#muse daredevil

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

he falls in love through sound first. it’s your laugh. that’s what stays with him.

the way your laugh catches in your throat like you’re surprised by your own joy. sometimes soft and tired, sometimes wild and unexpected. he memorizes the rhythm of it before he even realizes he’s falling.

he tries not to get used to you. tells himself it’s dangerous. comfort is a trap. but then you show up with coffee just how he likes it, or rest your head on his shoulder without a word, and suddenly he wants to forget how to be alone. that scares him more than anything.

your voice becomes something like home. in the courtroom, on the street, through a half-open window — he hears you. even when you’re not talking to him, he listens. it calms the part of him that’s always spinning too fast. he hears the shift in your tone before you know you’re upset. he leans closer before you ask.

he notices the silence when you’re not around. it’s not just quiet — it’s peaceful. there’s a difference ever since he’d met you. the silence doesn’t press on his chest. it makes him feel like he can breathe for the first time in a long time. he doesn’t realize how loud his world is until you’re in it, softening the edges.

he feels selfish for wanting you. you’re light. steady. you remind him of everything good he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. he keeps his distance sometimes, disappears without warning. comes back with a quiet apology and a bruise he won’t talk about.

he listens more than he speaks. you talk about your day, about something you read, about nothing. he listens. not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because he doesn’t want to break the spell. your voice makes things feel less heavy.

he notices how you move through the world. you make sounds other people don’t notice. the way your fingertips brush surfaces absentmindedly, how your keys jingle in your pocket, your breathing when you’re focused.

he starts turning toward you without thinking. even before you speak, even in a crowd. it’s instinct. you come into a room and his body just shifts. like a flower tilting toward the sun. he doesn't fight it anymore. he doesn't even notice he’s doing it until foggy calls him out with a smirk.

your presence is a texture. warm skin. soft fabrics. the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air hours after you leave. your touch is electric in the quietest way — never overwhelming, always grounding.

he never expected to fall in love like this. not with the city screaming. not with his past dragging behind him like a shadow. but you showed up, and you didn’t flinch at the broken pieces. you made space for him. slowly, without pressure.

he keeps finding traces of you on him. a stray thread from your scarf clinging to his coat. the faint scent of your perfume on his pillow. the echo of your laughter in his head when he’s perched on some rooftop, bleeding and tired and aching for the next time he gets to sit next to you in silence.

he doesn’t say it right away.

he’s scared of love. of needing someone. of you realizing what he really is. but one night, when your fingers graze his and he doesn’t pull away, you smile like you know. and maybe you do.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

he feels like he’s stepping on dangerous ground. every time you smile at him, or when you simply sit next to him, he’s aware of the space between you, the space he always tries to keep. it’s an instinct to stay distant, to protect you from getting too close. he’s been through too much, seen too many people get hurt because they were too close to him. the last thing he wants is to drag you into his mess.

he keeps you at arm’s length, but he notices everything. frank doesn’t let you get too close, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t see you. he notices the way you adjust your coat when it’s cold, the small sighs you let slip when you’re tired, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something that matters to you. it eats at him. he’s terrified of what it means.

keeps the tough guy act, but you’re starting to crack it. when you’re with him he doesn’t let his guard down easily. he keeps a distance, still in control. but then, there are moments — like when you ask him if he’s okay, even after he’s been gruff with you. he won’t admit it, of course, but he’s slowly realizing how much he wants to be something other than broken for you. he can’t be weak, not with you. but in the same breath, he doesn’t want to lose what you’ve given him.

frank’s instinct is always to shield you. it’s not just about protecting you from the world, he’s trying to protect you from him. every time danger crosses your path, he’s there, stepping in front of you, keeping you behind him, telling you to stay out of it. deep down, it’s not just about the danger. it’s about the fact that if you get hurt he won’t be able to live with himself.

he’s strict with you, but it comes from a place of care. won’t let you make reckless decisions, won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way, and he’s relentless about it. you can tell he’s trying to keep things together, keeping his rules in place like armour. he’s afraid to get too comfortable.

he’s never been good at letting people in, and with you, he doesn’t know how to act. there’s this undercurrent of fear that runs through him every time you seem to trust him, every time you get close. the fear that eventually, he’ll destroy whatever peace you’ve given him. he knows the darkness in him is dangerous. it’s only a matter of time before it pulls him away from you.

he’s strict with himself too. frank has learned how to control everything — his emotions, his impulses, his need for connection. with you, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. when you touch him, even accidentally, or when your eyes soften, it’s like a fuse is lit inside him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that. he pulls back, hard, and tries to convince himself it’s just a moment. a brief thing. but it doesn’t feel brief.

he’s scared of what you could be to him. he’s used to being alone, to being the one who walks through the darkness without anyone beside him. you’ve brought light into his life without even knowing it, and that’s the part he can’t quite figure out. you make him feel things he hasn’t felt in years. it makes him feel like he could lose everything. he doesn’t know how to hold onto something so fragile, so pure. but god, he wants to.

he falls in love with your silence. it’s not the kind of silence that feels heavy, or suffocating. it’s the kind that comes after a long day, when you’re sitting beside him with nothing to say, and you’re perfectly content.

he doesn’t know when it happened, but you’re his calm. there’s something about you, something steady. when he’s with you, the world outside quiets. the chaos in his mind, the ghosts of everything he’s lost — somehow, with you, he can breathe. he doesn’t trust it at first. he’s not used to feeling safe.

he’s drawn to the way you move. there’s a grace to it, the way you carry yourself, like you’ve seen enough to know what’s worth paying attention to. he never misses when you come into a room.

your kindness is a weight he didn’t know he could bear. frank is used to people needing something from him. demanding things. but you? you don’t want anything but his time. it feels like too much at first. he pulls away, convinces himself it’s easier this way. but when you reach out, when your hand brushes against his, he starts realizing he doesn’t want to let go.

you are his soft spot, even if he doesn’t show it. he has layers of armor built up — physical, emotional, mental — but you slip past them without trying. you don’t force him to talk about the things that haunt him, but you’re always there when he needs to. it’s not that you fix anything, it’s that you stay.

he notices the little things. how you laugh when you’re nervous. the way you drink your coffee, always just a little too hot but never waiting for it to cool. the way you curl up with a book, lost in the world for hours, and he sits in the background, thinking he’ll never understand how something so small can make him feel so at peace.

he wants to be the one to keep you safe. it’s a selfish thought, but when he’s with you, he can’t help but feel like he wants to be the one to shield you from the world, from the violence he’s known, from the things he can’t erase.

he finally admits it, not with words, but in the way he holds you. one night, when the world’s still and you’re lying beside him, he doesn’t pull away. he lets you rest against him, his hand on your back, your breath steady against his chest. it’s a quiet thing, but it’s his way of telling you: you’re the one I need. somehow, in the silence, you understand.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

it happens quietly with foggy, so natural he doesn’t even notice it at first. he starts saving little inside jokes in his head to tell you later, ordering your food just the way you like it without thinking twice, feeling your name sit a little heavier on his tongue when he says it.

he realizes he’s in love when you laugh at one of his worst jokes — the kind even he knows is awful — and it makes his chest hurt in that sweet, aching way. it’s not fireworks, it’s a heartbeat skipping a step. it’s the way he looks at you and feels like he’s finally home.

he loves the way you listen. really listen. like his words matter. he’s used to being the sidekick, the comic relief - - with you, he feels seen, whole. he loves your messes, your sleepy voice, your texts that don’t always make sense. he saves photos of the sky when it reminds him of you. he notices the way you carry yourself, the way your hands move when you’re talking, the curl of your smile when you’re trying not to laugh.

he gets nervous around you sometimes, still —rambles more, tugs at his sleeves, rehearses what he wants to say and still forgets half of it. he wonders if you notice how often he looks at you when you’re not looking. he loves that you make him believe in good things. soft mornings. safe places. things that last.

he’s the kind of guy who buys two toothbrushes when he’s out just in case you forget yours, who always puts the fluffiest towel on top of the stack because he knows you like the soft ones best. he remembers the weirdest little things you’ve ever mentioned in passing, your childhood cereal, the movie you always watched when you were sick — and they just start showing up in your shared space like magic.

saturday mornings become your thing. he makes pancakes too thick and always burns the first one, but he gets this proud little look when he flips one perfectly, like it’s a win worth celebrating. you sit on the counter in his shirt, coffee in hand, and he bumps your knee with his hip like you’ve been doing this forever.

his place starts to feel like your place. there’s a mug you always use, your book left open on the couch, a hoodie that mysteriously became yours (he lets you steal it without saying anything, but he absolutely notices). foggy loves slow things with you. grocery store dates. late-night reruns of shows you’ve both seen a hundred times. trying new recipes and failing spectacularly, then ordering takeout and laughing until your cheeks hurt.

he talks about you like you’re already part of his future. “we should go there next fall,” or “you’d love this,” like there’s no version of his life where you’re not in it. he doesn’t say it to impress you — it just slips out easy, like breathing.

he loves you in the kind of way that feels like sunday light through old windows, like warmth that lingers, like home. falling for you, for him, feels like putting the final piece in a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been building. when it clicks into place all he can think is oh.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

karen falls in love like she’s afraid of it. like it’s a secret she’s not ready to tell herself. it starts in the small moments — your hand brushing hers, the way you say her name, how you always seem to know when she needs someone to just stay.

she realizes she’s in love late one night when you're both sitting on the floor, eating takeout straight from the containers. you say something kind without thinking, something that hits a little too deep, and she just stops. looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, like she can’t believe you exist in the same world as her.

loving you scares her because it feels too good, too safe, and safe hasn’t always been something she trusted. but you never rush her. never demand more than she can give. she loves how you talk about your passions, how your eyes light up when you care. she listens so carefully, so fully, like she’s collecting every version of you in her mind and holding them all close.

you make her laugh in a way that feels like sunlight after too many cloudy days. she catches herself smiling at texts from you, rereading them when the world feels too heavy. she starts leaving little things at your place. a book she thinks you’d like. her scarf draped over a chair. she never means to — it just happens, like her heart choosing to stay before she even realizes it.

she brings you coffee just the way you like it and always pretends it was “on the way” even if she went out of her way to get it. she’s not good at grand gestures but she’s incredible at the small things — remembering your schedule, checking in on hard days, knowing exactly what to say when the world feels like too much.

she always wants to share things with you. a bite of her food, a song she found, a line from a book that made her pause. she’s constantly turning to you with soft eyes like, can i give this piece of my world to you? will you hold it with me?

there’s always a softness to her when she’s around you, like she can finally exhale. she leans into you on the couch with her head on your shoulder, listens to you ramble about your day, fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes on your arm.

when she finally tells you, it’s not dramatic. no music swelling in the background. just her, a little nervous, looking at you like she’s been waiting her whole life to find someone she could trust with her whole heart.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

it hits her like a knife to the gut. deeper. she doesn’t realize she’s in love until she catches herself watching you sleep, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, and she feels scared. not because she doesn’t want it, but because she does. because you make her feel soft in ways she swore she buried.

she falls in love the same way she fights — intense, precise. but she stays in love in quiet, careful ways. brushing your hair out of your eyes, leaving notes where only you’ll find them, guarding your safety with devotion.

she remembers the exact moment she knew. it wasn’t dramatic. it was a bad day. she came home bleeding, aching, angry — and you just held her. no questions, no judgment, just steady arms and a warm voice. and she realized she could collapse into you and still survive.

she loves how you look at her like you see her. not the weapon, not the chaos. just her. the girl who once dreamed of softer things, the woman still learning how to want them again. she’s not always good with words, but her actions scream i love you. she keeps your favourite snacks in her apartment, buys you things and pretends they’re “for fun” even though they’re always exactly what you needed. she’d burn the world for you, but she also sharpens her knives a little more carefully if she knows you’ll be waiting at home.

she brings you with her to the edge of her world. into the dark corners, the chaos, the shadows she never lets anyone else see. not because she wants to scare you, but because she trusts you to love her anyway. she tells you stories late at night, low, words carefully chosen. not all of them are beautiful. some are ugly, violent, sad. but she tells you because you’re the only one she thinks might understand. or at least try to.

she calls you darling when she’s teasing, but your name — your real name — always leaves her lips like something holy.

you ground her. not by caging her—never that. but by letting her fly and knowing she has somewhere to land. someone who won’t flinch when the world turns sharp.

loving you doesn’t make her weaker. it makes her braver. she finally has something worth surviving for, something worth coming back to.

you make her laugh in a way no one else can. real, unguarded laughter, head thrown back, hand gripping your thigh like she doesn’t want to fall. like you’re her gravity. she sleeps best with her hand wrapped around your wrist, your chest rising beneath her ear. no one touches her like you do, like she’s something worth holding, not just something sharp and dangerous.

when she kisses you it’s deliberate. she pulls you in like she’s starving, like you're a secret she’s been dying to keep. sometimes soft, sometimes rough, always real.

she’s still learning how to stay. but with you, it’s getting easier. loving you doesn’t feel like losing control, it feels like finding it. like maybe this, you, were the only thing she ever really wanted to protect.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he loves you like a loaded gun loves a steady hand. like you’re the only thing keeping him from spinning out. there’s worship in his gaze when he looks at you, like you hung the stars just for him, like you're the one true thing in a world that never made sense.

he knows he’s in love when you touch his face for the first time. gentle. unafraid. he holds so much violence in his bones, but your fingers? your fingers make him feel human, like maybe he’s more than what he’s done.

he doesn’t know how to be casual about you. everything is everything with dex. he memorizes the way you speak, the things you love, the clothes you wear. he keeps mementos without even realizing it — your receipts, your notes, the smallest scrap of your existence. not in a creepy way (mostly). his version of domestic love is quiet but obsessive. he notices what soap you use and buys it in bulk. he learns your schedule so he can cook your favourite dinner on the nights you always come home tired.

knows your schedule by heart. not because you told him but because he watched. memorized the way your day flows, where you go, the train you take, how long it takes you to get home. he needs to feel close, even when you're far.

he goes still when you’re not around. like the world presses pause until he hears your key in the door, your voice calling his name. he’s not himself without you. it’s like you carry the part of him that makes him human. when you're in the room, no one else exists. his eyes never leave you. even if you’re across the bar, even if he’s mid-conversation, his body always tilts toward you, like instinct, like a weapon waiting for your call.

gets needy when you’re distant. emotionally, physically, even just distracted. he’ll try to play it cool but ends up pressed against you like a shadow, murmuring things like you still like me, right? and i'm good for you, aren’t i? like he needs you to say it over and over just to keep breathing.

he remembers everything. the first thing you ever wore around him. the way you said his name that one time with your voice half-broken from laughing. the exact moment he realized he'd burn the world if it meant keeping you safe.

stalks your socials when you’re apart for too long, even if you’ve only been gone a few hours. he zooms in on blurry selfies like they hold clues to how you're feeling. he rereads old texts.

he has trouble saying i love you. not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he feels it too much. like the words might break open something inside him. when he does say it, it’s always a whisper, like a secret — murmured into your hair, your collarbone, your heartbeat.

he doesn't like people getting too close to you. even friends, especially strangers. he doesn’t cause scenes, but the way he stands too close, stares too long, it’s a warning. he’s jealous in ways he tries to hide. you laugh too hard at someone else’s joke, and his eyes flash before he looks away, jaw clenched. he never blames you. he just doesn’t know how to share. he’s never had anything worth keeping before.

he adores your voice. your laugh. the way you say his name like it means safety and not danger. he starts to crave it — like a lifeline, a tether. you ground him. you save him. over and over again. he’s terrified you’ll see the worst in him; the cracks, the blood, the past. the first time you tell him, i’m not afraid of you, he breaks. not loudly — just this soft, shaky exhale, like you just handed him forgiveness.

if you ever tried to leave him he’d break. and then he’d follow. quietly, obsessively. not to hurt you, because he can’t let go. not of you. not of the only person who’s ever made him feel like he’s not a monster.

ben doesn’t fall in love gently. he falls like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. it kind of is.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

billy falls for you in a way that feels wrong to him. he’s not used to needing anyone, not used to wanting someone in a way that makes him feel like he’s losing control. he tells himself you’re just another distraction, that this is a temporary thing, but every second with you proves him wrong.

he’s clingy in the most subtle way. not in the overt, obvious way. no, he keeps it under wraps at first. doesn’t want to seem too needy, but he texts you way more than you think he would, checks in at the weirdest hours, and always notices when you're upset. tries to act like it's no big deal but his heart races when you don’t reply immediately.

deep down he knows how much he wants your approval. your affection, your attention. but admitting that to himself would feel like weakness, and weakness is something billy russo has never allowed himself. so he hides it, but the truth slips out in small, desperate ways— like when he pulls you a little too close, hands gripping you a little too tight.

he gets so caught up in wanting to be perfect for you that he ignores the fact that his attachment to you is slowly consuming him. if you don’t love him back the way he needs, if you don’t give him what he craves, validation, it’s like his whole world starts to fall apart. he needs to be the one who matters to you, needs to know you see him. he craves the moment you make him feel like he’s worthy. but then, the other side of him: the side that’s broken, that knows attachments make you weak, that tries to distance himself because he doesn’t want you to see how much you’ve broken through his walls. when things get too close, too vulnerable, he pulls back. cold. distant.

he loves you with precision. he makes it look effortless, but it’s calculated. strategic. flowers when you’re stressed, your favourite wine waiting at home, gifts that are too perfect to be casual. he studies you, and you don’t even realize it until later — how much of you he’s already claimed.

he keeps tabs on you. not in a sweet checking in kind of way, more like he needs to know where you are at all times. your location's on, your building's watched. not in an invasion sort of way, just in the im making sure no one breaks in while i’m not there way.

there’s this constant struggle in his head. one part of him wants to be the perfect version of himself for you, the kind of man you can depend on, who can take care of you in ways he never thought possible. the other part of him knows that needing you like this, being dependent on you for his sense of self-worth, is his undoing.

his place starts looking like yours fast. your clothes in his closet, your skincare in the bathroom, your playlist on repeat. you don’t even remember when you started leaving things there, he just started keeping them.

he doesn't say i love you like it’s fragile. he says it like it’s a warning. like, you don’t get it. i’d kill for you. i’d ruin myself for you. i’d go back to every violent part of myself if it meant keeping you safe.

and god help anyone who tries to come between you. he’ll be smiling, charming, polite. and then he’ll be gone. and so will they.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

when she first realizes she’s in love with you, it’s all business at first. you were someone she could rely on, someone who made sense in the chaos of her life. at first, she thinks it’s just an attachment. something comfortable, someone to trust in a world of lies. but then, one night, she catches herself staring at you a little too long, her chest tightening for reasons she can’t explain. this is more than just trust. this is something else.

she doesn’t do relationships the traditional way. she never has. she’s used to keeping a distance, staying professional, protecting her heart from everyone who might use it against her. but with you, there’s something different. you slip through her walls without even trying. she hates how easily you do it. and she loves you more for it.

she’s tough on you, not because she doesn’t love you, but because she does. she believes in pushing you past your comfort zone, in making you face your weaknesses. it’s her way of showing you that she cares. by holding you accountable, by expecting you to rise to the occasion. when you slack off, when you let things slide, she’ll be the first one to call you out. her voice is firm, but it’s never cruel — just a no-nonsense tone that says, you’re better than this.

dinah’s version of love isn’t always soft. when you mess up, when you get lost in your own head, she doesn’t sugarcoat it. she doesn’t tiptoe around your feelings — she’ll challenge you. "what’s going on with you?" she’ll ask, not out of judgment, but because she knows you can do better. she doesn’t want to hear excuses, just results.

she’s not afraid to push your buttons. when you want to give up, when things get too hard, she won’t let you back down. she’ll make you face the tough stuff, sometimes in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. but it’s her way of making sure you don’t settle for less than you’re capable of. when you rise to the challenge, meet her expectations, she’ll be there, quietly proud, like she knew you could do it all along. she has high expectations, not just for herself, but for you too. if you ever doubt your own abilities, she’s the first to remind you what you’re capable of if you put in the work. she’ll test your limits, make you prove yourself, because she wants you to be the best version of yourself. sometimes you’ll resent it. sometimes it’ll feel like she’s being hard on you for no reason. but deep down you know she’s pushing you because she cares.

dinah’s love is protective, intense, and unyielding. she won’t show it in sweet, gentle ways. she’s not going to buy you flowers or write you poems, but when you need her, she’ll drop everything, no questions asked. she’ll shield you from harm with the same precision she takes down threats, and in those moments, you see how much you truly mean to her.

she’s not good at vulnerability — not with anyone, but especially not with you. it’s hard for her to let you see how much she needs you. she shows you she loves you through actions: a firm grip on your hand when she’s scared; a quiet, almost invisible smile when you’re together; pulling you close when things get rough, even if she doesn’t admit why. the words are harder for her.

when she’s in love, she’s all in, but with the weight of fear in her chest. she’s terrified of losing you. that would break her in a way she doesn’t think she could recover from. so she clings to you in ways you might not even notice, always checking on you, always making sure you’re safe, making sure nothing could hurt you.

she’s a fighter, and she loves the way you stand by her, not just through the victories, but through the losses. you’re the person who makes her feel like she’s doing something right, even when everything else is wrong. when she’s at her most vulnerable, when she’s exhausted, when the walls come down just enough for you to see the cracks, she’ll let you hold her. she’ll let you be the one who takes care of her.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

it’s more like a discovery than a realization. muse doesn’t exactly fall in love the way most people do; his emotions are tangled with his delusions and obsessions. he sees you and suddenly you’re the canvas for all his thoughts, his desires, and his fixations. it’s almost as though he becomes consumed with the idea of you, idealizing you in a way that is all-encompassing. for muse, love is about capturing someone, about making you the center of his world.

his love is possessive and suffocating. he doesn’t see you as a person with your own autonomy; he sees you as something to be owned. when you’re with him, he’ll be obsessively attentive, needing to know where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with.

you’ll start to notice that he manipulates every situation to keep you close to him. muse is intelligent, charming, and deeply persuasive when he wants to be. he knows how to make you feel special, how to convince you that you’re the only one who truly understands him; because, after all, you’re his masterpiece. he might start doing little things to charm you or draw you in, but as soon as you’re hooked, he’ll tighten the grip.

when he’s affectionate it’s intense. he doesn’t understand boundaries — he’ll be all over you, physically and mentally. he’ll touch you obsessively, but in ways that are still strange and uncomfortable, because he sees every part of you as something to be explored. his kisses are deep, hungry, as if he’s trying to possess you, and when he’s not physically with you, his thoughts will haunt you. expect him to watch you, follow you, and find ways to be where you are, no matter what it takes.

if you try to break free, if you even hint at being done with him, his obsession will turn dangerous. he doesn’t understand rejection in a healthy way. To him, it’s an affront to his creativity, his passion — you are his masterpiece, and no one walks away from a piece of art. he’ll find ways to draw you back in, perhaps through threats or manipulation. he’ll never let go willingly.

he won’t give up on you easily. if you ever try to move on or set boundaries he will find ways to blur the lines. can turn into a creeper — lurking in the shadows, watching your every move. his love feels suffocating, and he believes that the only way to truly love someone is by completely enveloping them, controlling every aspect of their life. he might not understand why you’d want space or independence, and to him, that only reinforces his belief that he’s the only one who can give you what you truly need.

he’s incredibly manipulative. if you ever show any resistance, muse will use guilt, charm, and emotional manipulation to make you feel like you’re the problem. he might try to gaslight you into believing that you’re the one who’s making things difficult, that he’s just trying to love you in his own way. he’s dangerous when he feels threatened. If someone else gets too close to you, or if he feels like he’s losing control over you, he’ll react with violence or threats. he’s not afraid to hurt people (or you) to maintain his control over you. this could mean anything from threatening your friends or family to going to extreme lengths to make sure no one takes you away from him.

he’ll be highly critical — almost like he’s sculpting you into something that fits his vision of what you should be. it’s not malicious in his mind; it’s about improving you, making you into someone who can be worthy of his love.

he loves your vulnerability, and he’ll try to uncover every layer of you to feel like he knows you, better than anyone else. this might manifest in seemingly innocent questions or constant probing of your past and emotions, but for him, it’s a way to build a deeper connection — an almost predatory sense of closeness that makes him feel like he has a claim on you. the more he knows, the more he can control, and that gives him a sense of artistic satisfaction.

his love might feel like being in a gilded cage; beautiful, but suffocating.

started 4.25.2025. finished 4.26.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

You sat back down, tilting your head as you thought. “What did Matt say?”

Angela sighed, frustrated, and looked away. "He told me to go to the police. He said he’s just a lawyer, and that it wasn’t safe for me to get involved."

You bit your lip, nodding slowly. "Well, he’s not wrong. But then again, this city isn’t exactly known for safety. Can’t really blame you for trying to do something."

"I know." Angela leaned forward, determination shining through her worry. "That's why I came to you. Hector trusted you. He always said you were smart and good at your job—said you had better instincts than most."

You smiled softly. "Your uncle was always too generous." You tapped your fingers gently against the desk. "Do you have anything specific he was looking into?"

Angela handed you a worn notebook, filled with scribbles and notes. "He was tracking the missing people, see?" She flipped open to a marked page, pointing urgently. "All along the old Q line, near Track 61. He thought someone was using the tunnels to hide."

Your gaze flicked over the notes, eyebrows furrowing. "These tunnels have been closed off for years," you muttered thoughtfully. "You sure Hector didn’t mention anyone suspicious? Anything strange before—"

"No," Angela cut you off quietly, shaking her head. "Nothing. But he seemed nervous. He wasn't sleeping. He was different."

You leaned back, sighing deeply. "Alright," you finally said, glancing up to meet her eyes. She seemed nervous, maybe a little hesitant to let it go. You licked your lips before speaking. “How ‘bout this? You tell me and show me everything Hector knew about Track 61 and the missing people, but under no circumstances are you to go there. It could be dangerous.”

Angela relaxed slightly, relief evident in her eyes. "Deal."

You nodded and leaned forward, flipping through Hector's notebook again. "Did he say anything else? Any details at all?"

Angela frowned, thinking carefully. "He mentioned graffiti. Kept saying the murals were important, but he never said why."

You paused. "Graffiti? Like those creepy murals popping up?"

She nodded quickly. "Yeah, those. He thought they were connected."

"Alright," you murmured, your voice quieter now as you concentrated. "I'll see what I can dig up. In the meantime, promise me you'll keep your distance from all this."

"I promise." Angela stood up, gathering her things. She paused at the door, turning back to you. "Thank you, Y/N."

You smiled gently. "Be safe, okay?"

"I will." Angela left quietly, shutting the door behind her.

You took another glance at Hector’s messy notes and let out a long breath. Your instincts hummed in quiet unease. Murals, kidnappings, and Track 61—it all felt like trouble. Hector had good instincts, and yours were starting to kick in as well.

You grabbed your phone, scrolling until Matt’s number showed up. Your finger hovered, hesitating. The silence stretched, heavy with memories you’d both been avoiding.

You shook your head and pressed call anyway.

Matt picked up on the second ring, voice careful. “Y/N?”

“You have a visitor earlier?” you asked lightly, leaning back in your chair.

He sighed. “Angela.”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, twirling your pen between your fingers. “She came here after you told her no.”

“You didn’t agree to help her, did you?”

“I’m a PI, Matt, remember?” you countered. “Helping people’s kind of my whole thing.”

“Y/N—”

“She’s desperate. Hector was onto something important,” you interrupted gently. “And if she’s right about Track 61, people might be in serious danger.”

He was quiet a moment, clearly conflicted. “You shouldn’t go looking into this. It’s too risky.”

You smiled a little. “Almost sounds like you care, Murdock.”

“Of course I care,” he replied, a subtle softness creeping into his voice. “Listen, just... promise me you won’t go down there alone.”

You hesitated, eyes drifting back down to the notebook. “I can’t promise that.”

“Y/N.”

“Matt,” you echoed firmly. “I’m not gonna sit back and ignore this. But, if it makes you feel better, I promise to be careful. How’s that?”

He exhaled softly through the phone. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

A pause lingered, neither of you sure what else to say.

“Be careful,” he finally murmured, voice quiet and sincere.

You nodded softly, though he couldn’t see. “Always am.”

You hung up and stared at your phone for a long moment. Hector's notebook lay open in front of you, his messy handwriting hinting at hidden secrets and unseen dangers. You knew Matt meant well, but sitting idly by wasn't your style—especially when something felt so deeply wrong.

So you'd tread carefully, like you'd promised, but you wouldn't stop. Not until you found answers.

---

Angela was onto something with the murals. You peered at a clean-up crew who had been spraying at the paint for at least an hour.

It hadn’t come off.

The paint was stubbornly stuck to the brick wall, not even budging with a power washer or some kind of solvent. You stepped closer, crossing your arms as you observed the crew’s frustration.

“What’s it made of?” you called over the sound of machinery.

A sanitation worker glanced your way, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Hell if I know. Some sorta epoxy. We tried every solvent we've got, but it ain't goin' anywhere.”

Epoxy. That explained the resistance. You stepped closer still, examining the mural more carefully. It was unsettling—something about the swirling, abstract shapes felt hauntingly deliberate.

“You ever see anything like it?” you asked, turning to him again.

He shook his head grimly. “Never. Word is they're all over town now. The Mayor’s pretty pissed about it, I hear.”

“Mayor Fisk?” you asked skeptically.

“Yeah, apparently he doesn’t like graffiti, especially ones that won’t come off.” He paused, glancing around as if someone could overhear. “Between you and me, heard a rumor these murals might be more than just paint.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Meaning?”

He hesitated. “Blood.”

Your breath caught slightly. You swallowed back a shiver, forcing yourself to nod calmly. “You have proof, or is this just talk?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Word spreads fast. But if you ask me, there’s a reason this paint won’t wash off easy.”

You murmured a quick thanks and stepped away, pulling your phone out of your pocket. This was worse than you thought.

You automatically hovered over Matt’s contact, but something stopped you.

He didn’t seem happy that you were investigating, let alone the fact that he hadn’t been Daredevil in a year.

Matt was no help to you.

You sighed, pocketing your phone. If Matt didn’t want to get involved, fine—you’d handle it yourself. That’s what you’d always done, after all. Still, a tiny ache lingered in your chest, quiet but insistent. Once upon a time, you’d have tackled this kind of thing together, without hesitation.

Not anymore.

You pushed the feeling away and turned back to the mural. The unsettling reds and blacks stared back at you mockingly. Blood. You shook your head, grimacing. This city always found new ways to get darker.

A voice startled you from your thoughts. “Admiring the artwork?”

You turned sharply, finding Detective Brett Mahoney watching you with his usual calm intensity. You knew him well enough—paths crossed often enough that you’d gained mutual respect. But he also knew your connection to Matt, which made interactions… interesting.

“Detective Mahoney,” you greeted dryly. “Here to arrest the wall or me?”

A faint smirk crossed his face. “Neither, if you behave yourself.”

“Since when do I cause trouble?”

“You got an hour?” he quipped lightly, stepping closer to examine the mural himself. His expression hardened a bit. “Should I even ask why you're here?”

“Following a lead.”

His gaze shifted to you carefully. “Connected to the missing people?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about it?”

“I know someone’s been busy,” he answered cryptically, scanning the paintwork again. “And not in a good way.”

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” you asked softly, following his line of sight.

His jaw tightened. “Officially, that hasn’t been confirmed.”

“Unofficially?”

He sighed. “Yeah. It’s blood.”

You crossed your arms, unsettled. “Whose jurisdiction is this?”

He chuckled without humor. “Mayor’s apparently putting together a task force to deal with it. Fisk handpicked everyone personally.”

You snorted bitterly. “That’s comforting.”

Mahoney eyed you thoughtfully. “This case isn’t a good place to be poking around alone, Y/N. Be careful, alright?”

“You’re the second person today who’s said that.”

“Maybe you should listen,” he pointed out calmly.

You hesitated, meeting his steady gaze. “And if I have information?”

“Share it with me.” His voice was genuine, quietly urgent. “Let me help.”

You nodded slowly, a bit guarded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Mahoney gave the mural one last lingering look, before stepping back. “And if you talk to your friend—” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “—make sure he’s careful too.”

“Matt’s not involved.”

Mahoney looked skeptical. “If you say so.”

He walked away, leaving you alone with the eerie mural and your tangled thoughts.

You took a deep breath, glanced back at the stubborn blood-red paint, and turned sharply on your heel. You had work to do.

---

You had one last thing to do before going into Track 61. You called Angela, and she picked up almost immediately.

“Angela, I need you to do something for me. If I don’t call back in an hour, I need you to call Matt.”

There was a long pause. “Why wouldn’t you call back?”

You sighed softly, glancing toward the darkened tunnel entrance. “Just a precaution, Angela. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

“You don’t sound very convinced,” she said nervously. “Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“I’ll be fine,” you cut her off gently. “Just promise me, okay?”

She exhaled, reluctant but compliant. “Okay, I promise. One hour, Y/N.”

“Thank you.” You ended the call and pocketed your phone, adjusting the flashlight in your grip as you stepped into the abandoned tunnel.

The air inside was cold and stale, heavy with dust. You aimed your flashlight forward, the beam cutting through the darkness.

“C’mon,” you muttered quietly, “what were you onto, Hector?”

Every footstep echoed unnervingly against the walls. Graffiti streaked across the old brickwork—colorful, disturbing images illuminated by your passing light.

A sound shifted somewhere ahead. You froze instantly.

Silence.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. “Relax, Y/N, you’re fine,” you whispered, mostly to convince yourself.

You pressed forward cautiously, scanning the shadows. It felt colder the deeper you went, the uneasy quiet pressing against your nerves.

“Hello?” Your voice echoed slightly. “Anyone down here?”

A low, rustling noise answered from somewhere ahead.

You tensed, flashlight trembling just slightly in your hand. “Hello?” you called again, steadier this time. “Who’s there?”

No response—just that subtle shifting sound again, teasing at your ears.

You took another careful step forward.

Then everything happened fast.

A hand clamped roughly around your mouth from behind, muffling your startled scream. You struggled instantly, your flashlight clattering uselessly to the ground.

“Shh,” a voice hissed chillingly close to your ear. “Don’t scream.”

Your heartbeat thundered frantically in your chest as you twisted violently against the person holding you.

“Relax,” he said coldly. “You’re gonna be part of something beautiful.”

Panic flooded your senses, adrenaline surging hot and fierce. You fought desperately, thrashing and kicking.

“Damn it—hold still!” he snarled angrily, tightening his grip painfully.

You managed to elbow him sharply in the ribs, forcing a grunt of pain. The brief moment of distraction was all you needed—you broke free, gasping for breath.

You sprinted blindly forward through the darkness, adrenaline blurring your vision. Footsteps echoed close behind, and before you could think, a harsh impact sent you sprawling to the ground.

You rolled onto your back just as the figure loomed above you—a grotesque mask covering his face, streaked with blood and grime.

“You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” he whispered softly, voice darkly amused. “Good. That’ll make it more interesting.”

You scrambled backward desperately, nails scraping uselessly against stone. “Stay away!”

He stepped closer, unbothered by your warning. “You don’t understand. I need you.”

“Go to hell,” you spat fiercely.

He laughed softly, crouching down beside you. “After tonight, Y/N, we’ll both be there.”

Your stomach dropped at your name. He knew who you were. You opened your mouth to scream again, but something sharp pressed swiftly against your neck.

Darkness claimed you quickly, your last conscious thought a desperate, regretful wish:

Matt.

---

While investigating Track 61, Matt’s phone vibrated. “Call from Angela. Answer or decline? Call from Angela—”

“Hello?” Matt answered.

“Mr. Murdock? It’s Angela.”

"Angela," Matt replied sharply, an immediate sense of dread creeping into his voice. "What's wrong?"

"Y/N—she made me promise to call you if she didn't check back in," Angela explained, anxiety clear in every syllable. "She was going down into Track 61 to look around—it's been more than an hour. She hasn't answered her phone."

Matt’s breath hitched. His grip tightened instinctively around his phone. "Damn it. I told her not to go down there."

"I tried to talk her out of it," Angela said quickly. "She insisted. I don't know what to do—"

"Stay calm," Matt cut her off gently, forcing his own panic down. "Did she say exactly where she was going in the tunnels?"

"No, but she had Hector’s notes, the ones about graffiti," Angela responded quickly. "She mentioned something about the murals—she thought they might lead somewhere."

Matt ran his free hand through his hair, a heavy breath escaping him. "Alright. Listen carefully, Angela: stay at home with your parents. I'll take care of the rest."

Right after he ended the call with Angela he dialed nine-one-one, letting the phone ring while he stared straight ahead, mulling over what to do.

Finally, the call connected. “911, what is your emergency?” Matt brought the phone to his ear but paused before saying anything. “Hello?” His heart pounded as he held the phone at his side. “Hello? 911.”

“Fuck it.” He muttered.

---

Matt ran past the train as it travelled quickly past him on the tracks, spotting Muse at an entryway.

Muse turned sharply, the grotesque mask glinting in the dim tunnel light. Daredevil didn’t hesitate, lunging forward instantly and striking him with full force.

Muse stumbled backward, slamming into the wall. He recovered fast, reaching out to strike back, sharp and precise. Daredevil narrowly dodged, his senses heightened, listening carefully for any sound—your heartbeat, faint but still present in the room beyond.

Muse attacked again, quick and violent. Daredevil parried with his billy clubs, blocking blow after blow, feet shuffling through the tunnel as they traded rapid hits. Each strike echoed sharply against brick and metal.

Muse snarled angrily, grabbing at Daredevil’s throat. Matt twisted expertly, shoving Muse’s weight sideways. Muse lost his balance, but recovered instantly, swinging out wildly in retaliation. The fight moved quickly through the narrow entryway, deeper into the darkness.

They crashed into the room filled with paint cans and grotesque murals, disturbing tools and brushes scattering loudly across the concrete floor. Matt’s focus narrowed immediately onto the quiet rhythm of your pulse, a faint thump echoing weakly from your direction.

Muse seized a blade from his belt, lunging at Daredevil. Matt reacted sharply, ducking and countering, his billy clubs spinning with practiced ease. He connected harshly with Muse’s side, eliciting a pained grunt. Muse swung back, knife slicing sharply through the air.

Daredevil twisted swiftly, Muse’s blade narrowly missing his chest. Matt kicked out, knocking the knife from Muse’s grip. It skittered across the floor. Muse growled, charging aggressively forward.

Matt’s attention was split—Muse’s heavy breathing, violent movements, and your pulse, quiet and uneven in the corner of the room. His jaw clenched tightly, and he struck out again, determination fueling every precise movement.

Muse slammed Daredevil roughly against the wall, hands grappling at his throat, pushing relentlessly. Matt’s breath was short, strained. He twisted fiercely, kicking Muse away. Muse stumbled backward, crashing into paint cans and sending them clattering loudly.

Matt stepped forward again, sweat dripping down his face. Muse snarled fiercely, fists raised, attacking again with renewed fury. Matt matched his aggression blow for blow, movements fluid and powerful.

Muse swung brutally, managing to hit Daredevil squarely in the jaw. Matt staggered briefly, blood tasting sharp on his tongue, but immediately retaliated, sending Muse sprawling backward onto the floor. Matt’s senses picked up your weakening heartbeat, dread filling him with urgency.

Muse struggled to his feet, glaring hatefully. Daredevil moved swiftly, wrapping the cord of his billy clubs tightly around Muse’s neck. Muse gasped, choking as Matt pulled the clubs tightly upward, hoisting Muse from the ground, feet kicking desperately.

Suddenly, Matt's breath caught—your heartbeat stuttered and stopped entirely.

“No—” Matt choked out sharply, horror flooding his veins.

Muse’s body slumped, unconscious. Matt immediately abandoned him, rushing over to you.

He tore the IV harshly from your leg, hands shaking. His fingers felt desperately for a pulse—nothing.

“Damn it, Y/N,” he whispered fiercely, climbing onto the table beside you. He began chest compressions quickly, rhythmically. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t.”

He pressed harder, focused only on the faint hope of your heartbeat returning beneath his fingers. “C’mon, sweetheart, breathe,” he pleaded quietly, voice thick with emotion.

Seconds felt agonizingly slow. Matt’s breaths came in desperate, frantic pants. “Please, Y/N—”

Your chest suddenly rose sharply, and you gasped loudly, eyes snapping open in panic. Matt immediately cradled your face gently between his hands, voice urgent but tender. “It’s okay—I’m here. You're safe now.”

You blinked, confusion slowly fading into relief. “Matt?”

“Yeah,” he whispered softly, relief flooding his voice. “I’ve got you.”

Your breathing slowed, shaky but steady, your eyes filling with tears as reality sank in. Matt stayed close, thumbs stroking your cheeks gently, offering quiet reassurance.

“You came,” you managed weakly, voice breaking slightly.

“Always,” he murmured fiercely, pressing a relieved kiss to your forehead. “Always, Y/N.”

---

When you woke up, there were bright fluorescent lights above you and a needle taped to the inside of your elbow.

You blinked groggily, squinting at the too-bright room around you. Slowly, awareness trickled back—you were in a hospital. You shifted uncomfortably, your body feeling weak and drained.

“Hey.”

Matt's voice drew your attention immediately. He sat beside your bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His expression was tight, unreadable.

“Hey,” you managed, throat dry and scratchy. You cleared it gently. “How long have I been out?”

“Couple of hours,” he said softly, relief evident in his tone. “You lost a lot of blood. They're giving you a transfusion.”

You glanced at the needle taped securely to your skin and grimaced. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Matt's jaw tightened. “You scared me.”

“I scared myself,” you admitted quietly.

For a moment, there was silence, heavy and loaded. Matt finally exhaled sharply, leaning back in the hospital chair.

“You could’ve died, Y/N,” he said sharply, suddenly angry. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You flinched slightly at his tone, surprised by his anger. “Matt—”

“No.” He shook his head fiercely. “You promised me you’d be careful. What part of going down into dark tunnels alone with a serial killer running loose sounded careful to you?”

“I was trying to help,” you shot back weakly, frustration bubbling up inside you. “People were dying, Matt. Hector died. Angela asked for my help, and she was right. I wasn’t going to just sit by.”

“You almost became one of those people,” he snapped harshly, voice rising. “Do you understand that? You almost became another damn mural on a wall.”

You turned your head, biting your lip, eyes stinging slightly. His voice softened just a fraction.

“I know you think you have to handle everything on your own,” Matt said quietly. “But you don’t.”

You stared stubbornly at your hands, still not meeting his gaze.

“You could’ve called me first,” he added, frustration clear again. “You know I would’ve gone with you.”

You scoffed softly. “Would you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You sighed, finally looking back up at him. “You’ve barely spoken to me since Foggy died. We’ve both avoided each other for months, and every time we talk it’s only about work. Would you really have gone with me? Or would you have given me the same speech you gave Angela about safety and not getting involved?”

Matt hesitated, jaw clenched tightly. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s exactly fair,” you argued softly. “Ever since Foggy, you’ve pulled away. Maybe I have too, but it’s not like we’ve been exactly open with each other.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he muttered, frustration and hurt tangled in his voice. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“From what, Matt? From this life?” You gestured weakly around the hospital room. “This life is exactly who we are. Foggy knew that, and so do I. You can’t protect me from it.”

“Maybe I wanted to protect you from me,” he finally said roughly, his voice breaking slightly. “You’ve seen what happens around me. Foggy died, Y/N. You almost did too. And it always comes back to Daredevil. I didn’t want you caught in the middle of that anymore.”

Your heart softened instantly at the guilt in his voice. “Matt—Foggy’s death wasn’t your fault. And tonight, that was my decision. You can’t keep taking responsibility for everyone around you.”

“You’re missing the point,” he murmured tightly, shaking his head. “The point is I can’t lose you too.”

Your heart skipped slightly, and you swallowed. “Matt...”

He let out a shaky breath, leaning forward again. “When your heart stopped—” he paused, voice breaking with emotion, “it was the worst feeling I've ever had. All I could think was that I waited too long. That I never told you...”

“Told me what?” you whispered cautiously, your pulse suddenly quickening.

“That I love you,” he admitted quietly. “God, Y/N, I’ve loved you for years. Long before Foggy died, long before I tried to pull away. But I pushed it aside because I thought it was safer. For both of us.”

You stared at him, breath caught tightly in your throat.

“Matt—” you began again, voice soft and trembling.

He reached for your hand, holding it tightly in his own, desperate and firm. “I almost lost you tonight because I was too damn stubborn and afraid. But I’m done hiding. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I don’t care if you tell me it’s too late. But you have to know—I love you.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking back sudden tears. “It’s not too late.”

His shoulders slumped in visible relief, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. He leaned closer, voice barely audible.

“Say it again,” he breathed softly.

You smiled faintly, tightening your hold on his hand. “It’s not too late, Matt. I love you too.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against your hand for a moment, breathing deeply, letting your words settle inside him. When he opened them again, he smiled—a small, gentle smile filled with quiet hope and gratitude.

“You’re still infuriatingly reckless,” he murmured, voice teasing gently. “But God, I’m glad you’re okay.”

You chuckled weakly, squeezing his fingers. “Sorry about scaring you.”

Matt lifted your hand, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. “Just promise me, next time, you won’t go alone.”

“Promise,” you said softly.

He exhaled in quiet relief, resting his head against your joined hands. You smiled faintly, exhaustion pulling at your eyelids again. His quiet presence beside you was comforting, familiar, safe.

“Stay?” you whispered quietly, voice thick with fatigue.