#dare devil fluff

You told yourself it would be easy at first, anchoring your conscience to the fact that you weren’t lying to him about everything. You still showed up. You still caught your breath when you kissed him in the doorway of his apartment when he came home too late and too tired, smelling of rain and copper. You still let him steal your coffee in the quiet, golden haze of the mornings, laughing at his dry little lawyer jokes just to hear the way his voice softened when he was trying not to be the smartest man in the room. It was just one thing you didn’t tell him. Just one heavy, immovable truth sitting quietly behind your teeth every time he said your name. Because Matt Murdock was good. Too good, sometimes. He possessed the kind of quiet, steady goodness that made you think he might actually stay if you told him everything,, and somehow, that terrifying possibility was worse than the alternative.

You’d met him by accident, of course. He’d been defending someone in a case you weren’t even supposed to be near, and you had spent the entire afternoon gripping the edge of a courtroom bench, trying very hard not to think about the way the air around people shifted when their emotions got too loud. Your mutation wasn’t obvious,, there was no glowing skin, no sharp claws, no wings to give you away to a passing glance. It was just an agonizing, inescapable awareness. A heavy pressure in your skull when someone's grief or anger got too sharp, a magnetic pull in your chest when someone was lying, and the occasional, terrifying slip,, small things moving when your attention fractured. Things like that. Things Matt would absolutely notice if you ever lost your grip on yourself. So you didn’t. At least, you never allowed yourself to around him.

At first, he didn’t ask questions, but Matt Murdock was many things and oblivious was never one of them. You noticed the subtle way his head would tilt when you entered a room, like he was listening to a frequency only he could catch. You watched his hand pause mid air sometimes, fingers curling slightly as if he were trying to map the displacement of air around you, trying to place exactly what made you different. But he never pressed, and that silence almost made it worse. It meant he trusted you blindly, leaving you to drown in the guilt of what you were keeping from him.

The fragile peace shattered on an ordinary Tuesday, and it started with a glass. You’d been laughing at something Foggy was rambling about over the phone, leaning back against Matt’s kitchen counter while Matt stood just a few feet away, quietly rolling up his sleeves. The moment had been so devastatingly normal it almost hurt to breathe it in. Then, your elbow brushed a stupid, ordinary glass near the edge, and it tipped. You saw it before it even cleared the counter, and before your brain could register the danger, your instinct took over. Your hand twitched in your pocket.

The glass stopped dead in mid air, hovering an inch above the linoleum.

Silence snapped into place like a wire pulled too tight. Foggy’s tinny voice was still buzzing through the speaker, but Matt had gone completely rigid. You froze, holding your breath until your lungs burned, before slowly, agonizingly, lowering your hand to let the glass settle back down. It clicked softly against the counter.

"…Huh," Foggy said faintly from the phone, breaking the suffocating quiet. "Did you just hear something break?"

"Probably nothing," Matt replied. His voice hadn't raised, but it had entirely changed. It wasn't angry or confused,, it was fiercely, terrifyingly focused. It was the tone of a man listening closer to a sound that didn’t belong in his world. You forced a quick, brittle smile you knew he couldn't see, though it felt like he could see right through it. "It was probably just the building settling," you lied, your heart hammering against your ribs. Matt didn’t answer right away, but you felt the exact moment the atmosphere shifted between you,, that quiet, heavy tilt where his entire attention locked onto you and stayed there.

After that day, the pattern became impossible to ignore. It was in the small things, a chair pulling itself in when you weren’t touching it, a door that clicked shut a second before the draft could hit it, a fork that slid half an inch across the table when your emotions spiked too high during a sharp argument you didn’t even realize you were having. Matt noticed every single occurrence. You could tell by the twitch of his jaw, the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers would tense against his cane. Yet, he never said a word. That silence should have comforted you, but instead, it made your stomach twist tighter with every passing day. Silence meant he was analyzing. It meant he was putting the pieces together, and Matt Murdock always figured things out eventually.

The breaking point wasn’t some grand, dramatic confrontation. It was just the rain. You were standing outside his apartment building, huddled under the weak shelter of a fabric awning while your thoughts spun too fast and too dark in your head. You hadn’t meant to avoid him, not really. It had just happened. First it was one missed call, then two, and then it snowballed into too many to count because the mere idea of hearing his voice,, and knowing you might finally have to confess,, made your chest ache in a way you couldn't bear.

You were still lost in the gray fog of the storm when his footsteps hit the wet pavement. Slow, certain, and unbothered by the downpour. He stopped right in front of you, his dark glasses splattered with raindrops.

"You’ve been avoiding me," he said. It wasn’t a question,, it was a fact he had already weighed and measured.

Your throat tightened instantly, the rain suddenly feeling freezing against your skin. "I haven’t."

A long, heavy pause stretched between you. Then, his voice dropped, quieter but infinitely sharper. "You’ve ignored twenty three texts."

Your breath caught in your throat. "You counted?"

"Yes."

That single, quiet word did something entirely unfair to your chest. You finally forced yourself to look up at him, noting the exhaustion lining his face. It wasn't physical weariness; it was the heavy look people got when they had been standing entirely still for too long, waiting for something else to move. Rain slid down his jaw, which was set in a tight, controlled line, but his voice remained careful, like he was handling glass, trying his hardest not to scare you off. And God, that care made it so much worse.

"I’ve just been busy," you whispered, though even you didn’t believe the words as they left your mouth.

Matt exhaled a slow, heavy breath into the damp air. "That’s not true." You flinched as if he’d struck you. The silence stretched between you, heavy and alive, vibrating with everything left unsaid. Finally, he stepped a half-inch closer, his tone softening into something that completely cracked your defenses. "Did I do something?"

"No!" you said quickly, the denial tearing out of you too fast. "No, Matt, it’s not you. It’s never been you."

"Then what is it y/n?" your name sounded like a plea on his lips. Your hands curled tightly into the wet fabric of your sleeves because there it was,, the horizon you had been running from, the question you couldn’t dodge anymore. You opened your mouth to speak, but the truth choked you, and nothing came out.

That night, you didn’t go back inside with him. You knew you should have, knew that leaving him standing in the rain was a cruelty he didn't deserve, but panic won. You walked, and you kept walking until the cold seeped into your bones and your phone finally stopped buzzing in your pocket.

Matt knew something was wrong long before he understood the mechanics of it,, his world was built on the subtle shifts of human erraticism. It took him three agonizing days to find you again,, three days of a suffocating silence that felt heavier than any argument you’d ever had. When his footsteps finally echoed down your hallway, you knew it was him before his knuckles could even touch the wood. You sat frozen on the couch, refusing to move, refusing to open it.

So, he let himself in, the lock clicking open with a quiet finality.

"Don’t," you said immediately, your voice raw as the door swung wide.

He paused on the threshold, the small shift of his stance telling you he was taking in the entire room, measuring the coordinates of your grief. "You’re home," he said. It wasn’t relief in his voice,, it was just a stark, grim confirmation.

You kept your knees pulled tight to your chest, staring blindly ahead. "I’m fine."

"You’re not fine." He stepped inside anyway, carefully setting his cane against the wall with a familiar clatter before the soft creak of his shoes tracked across your floor. You finally forced your eyes to his face, and something in your chest shattered completely at the sight of him. He looked like he hadn't slept a single wink in seventy two hours.

"Why are you here?" you asked, the question barely a whisper.

A beat passed. "Because you disappeared." His voice lowered, rough around the edges. "I thought something happened to you."

"I just needed space," you lied, but the excuse came out entirely weak and hollow.

"Three days?" he asked, stepping closer to the edge of the couch. "No call? No message? Nothing?" You swallowed hard, unable to answer, and Matt tilted his head slightly, his senses locking onto the frantic, irregular rhythm of your heart. "Why are you lying to me?"

That was the breaking point. Everything you had been holding in, every ounce of terror and isolation you had carried since your mutation manifested, collapsed all at once. "I’m a mutant," you sobbed out, the words hitting the quiet apartment like something heavy thrown against a wall.

An absolute, crushing silence followed. You buried your face in your hands, unable to bear the rejection you were certain was coming. "I can… I move things," you forced out through the tears, the confession taste like ash. "I feel things. The air, the emotions. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I just—I thought if you knew, you’d—"

"Hate you?" he interrupted. His voice wasn't angry; it was devastatingly gentle.

The word made you freeze, your hands trembling against your face as you looked up at him. "I didn’t want to lose you," you whispered, the absolute truth of it stripping you bare.

A long pause hung over the room. Then, Matt moved. He walked closer, but his steps were agonizingly slow, giving you every possible chance to pull away or tell him to stop. "You thought I’d hate you," he repeated quietly, and this time, it definitely wasn't a question. You managed a single, barely perceptible nod. Matt let out a ragged breath that sounded almost pained, running a hand over his face. "I’ve been blind my whole life," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a lifetime of battles. "I’ve had people lie to me, use me, underestimate me, pity me…" He stopped right at the edge of the couch, towering over you but offering no threat. "And you think what I’d draw the line at is you being different?"

Your throat tightened violently, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. "I didn’t know," you cried helplessly. "I didn't know."

Matt’s expression shifted, the frustration fading away to reveal something profoundly soft and aching underneath. "I’m not upset about what you are," he said, kneeling down so he was at eye level with you, though his eyes remained hidden behind the dark lenses. "I’m upset because you didn’t trust me enough to tell me."

That landed harder than any physical blow could have. Your voice wavered, entirely broken. "I was scared."

"I know," he said immediately, and just like that, the last lingering embers of his anger completely drained away. "I know," he repeated, softer this time, his hands hovering just above your knees. "But you don’t have to disappear because of it. You don't ever have to run from me."

Your breath shook, a ragged hiccup cutting through your chest. "I didn’t think you’d stay if you knew the whole truth."

A beat of pure quiet settled over the room. Then, Matt reached out,, not gripping you, just resting his warm, calloused palms gently against your jaw, his thumbs sweeping away the damp trail of your tears. "I’m still here," he murmured, his forehead leaning forward until it almost touched yours.

Your eyes burned, the warmth of his skin grounding the chaotic energy humming beneath your surface. "I didn’t know how to be both things," you admitted, the confession slipping out into the space between your lips. "Your… your person. And this."

Matt’s voice softened into something so tender it felt like a vow. "You already are both. You’ve always been both to me."

That finally broke the last of the dam. It wasn't a loud, violent sob, just a quiet, total giving way of a structure that had been holding back too much weight for far too long. When you leaned forward, burying your face into the crook of his neck, he caught you instantly. There was no hesitation, no pulling back from the strange, humming power in your veins. Just steady, unyielding arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

"I’ve got you," he murmured against your hair, his heart beating a steady, reassuring rhythm against your own. "I've got you."

There are three things you know about Matt Murdock.

First: he always knows when you enter a room, even when you don’t say a word. You learned that early on,, how he’d look up from paperwork before you spoke, how his mouth would curve into a smile like he’d been waiting for you.

Second: he never lies to you.

Third: loving him feels like standing in the middle of a church long after midnight, lights off, kneeling even though you don’t believe in God, waiting for forgiveness you haven’t asked for yet.

You meet Matt on a Tuesday.

It’s raining,, of course it is. Hell’s Kitchen always looks best when it’s bleeding, streetlights smeared into the pavement like watercolors. You took a wrong turn trying to shake a man who had been following you since the subway, your pulse still racing when you collide with someone solid, steady.

“Easy,” he says, hand closing gently around your elbow before you can stumble. His grip is careful, like he’s afraid you’re already hurt.

You apologize too fast. He smiles like he’s used to people doing that around him.

“Matt,” he says, offering his hand.

You notice the cane second,, the white, scuffed thing resting against his leg. You hesitate, then take his hand anyway. His palm is warm. Callused.

You tell him your name. He repeats it softly, like he’s filing it away somewhere important.

Later, you’ll wonder if that was the moment he decided to ruin both of your lives.

────୨ৎ────

You fall into each other slowly.

Not dramatically. Not the way stories make it sound. It’s coffee first,, him insisting on paying, you insisting he doesn’t have to. It’s long conversations about nothing important and everything at once. It’s him remembering small things you forgot you said.

You learn that Matt likes his coffee strong and bitter. That he listens more than he talks. That he smells faintly like rain and old books and something darker you can’t name.

He walks you home every time.

“You don’t have to,” you tell him one night, keys already in your hand.

“I want to,” he replies, like it’s not even a question.

He never comes inside. He lingers at your door, head tilted, listening,,not to you, you assume, but to the city. When he kisses you, it’s soft. Careful. Like he’s holding himself back.

You like him because he doesn’t rush you. Because when you talk, he listens like it matters. Because when you laugh, he smiles like it’s something sacred.

But there are moments,, small, unsettling moments, where something doesn’t quite add up.

Sometimes he flinches at sirens.

Sometimes his knuckles are bruised, split in ways that don’t make sense for a blind lawyer.

“You should see the other guy,” he jokes once, but his pulse is racing under your fingers.

You don’t push. You’re afraid of what you’ll find if you do.

────୨ৎ────

There’s a man in Hell’s Kitchen people whisper about.

They call him the Devil. Say he wears red, that he leaves criminals broken and terrified, that he has rules. You hear the stories on the street, see the aftermath,, blood washed into gutters, men who won’t meet your eyes.

You don’t believe in him.

But you start having nightmares anyway.

You wake up shaking, heart pounding, convinced someone is standing over you. Matt notices immediately. He always does.

“You’ve been tense,” he murmurs, sitting beside you on the couch. You didn’t hear him come in.

“Just stress,” you lie.

He hums thoughtfully. “If you ever feel unsafe…”

“I know,” you interrupt. “I’d tell you.”

Something flickers across his face,, guilt, sharp and heavy. You miss it.

You don’t know it yet, but he’s already failed you.

────୨ৎ────

The night everything breaks, Matt isn’t there.

He texts you,, work emergency, I’m sorry. You tease him, tell him you’ll be fine walking home alone. You don’t want to be needy. You never want to be the reason someone chooses you over something important.

The street is quiet. Too quiet.

The man grabs you from behind before you can react. Rough hands, hot breath, panic slamming into you so hard you can’t even scream.

Then, chaos.

A body slams into him. The sound of bone breaking makes your stomach turn. A voice,, low, furious demands answers.

You curl in on yourself, shaking, while the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen dismantles the man who touched you.

When it’s over, the Devil turns to you.

Up close, he’s terrifying. Red suit slick with rain and blood, mask unreadable. He breathes like he’s been running for miles.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice distorted.

“No,” you whisper. “I—no.”

He hesitates, like he wants to reach for you. Like he knows you.

“My boyfriend is going to kill me,” you say, a weak attempt at humor.

He freezes.

Something breaks in the air between you. “You should go home,” he says suddenly, cold. “You’ll be safe.”

“Wait—” you call, but he’s already gone, vanishing into the dark like a ghost.

────୨ৎ────

Matt doesn’t come by for two days.

When he finally does, he looks ruined. Bruised worse than usual. Exhausted in a way that scares you.

You don’t yell. You don’t cry.

“I was attacked,” you say quietly.

The silence stretches.

“I know,” he says.

Your stomach drops. “How?”

“Police scanner,” he replies too quickly.

A lie.

You feel it settle between you, heavy and sour. Something fundamental has shifted. You don’t confront him,, not yet. You’re too tired. Too hurt.

But you start paying attention.

The way he disappears when the city gets too quiet. The way his pulse spikes when you’re scared. The way he always knows when you’re behind him, when you’re lying, when you’re about to cry.

The realization creeps in slowly, painfully.

The night you find the suit, it’s by accident.

You weren’t snooping. You swear you weren’t. You were looking for a clean towel when you open the wrong door and-

Red.

Armor. Gloves stained dark. A mask with horns folded carefully like it’s something holy.

Your knees give out. You sit on the edge of his bed, staring at it, heart breaking in real time.

When Matt finds you, he stops dead.

“I can explain,” he says, voice wrecked.

You laugh weakly. “Can you?”

He tries. God, he tries. Talks about protecting the city. About responsibility. About how dangerous it is for anyone close to him.

“You let me think I was alone,” you whisper. “You let me be afraid.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you snap, tears spilling over. “You don’t get to love me and lie to me in the same breath.”

He sinks to his knees, shaking. “I love you,” he admits, like it’s a sin. “And that terrifies me.”

You stand. You don’t touch him.

“I need space,” you say. “I need to know who I’m loving.”

────୨ৎ────

Weeks pass.

Hell’s Kitchen feels emptier without him. Quieter. You miss the sound of his heartbeat when you rest your head against his chest. Miss the way he said your name like a promise.

He doesn’t come back. Not as Matt. Not as the Devil.

You think maybe this is penance.

Then one night, there’s a knock at your door.

Matt stands there unmasked, bruised, exhausted, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen.

“I’m done lying,” he says. “If you still want me,, it’ll be all of me. No secrets.”

You stare at him, heart aching.

Then you step aside.

“Come in,” you say. “And sit with me.”

He does. And this time, when he reaches for you, you let him.

────୨ৎ────

By the time he kisses you, it’s not desperate,, it’s reverent. Like a vow. Like forgiveness spoken without words.

For the first time, he tells you everything.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like love is a confession whispered in the dark.

Dating Matt Murdock⋆˙⟡♡

He’s a total gentleman,, until he’s not. At first he’s the type to open doors, cook you pasta blindfolded (well… you know), and send you long, thoughtful voice memos late at night.

He always knows how you’re feeling. You can’t lie to him. Not because he interrogates you he just knows. Your breath stutters a little, your heart rate shifts, and suddenly he’s brushing his fingers over your wrist, quietly murmuring, “Talk to me. Please.”

He’s constantly worried about dragging you into danger. So much so that he sometimes ghosts you for a few days to “protect” you. But when you call him out on it really call him out,, he apologizes like a man starved for forgiveness, and you spend the whole night wrapped up in each other on his couch, no secrets, no suits, just Matt.

Whether it’s post-patrol bruises or emotional baggage, you’re his safe place. He likes to lie on your chest and just listen to your heartbeat like it’s the only sound that matters.

He totally spoils you with senses. He remembers your perfume, your favorite lipstick, the exact way your heartbeat flutters when you laugh at his dumb lawyer jokes. He can sense when you’re tense and immediately starts rubbing slow circles into your back.

────୨ৎ────

Platonic ☾.

You help patch him up and complain the entire time. “Matt, I swear to God, I should start charging you a co-pay.” He just grins through the pain. “Make it double if you kiss it better.”

He definitely calls you at 2AM to ask if “sounding like a reckless idiot” is a Catholic sin. And you’re like, “That’s not even remotely how confession works.”

He’s fiercely protective of you. If someone even looks at you wrong, he’s suddenly “just taking a walk in that direction,” and oh wow, guess he tripped and sent someone flying into a dumpster.

He pretends not to listen when you ramble but can recall everything you ever said. “I got your favorite chocolate croissant from that one bakery near the courthouse.” “Matt how did you—” “You mentioned it… like once… three months ago. While you were chewing gum.”