. Just noticing. "You do that a lot." You tilt your head. "Do what?" "Notice things." You think about it. "I guess." A small silence passes. Then you smile. "Maybe I'm just observant."

Matt smiles back. "Maybe."

Neither of you says anything after that. But for some reason…

Neither of you wants the conversation to end.

—

You don't realize how long he has been sitting there until the café starts getting busier.

The peaceful morning slowly disappears as more customers walk through the door, the bell above the entrance ringing again and again until the small sound almost becomes part of the background.

You move around automatically.

Taking orders. Making drinks. Cleaning tables.

Smiling at people even when your feet start hurting. It is something you have become good at. Keeping yourself busy. Because when you are busy, you don't have time to think. You don't have time to worry. You don't have time to remember the apartment waiting for you after your shifts ends. Or the person waiting inside it.

Your father.

The thought alone makes your expression change slightly.

Matt notices. Of course he does. He always notices. "You okay?" The question pulls you back. You look toward him. For a second, you almost forget who you are talking to. Not him. Not the masked man. No the person who held you when you almost fell.

Just Matt.

A stranger. A customer. Someone who somehow managed to notice your mood changing in the middle of a crowded café.

You force a small smile. "Yeah." A pause. "I'm fine." The words come out automatically. Too automaticallly. Matt hears the lie immediately. He always does. But he doesn't call you out on it. Instead, he simply nods. "Okay."

And somhow…

That is worse. Because most people would push. They would ask questions. They would want an explanation. But Matt doesn't. He gives you the choice. And you don't know why that makes your chest feel tight.

"You know," you say, trying to change the subject, "most people don't spend this long drinking one coffee."

A small smile appears on his face. "I was enjoying it." "You were enjoying a black coffee?" "Maybe." You narrow your eyes. "That's suspicious." "Why?" "Because nobody really enjoys black coffee." "I do." "That's because you're probably the kind of person who enjoys suffering."

The second the words leave your mouth, you realize how accurate they accidentally are. Matt freezes for the smallest amount. Then he laughs quietly. A real laugh. And you can't help but smile. There it is again. That strange feeling. Like you've heard that laugh before. Like you know him somehow. But that isn't possible.

You would have remembered meeting someone like him. A man who looked like he carried a thousand stories behind his eyes. A man who seemed both calm and exhausted at the same time.

The bell above the door rings. A new customer enters. And you realize how many people are waiting. Matt notices too. Slowly, he reaches for his cane. "I should probably let you get back to work." You immediately feel a strange disappointment. Which is ridiculous. You barely know this man.

Still…

You don't want the conversation to end.

"Already?"

He turns slightly toward you. "Already?"

You quickly look away. "I mean… you haven't finished your coffee."

A faint smile appears. "I'll take it with me."

You nod. Right. Of course. You grab a cup holder and carefully place the drink inside. "Here." His fingers brush against yours for the briefest second when he takes it. Barely anything. A normal interaction. Nothing special. Yet somehow…

You both pause. Only for a moment. Then it is gone. You pull your hand back. "Sorry." "You don't have to apologize." The words are quiet. But they sound familiar. Too familiar. You look at him. And for a second, you swear you see the same kindness. The same patience. The same quiet understanding that the masked man had.

But then you remember. That doesn't make sense.

Matt Murdock is just a lawyer. The other man is…

Something else.

Someone else.

At least, that's what you tell yourself. "Have a good day, Matt." The way you say his name makes him stop. Not because it is unsual. Because it is the first time someone has said it without knowing everything attached to it.

Not Matthew Murdock, attorney.

Not Daredevil.

Not the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Just Matt.

"You too."

He turns toward the door. Then pauses. Almost like he wants to say something. You wait. But he doesn't. Instead, he simply gives you a small smile before walking out. The bell rings again. And then he is gone.

—

Matt doesn't go far.

Not immediately.

He stands outside the café for a moment, the sounds of Hell's Kitchen surrounding him.

Cars. People. The city.

But all he can focus on is you.

The woman who somehow made him feel normal for a few minutes. The woman who didn't know his name. Didn't know his face. Didn't know the things he had done. And still trusted him.

He reaches into his coat pocket without thinking. His fingers search. Then stop. Nothing. His expression changes.

The rosary.

He doesn't have it. For a moment, he just stands there. Because he knows exactly where it is. Your aparment. On your floor. Or your table. Somehwere in that small home where he had felt safer than he wanted to admit.

He should go get it. That would be a logical thing. A simple explanation. A reason to return. But he doesn't move. Because returning means seeing you again. And seeing you again means risking getting closer. Matt Murdock knows better than anyone what happens when people get closer to him.

They get hurt.

Later that evening, when your shift finally ends, you return home exhausted.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Your father still isn't back. Part of you is relieved. You dropyour bag onto the chair and begin cleaning without thinking.

It has become a habit. A way to keep your hands busy. A way to avoid sitting still. You pick up the cups from the morning. Fold the blanket. Straighten the sheets. And then you see it. Again.

Something dark sitting near the edge of your bedside table. At first, you think you left something there. But then you realize…

You didn't. Slowly, you reach for it.

The rosary.

Black beads.

A small silver cross.

You hold it carefully between your fingers. It feels important. Personal. Like something that belongs to a person, not just an object. Your mind immediately goes back to him.

The masked man.

The stranger who saved you.

The man whose face you never saw.

You wonder if he notices it's gone. You wonder if he will come back for it. A small smile appears before you can stop it. "Guess I'll see you again."

You place the rosary somewhere safe. Not because you are waiting. Not because you want him to come back. At least…

That's what you tell yourself. Outside your window, Hell's Kitchen continues moving. The city never sleeps. And somewhere among the rooftops…

A man in black stands alone.

Thinking about a woman who doesn't know his name.

[wishesnwings]

𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤

Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

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𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘗𝘖𝘝 | 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘉𝘶𝘳𝘯 | 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘺 | 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘬 | 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 | 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 | 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘒𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘯 | 𝘔𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 | 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 | 𝘈𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱 | 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 20𝘴 | 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘴 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 2.507𝘬

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘢𝘩𝘩𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 2, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬! 𝘍𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

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Sleep comes easier than you expected.

Maybe because, for the first time in a long while, you don't feel like you're facing the world alone.

—

The soft glow of the morning sun peeks through the thin curtains, painting golden streaks across your bedroom.

A quiet sigh escapes your lips as your eyes slowly flutter open. For a moment, everything feels… peaceful. Too peaceful. Your brows furrow in confusion. Something is warm. Warm… and suprisingly comfortable. Before your sleepy mind can process it, you glance down.

Your breath catches.

His arm is wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close without the slightest bit of force. Sometime during the night, the two of you must've shifted in your sleep. The tiny bed had left little room to begin with, and now barely an inch separated your bodies.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. His warmth surrounded you completly. For a second, you simply froze. Your heart started pounding against your ribs so loudly you were convinced he would hear it.

God.

He's so close.

Carefully almost too carefully you tilted your head just enough to look at him.

He still seemed asleep. His breathing was slow and even, the black mask covering the upper half of his face just as it had the night before. A few loose strands of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and despite the bruises decorating his skin, there was something strangely peaceful about him.

Your eyes wandered over the bandages wrapped around his torso. The old scars scattered across his body. The fresh bruises you had cleaned only hours ago. How many nights had he come home looking like this? How many people had he saved?

You never asked him to take off his mask. It simply didn't feel right. He was already vulnerable enough, lying injured in your bed. Asking him to reveal the one thing protecting his identity would've only made him feel even more exposed. So you kept your curiosity to yourself.

Even though…

You couldn't help wondering what the man behind the mask looked like. Judging by everything else… you imagined he had to be handsome. You quickly shook the thought away, feeling your cheeks grow warm.

Get a grip.

Slowly, you tried slipping out from underneath his arm, careful not to wake him. The moment you moved, his arm instinctively tightened around your waist for just a second. Almost… protectively. Your breath hitched. He wasn't doing it on purpose. At least… you don't think so.

With another careful movement, you finally managed to free yourself, quietly climbing out of bed before pulling the blanket back over him. You smiled to yourself. He looked… oddly comfortable. For somene who spent every night fighting criminals across Hell's Kitchen.

Little did you know.

Matt had been awake the entire time. The moment your heartbeat sped up, he had already known you were awake. He stayed perfectly still, pretending to sleep. Not because he wanted to fool you. But because he wasn't quite ready to explain why he had unconsciously wrapped an arm around you during the night.

Truth be told…

It had been years since he had slept that peacefully.

—

You sneak into the kitchen, tip toe as you are trying to be very quiet. The tiny apartment looking peaceful, simply because your father isn't here. You wondered why he hasn't shown up yet. But brushed this thought instantly away. You didn’t want to waste any thought on him.

The kitchen is barely big enough for one person. Calling it a kitchen is almost generous. It is more like a small corner squeezed between the living room and the hallway, with old cabinets that have seen better days and a fridge that makes more noise than it actually works.

But it is yours. A place you learned to survive in.

You open the cupboard, already knowing what you will find. Not much. A few slices of bread. Some coffee. A small amount of milk that is probably going t expire soon. You stare at the ingredients for a moment. Not exactly the kind of breakfast you would offer someone who saved your life. Especially not someone who looked like he belonged in a completey differnt world than yours.

Someone like him.

You glance back toward your bedroom door. For a moment, you wonder if he is still sleeping. If maybe when you turn around, he will be gone. That thought makes something uncomfortable twist in your chest.

You barely know him. He is a stranger.

A man wearing a mask who appeared out of nowhere and changed the entire direction of your night. Yet somehow…

The idea of him leaving without a word bothers you. You shake the thought away. You have known him for less than twenty-four hours. You shouldn't care. You shouldn't be waiting for him to stay.

The kettle begins to whistle, pulling you out of your thoughts. You quickly make the coffee, moving around the small kitchen on autopilot. You have done this thousands of times. Taking care of yourself. Taking care of your father. Cleaning up messes that were never yours to clean. Being responsible because nobody else was.

A quiet sound behind you makes you freeze. "You always walk that quietly?" Your voice comes out softer than expected. A small pause follows. Then his voice. Low. Calm. "I could ask you the same thing." You turn around. He is standing in the doorway.

Already dressed in his black pants, his boots on the floor beside him, but his upper body still uncovered. The bandages you wrapped around him are visible. Your eyes immediately go there. Checking. Making sure he hasn't opened anything again. He notices. Of course he notices.

"Still alive," he says. A tiny smile forms on his lips.

You roll your eyes. "That's not funny."

"Maybe a little."

You want to argue. You really do. But something about hearing him joke feels strange. Because last night, he was nothing but a shadow. A dangerous figure in the dark. Now he is standing in your tiny kitchen, making a joke while you make cheap coffee. It feels normal. Almost.

"You should sit down," you say.

He tilts his head slightly. "I'm okay."

You give him a look. The same one you gave him last night when he tried leaving. The one that says you are not going to argue about this. For some reason, he immediately listens. That suprises you. You expected more resistance. Maybe because everyone you knew fought against you. Your father. People at work. Life itself. But him? He just sits.

You place a cup of coffee in front of him. He wraps his hands around it, letting the warmth sink into his palms. "You didn't have to do this." You shrug. "I know." The answer makes him pause. You look down at your own cup. "But you were hurt."

Something about that sentence seems to affect him. You don't know why. It was simple. Obvious. Anyone would have helped. Right? Except you know that's not true. Not in Hell's Kitchen. Not anymore. People looked away. They walked past. They pretended not to see. But he didn't. He stepped in. He saved you. Matt watches you quietly. Because he knows. He knows exactly what you mean. He has spent years watching people walk past suffering. He has spent years trying to fix a city that sometimes feels impossible to save. But sitting here…

In this tiny apartment.

With someone who barely has anything and still offered him the little she had…

It feels different.

"You always help strangers?"

The question catches you off guard. You look up. "What?"

"You didn't know me." His fingers tighten slightly around the cup. "You didn't know if I was dangerous."

A small laugh escapes you. "Technically, I still don't know."

That earns a quiet chuckle from him. The sound surpises you. It is softer than you expected.

"You just trusted me?"

You look at him. Really look at him. Even with the mask hiding half his face, you can somehow tell there is more behind his expression. Something tired. Something lonely.

"I don't know." You look away. "Maybe I just know what it's like when nobody helps."

The room goes quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Because that sentence says more than you intended. Matt doesn't push. He doesn't ask questions you aren't ready to answer. And somehow…

That means more than anything. Most people wanted explanations. They wanted to know why. Why you stayed. Why you didn't leave. Why you kept trying.

But he doesn't. He just listens. And you realize how rare that is. After a moment, he speaks again. "What's your name?" You blink. The question almost feels strange. Because you never actually introduced yourself. Not properly. You tell him. And he repeats it quietly. Like he is making sure he remembers it. Something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip. You quickly focus on your coffee instead.

"You never told me yours."

A pause. A very small one. But you notice.

He falls silent. For a moment, you think he might answer. Instead, he gives a faint smile.

"Names makes things complicated."

You raise an eyebrow. "That's… mysterious."

"Occupational hazard."

"So what am I supposed to call you?"

Another pause.

"What ever you want."

You let out a small laugh. "I can't excactly keep calling you 'the guy who almost bled out in my bed.'"

A quiet chuckle leaves him. "Most people call me Daredevil."

"That souds a little dramatic."

"Wasn't my choice."

"Figures." "Then I'll just call you… Devil."

He tilts his head. "Devil?"

"Well…'Daredevil' is too long."

"Devil is better?"

"It's shorter."

"Fair enough."

From that point on, you call him "Devil."

With a quiet sigh, you put down your cup of coffee and set it on the kitchen counter, absentmindedly staring out of the small window above the sink. Hell's Kitchen is already awake. You can hear distant sirens, people shouting somewhere down the street, cars honking, life moving on as if nothing ever happened last night.

As if you hadn't almost been kidnapped.

As if a masked vigilante hadn't slept in your bed.

You let out a quiet breath, rubbing your tired eyes. You should be getting ready to work. Normally, you'd already be halfway through getting dresssed, rushing out the door with a piece of toast in your hand before your shift started. Being late wasn't really an option. Your paycheck barely covered the rent as it was, and after groceries and your father's never-ending demands for money, there was hardly anything left for yourself.

Like buying yourself something nice for once, was never the case.

You worked long hours just to keep the apartment from falling apart. Sometimes it still wasn't enough. You turn your body to face him again. Instinctively, your eyes travel over the fresh stitches. You were checking if anything had bled through.

He noticed.

"You've been starting at those bandages a lot."

Your cheeks warm immediately. "I'm making sure they stayed closed."

"They did."

"Good."

You walk over to him without really thinking, gently placing your hand against his shoulder. "Does it hurt?" He almost answers automatically. "No." You raise an eye. "Liar." A quiet chuckle escapes him. "…A little." "I knew it." You carefully guide him toward the small table tucked into the corner of the kitchen. He doesn't protest this time. Not after last night. He sits down with a soft sigh, careful not to pull at the stitches.

"I'm sorry ," you mumble.

He tilts his head. "For what?"

You gesture toward the table. "This."

He looks around. The tiny apartment. The worn furniture. The chipped mugs. The breakfast that barely counts as one.

"I don't have much to offer."

For a second, neither of you speaks. Then he quietly shifts his body. "I've had worse." You smile weakly. "I somehow doubt that." "If you saw my cooking…" That earns the first genuine laugh from you. It's small. Barely louder than a breath. He pauses for a moment. He hasn't heard you laugh before. It suits you. More than the sadness you've been carrying since yesterday.

For a little while, the apartment feels lighter. No shouting. No bottles crashing against the walls. No fear sitting in the pit of your stomach. Just two people sharing a quiet morning over cheap coffee and slightly burnt toast. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

Your eyes suddenly drift toward the old clock hanging above the doorway. Your smile fades. "Damn…" He notices the change immediately. "What is it?" "I have work in an hour." "You should go." You hesitate. "I should." But your eyes wander back to him. To the fresh stitches. To the bruises scattered across his skin. "I can't exactly leave you like this." "I'll manage." "You said that yesterday too." "And I did." "You almost passed out." "…Details."

You fold your arms across your chest. "You really don't like admitting when you're hurt, do you?"

He smiles faintly. "It's never been useful."

You study him for a second. "You don't have anyone, do you?" The question slips out before you can stop it. His expression changes almost imperceptibly. Just enough for you to notice. "…Not really." Neither of you says anything after that. Because, in a way…

You both know exactly what that feels like.

—

You watched as he reached for his black shirt lying neatly folded over the chair. The second he tried slipping one arm through the sleeve, a quiet hiss escaped his lips. His shoulders immediately tensed, and you noticed him grit his teeth, trying to hide the pain.

"Hold still."

He looked in your direction. "I can manage."

"No, you can't."

Without waiting for another protest, you stepped closer, gently taking the shirt from his hands. Carefully, you guided his injured arm through the sleeve first before helping him with the other one. Your fingers occasionally brushed against his warm skin, making your heartbeat betray you every single time.

If he noticed…

He didn't mention it.

Then, after he puts the rest of the suit on he thanked you. You smiled softly. "Don't mention it." He hesitated. As if he wanted to say something else. Instead, he simply nodded.

"Take care."

"You too…Devil."

A small smile tugged his lips. "I'll try." He leaves through the fire escape. You stood by the window until his figure disappeared among the rooftps of Hell's Kitchen. Only then did you close the window and begin cleaning your room.

You picked up the empty mugs. Folded the blanket. Straightened the sheets. As you reached beneath the pillow to smooth the mattress, your fingers brushed against something cold. Frowning, you pulled it out.

A rosary.

Black beeds wrapped around a small silver crucifix. It must've slipped from his pocket sometime during the night. You carefully turned it over in your hands.

It looked old.

Worn.

Loved.

A faint smile spread across your lips.

"Guess I'll be seeing you again."