BRO PLS (tag Me In One If You Find Em )

BRO PLS (tag me in one if you find em 👀)

I NEED a Remy Lebeau/Gambit fic with a breeding kink PLEASE

So this is the first chapter in *hopefully* a series! Let me know what you all think!

**To Love in Silence**

{Matt Murdock × Gender neutral reader}

{Slow-burn/angst to comfort/ miscommunication/a slight pregnancy trope. Karen × Foggy}

The fog clung to Hell’s Kitchen like a heavy coat, weighing the city down with the kind of damp chill that seeped into your bones. It was a suffocating mix of gasoline, rain, and something uniquely New York—garbage left too long in the summer heat, mingling with the faint, greasy scent of food vendors hustling to make a buck. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was home, in the way that Hell’s Kitchen was always home. It was rough around the edges, a place that constantly smelled like it was on the verge of either decay or rebirth.

Josie’s Bar was a testament to that. It was the kind of dive that hadn’t seen a proper cleaning in years, where the dim lights buzzed faintly overhead and everything seemed to be coated in a thin layer of cigarette smoke, even though smoking hadn’t been allowed in years. The booths were sticky, the red leather cracked and worn from years of use, and if you leaned back too far, you’d catch a whiff of something sour, like spilled beer that had soaked into the wood and never quite dried. The floors, perpetually grimy, clung to the soles of your shoes, and every step felt like a battle against the faint but ever-present stick of spilled liquor.

It was noisy, too—an endless hum of conversation underscored by the clink of glasses, the dull thud of pool balls colliding, and the occasional burst of laughter from the back corner where a group of regulars always seemed to be locked in an eternal argument. The jukebox played half-forgotten rock songs, muffled and distorted, as if the music itself was too tired to put up a fight against the constant chatter. Every sound echoed in the tight space, bouncing off the stained walls and low ceiling, creating a cacophony that somehow felt familiar, comforting even.

Foggy slid into the booth across from me, his usual smile in place but not quite reaching his eyes. He smelled like he always did—like cheap aftershave, something bright and sharp that clung to him even after a long day in court. There was a hint of fabric softener, too, a faint clean scent that contrasted with the mustiness of the bar, but underneath that was the smell of sweat and city grime, of long hours spent hustling through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. He looked tired, like all of us, his tie loosened and his hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his hands through it one too many times.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he said, flagging down Josie with a wave. I watched her shuffle over, wiping her hands on a dirty rag before slamming two beers down on the table. The glasses were slick with condensation, leaving damp rings on the worn wood.

“I could use a lot of things,” I muttered, staring into the foam as if it held answers I couldn’t find anywhere else.

Foggy leaned back, the leather squeaking under his weight. “What’s eating at you?”

“It’s Matt,” I said, unable to keep the frustration from bleeding into my voice. “He’s… different. Distant. I feel like I’m losing him.”

Foggy nodded, his expression darkening as he took a long sip of his beer. “He’s got a lot going on,” he said, but the words felt hollow, like he was tired of saying them. He smelled faintly of the cheeseburger he’d inhaled on the way over, greasy and comforting, mingling with the stale air of the bar.

“I just don’t understand,” I said, picking at the label on my bottle, my fingers sticky with beer residue. “He used to tell us everything.”

“Used to,” Foggy echoed, his eyes drifting to the empty spot beside me. “Matt’s always been good at keeping secrets, but lately… I don’t know. I don’t think even he knows what he’s doing.”

I glanced at the TV above the bar, where Wilson Fisk’s face loomed larger than life. The screen flickered, showing scenes of destruction—burned-out cars, crime scene tape flapping in the wind, cops huddled together like they were preparing for war. Fisk’s name was everywhere, a dark cloud that hung over the city, and behind it all, whispers of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen—the masked vigilante who’d been tearing through the crime rings, leaving chaos in his wake.

“You ever wonder who that guy is?” I asked, nodding toward the screen. “The Devil?”

Foggy followed my gaze, his brow furrowing. “Sometimes,” he said, a hint of unease creeping into his voice. “He’s out there every night, taking on Fisk’s men like he’s got nothing left to lose. You gotta be a special kind of messed up to do that.”

I thought about Matt then, about the bruises and the bandages, the way he winced when he thought no one was looking. There was a smell to him when he was hurt—like copper and antiseptic, sharp and medicinal. On his good days, though, he smelled clean, like the cedarwood soap he favored, mingling with the faintest hint of coffee and old books, something warm and familiar. It was a comforting scent, but lately, even that had been tinged with something darker, like smoke and sweat, as if he was constantly fighting battles I couldn’t see.

“Do you think…,” I started, but the thought died on my tongue. I couldn’t bring myself to say it, to voice the suspicion that had been clawing at my mind for weeks. That maybe Matt knew more about the Devil than he let on. That maybe he was closer to the danger than any of us realized.

“Do I think what?” Foggy asked, giving me a curious look.

“Nothing,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Just… nothing.”

But the doubt lingered, festering in the back of my mind as the night wore on.

It was late when I finally got home, the city quieting down to the dull roar of distant sirens and the occasional shout from a street corner. I fumbled with my keys, my fingers numb from the cold, and stepped inside my apartment, greeted by the faint, musty scent of old wood and the slightly metallic tang of the radiator that never quite worked right.

I had barely kicked off my shoes when I heard a knock—a soft, hesitant tap that sent my heart lurching. I opened the door, and there he was, leaning against the frame, looking every bit as battered as I felt. His suit was rumpled, the collar of his shirt stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood, and his hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles like he’d been running his hands through it all night.

“Matt,” I said, the surprise evident in my voice. He smelled like rain and the faint, acrid scent of city air, layered with something distinctly him—cedar, sweat, and a trace of something metallic and sharp. My throat tightened at the sight of him, all messy and undone, like he’d been fighting shadows I couldn’t see.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough around the edges, like he’d been shouting over the noise of the world. “Can I come in?”

I stepped aside, and he brushed past me, his movements stiff and unsteady. I could smell the sweat on him, mingling with the faintest hint of blood, though he tried to hide it beneath a weak smile. He sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, and for a long moment, we sat in silence, the air between us thick with everything we didn’t know how to say.

“You look awful,” I said, half-joking, trying to cut through the tension. But it was true. Up close, I could see the bruises blooming along his jaw, the cuts that hadn’t been there last week. He smelled like pain, like antiseptic and bandages, and something else—something darker, like smoke and gunpowder.

“Long day,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You’re never a bother, Matt,” I said, though the words felt fragile, like they might shatter if I looked at them too closely. I moved closer, hesitating before reaching out to touch his shoulder. He flinched, just barely, and I drew back, my hand hovering between us. “What’s going on with you? I feel like you’re a million miles away.”

He didn’t answer right away, his head dropping into his hands. I could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven, and the faintest catch of something like a sob caught in his throat. It was the first time I’d seen him this vulnerable, this… lost. And it scared me, more than I was willing to admit.

“It’s Fisk,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s getting worse, and I… I can’t fix it. Not the way I want to.”

“Matt,” I said softly, trying to catch his gaze. But he was somewhere else, staring through me like he was seeing ghosts. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

The way he wanted to. The words hung heavy, loaded with all the secrets he was too afraid to share. I watched him, the faint tremble in his hands, the way his shoulders hunched like he was trying to hold the world together on his own. And maybe he was.

He lifted his head, and for a split second, I saw something break in him, something raw and real and utterly heartbreaking. He smelled like rain, sweat, and exhaustion—like a man who’d been running from someone, or something..

(A story that branches off from the song 'Violent', by CarolesDaughter. A KarlNapity story *with Y/N's P.O.V thrown in there* TW// Abuse, Swearing, Suicide, Cheating, Substance abuse/Alcohol/Cocaine*aka Power* Let us start this off with a bang, I am the best friend of Quackity. Well the now ex best friend. The only reason why I took this path is because of the fact he turned out just like Schlatt. The same way he took to drinking. He was always picking fights whenever he was drunk, hurting poor Karl or Sapnap. (His husbands by the way) or he almost took it out on their daughters or youngest son. Jess and Brie. With their sons name, Juno. Yet here we are..well here I am, telling you about the downfall of our beloved Alex. `Beginning` It was the middle of February or early March, I couldn't really remember too well, yet I clearly remember playing with GhostInnit, and Ghostbur. We were all excited because of Juno's stubby little legs were Beginning to take their first steps, eyes shining bright at the achievement. But..Karl and Sapnap weren't there to witness it since they were out doing their own thing before Quackity got home. Which he would only be getting home around 9 or 10 PM, usually drunk and stumbling around. Which happened a lot of times. Like it did..that night.. -Enter Alex walking home, mentally cursing himself. Dry tears adorning his cheeks as the echoing laugh of Schlatt bounced around in his head. Muffled cries leaving into his jacket sleeve. Bottle clutched tightly in one hand. 'God..! Why do I keep running back to my problems!?', *because you're weak. You keep fueling your addiction! You are the one who keeps visiting me. YOU.* 'Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!!', here was a grown man breaking down in the middle of the street of the intact L'manburg. Streetlights illumating his sins. Yet his eyes craned to the bottle which now laid on its side, spilling out the contents of its vile and intoxicating waste. Pulling himself together he rushed home, well to the best of his abilities..when he was met with sorrowful faxes of his best friends, and lovers. Confused on what was going on he walked forward, only to be met with them pulling away. 'Alex..I want my ring back..' "What..?", did he hear them correctly? Was this the final straw..? Were they leaving him? 'No. No no no..! They can't leave. Can they!? They can't..!' That is when the fury of past mistakes began to creep into his mind again, causing his fist to connect with Sapnap's right eye; causing him to stumble backwards into Karl who held their son. Completely obvious to what was going on. 'Don't make me get violent!' he seethed through clenched teeth; eyes flickering between the group. "I..just want my ring back Alex!", 'But baby, that's a diamond!' "You don't listen anyways.I'll be quiet I don't really feel like fighting.", he turned and began to walk away. 'Don't make me get violent! You come back here and we talk about this!' "What is there to talk about? I told you..me and Karl just want our rings back" "But.. baby, that's a diamond!" That is when Sap turned around, this time with anger in his eyes. Marching up to Alex and began to poke his finger into his chest, screaming, "make me run away out the back door! I want my clothes back! You say you "miss me". So then I drive back to you. You know I'll drive back to you! Petals off of flowers, did you ever really love me? Now my nose is filled with powder!", with his eyes now filled with tears he stepped away; taking Karl and Juno into his arms. Scared of whatever was to come next.. 'And I think that he's still lovely, oh no She knows I'm a wreck..', was all that left Quackity's lips, eyes shining with his own tears as he ran out of the house. Quickly sobering up. Leaving with unspoken thoughts and conversations rolling around in his head he stopped, soon companied by Ghostinnit. **He gave you all my trust then I told you "Just don't break it"** 'I know..I know.. I said, 'I promise that I'll clean up and maybe we can make it

But no, I think we're both a mess..."..' A couple Months after that..Juno is now a year old. Tubbo and Ranboo have Michael, Technoblade has become a grandfather as he had his own child. An orphan who was half piglin as well, as well as enderman. Whilst this has been going on Quackity, Quackity has moved into his own house while Sapnap and Karl struggle to make settlements on accepting Alex back. "Y/N! Wait up!", the voice seemed familiar..wait..is it Alex? But why would he be trying to get in contact with you again?? "Y/N!! I know you hear me!", that was him.. Sighing you turned around to face the 5'8" Mexican, hands shielding your eyes from the harsh sun. "What do you want Quackity? I'm busy meeting up with looking after Micheal and Juno. So please make this quick." He took a deep, shaking breath. "I'm sorry!! Please forgive me. I didn't mean to do anything to hurt you; Karl; or Sap..! Please forgive me." "I'm sorry. But..I can't. You hurt them. Really bad. Your kids even had to witness it, I mean your daughters even had to witness it first hand..! I mean, you should be apologizing to them; instead of me. And to be frank with you, I remember something along the lines of something Sapnap said:"Don't make me run away out the back door. I want my clothes back!! You say you miss me, so then I drive back to you, you know I'll drive back to you!" The familiar sense of anger began to swirl up in his core, eyes darkening as he gripped Y/N by the neck; grasping it tightly. "You know. I tried to be nice! I tried to apologize and be the good guy. But you make it SO HARD! God you can't do anything right! Why are you so USELESS!? Why don't you just jump off the nearest building?", after saying that he pulled away. Scoffing and walking away. It was only a matter of seconds, or even minutes..which felt like hours, you sat there, hands massaging your already numb neck; eyes rid of tears as you stared off into the direction Alex had walked off to..thinking about what he had said; his words bouncing around like a broken record, truly thinking what your friend's lives would be like with you dead. Acting on an impulsive thought you pushed yourself up and onto your feet, heading off to the Big Innit hotel, and up to the top. Ignoring Jack, Philza and occasionally a random *Pop* of Ranboo as he comes back to get something. Yet you continued to push on..till your feet rested on the edge of the hotel. The air completely still around you as a sigh left your lips. Feeling almost at home, like you could..Float. so you tried to. Taking a running jump you began to fall off the side of the building. Smiling as you heard the whistling in your ears; yet the world around you was silent. Then..there was nothing, except the burning bright white light you had suddenly stumbled into, "Aye! What the FUCK do you think you're doing here!? What did you do!? Are you seriously so stupid!", there came that rage and sadness again..turning to face the voice. "Quackity! I know..okay!?", 'What? You confuse that dunce face for the one, the only, J frigging Schaltt?'

@fandomzwriterk

Balcony Tryst

A/N: I've had this idea for a while. Wrote this while listening to House of the Rising Sun by Lauren O'Connell. Summary: Remy LeBeau and you share a private suite overlooking Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Things get heated quickly ;) Tags: voyeurism, nsfw, public sex, handjob

The night air was thick with the heady scent of Bourbon Street and the distant hum of New Orleans' nightlife. The balcony of the private suite wrapped around them like a secret cocoon, shielding their passionate encounter from prying eyes below. Remy LeBeau, his lean body pressed against yours, his hands gripping the balustrade as he steadied himself, his breath hot against your neck.

"Y'feel s'good, chere," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive growl that sent shivers down your spine. His Cajun accent was more pronounced in the quiet of your balcony, each word dripping with desire.

You could feel his hardness against your palm, the rhythm of your stroking matching the pounding of your heart. You moved your hand faster, relishing the way his body responded, the soft moans escaping him, the way he bit down gently on your shoulder, a mix of pain and pleasure sparking through you.

"Remy," you gasped, turning your head slightly to meet his gaze, "you're so... intense."

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as he nuzzled your ear. "It's jus' you, ma chérie. Y'bring out dis side of me."

The city lights twinkled below, casting a soft glow over the balcony, highlighting the curves of his muscles as he moved with you. His free hand traveled up your back, pulling you closer, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that made you shiver.

"Tell me what you want," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat as you felt his body tense with anticipation.

"Remy wan'chu," he breathed, his lips brushing against your cheek, "all of you, right here, right now."

You leaned into him, your body flush against his, feeling the heat between you rise. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you and the intoxicating thrill of the moment.

"Show me," you challenged, your voice barely above a whisper, your hand still moving confidently up and down his length.

Remy's response was immediate. He turned you around, pressing you against the cool cast iron of the balcony, his body sheltering yours from the slight breeze. His hands found your hips, gripping them tightly as he positioned himself behind you.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice firm yet tender. You obeyed, meeting his fiery gaze over your shoulder. The intensity in his eyes was palpable, a mix of passion and possession that made your breath hitch.

"You're mine tonight," he declared, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "And Remy gon show you how good it be."

With that, he entered you slowly, deliberately, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. You bit your lip, holding back a moan as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming in the best possible way.

"Dat's it, ma chérie," he encouraged, his voice thick with emotion as he began to move, his thrusts steady and deep. "Take all of me."

You closed your eyes, letting the sensations wash over you. Each stroke of his body against yours was a promise, each touch a testament to the connection you shared. The world outside the balcony faded into insignificance, the noise of the bustling streets below nothing but a distant echo.

"Remy," you whimpered, the word torn from your lips as he hit a particularly sensitive spot, "please..."

"What'cha need, chere?" he panted, his movements growing more urgent, his hands roaming over your body, exploring every curve, every dip.

You didn't have the words, not then, not when all you could focus on was the delicious friction, the way he made you feel alive, wanted, cherished.

"Just you," you managed, your voice cracking with emotion. "Always you."

Remy kissed your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin gently as he quickened his pace, his body slick with sweat, his breaths coming in sharp gasps.

"Lookit dem," he suddenly said, his voice husky as he nodded towards the street below. Your eyes followed his gesture, spotting a couple paused under a streetlight, their shadows entwined. "D'ey can't see us, but d'ey know we're here."

The idea of being watched, even indirectly, sent a thrill through you. It was taboo, dangerous, yet incredibly erotic. You could feel Remy's excitement grow, his grip on your hips tightening as he pounded into you with renewed vigor.

"F-fuck yes," you gasped, your voice mingling with his in a symphony of desire. "Let them know."

Remy's laughter was wild, unrestrained, as he claimed you fully, his body a blur of motion, his emotions laid bare. "D'ey envy us, chere," he growled, his voice raw with passion. "D'ey wish d'ey were us."

The thought was heady, empowering. You arched your back, offering yourself to him completely, your fingers digging into the iron railing as you rode out the wave of pleasure building within you.

"Remy," you cried out, your voice carrying on the night air, "I'm close."

"D'en come for Remy. Unravel for me," he demanded, his own release imminent. "Let me feel it, cher."

With a final surge of energy, you let go, your body convulsing around him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Remy followed soon after, his groan of completion mingling with yours, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

For a moment, there was silence, save for your ragged breathing and the distant sounds of the city. Remy remained inside you, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his body still humming with the aftermath of passion.

"Chere," he murmured, his voice soft, almost reverent, "dat was..."

You turned in his arms, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, his chest, still heaving with exertion. "Perfect," you finished for him, your smile gentle, loving.

Remy kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that spoke of promises and possibilities, of nights like this and many more to come. When he pulled away, his eyes held a glimmer of mischief.

"Ready for another round, ma chérie?" he teased, his hand trailing down your spine, reigniting the fire within you.

You laughed, the sound light and carefree, as you pulled him closer, ready to explore the depths of your desires once more.

Hear me out. I'll give two:

(1) SFW - Reader is a sufferer of an invisible disability. Endometriosis/Dyspraxia/Autism/etc.

Would just love to see how Logan would be with that :>

(2) NSFW - How would Logan would be with the reader if they were ovulating *female/transmale*

Give me Logan Howlett ideas, the Window is going to WRITE again baybee

Chapter Two: A love in the dark

Matt Murdock × Gender neutral reader

{Slow-burn/angst to comfort/ miscommunication/a slight pregnancy trope. Karen x Foggy}

I watched him, the faint tremble in his hands, the way his shoulders hunched like he was trying to hold the world together on his own. And maybe he was.

“Matt,” I said softly, trying to catch his gaze. But he was somewhere else, staring through me like he was seeing ghosts. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He lifted his head, and for a split second, I saw something break in him, something raw and real and utterly heartbreaking. He smelled like rain, sweat, and exhaustion—like a man who’d been fighting his own demons for so long he’d forgotten how to stop.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak, the sudden ring of my phone cut through the quiet. The sound startled me, and I glanced at the screen, my heart stuttering when I saw Matt’s name.

I blinked, looking at the empty spot beside me on the couch where he’d just been. Only, he wasn’t there. The apartment was still, and suddenly, I felt every ounce of the emptiness pressing down on me. I picked up the phone, my voice wavering as I answered.

“Matt?”

“Hey,” came his voice, rough and low, the words distorted by static. There was something off about it—an edge that made my skin prickle, like the ghost of a snarl hidden beneath the surface. It was Matt, but it wasn’t. It was harsher, darker, tinged with an anger that wasn’t usually directed at me. “You home?”

“Yeah, I… I’m here,” I said, looking around the empty apartment, my confusion mounting. “Where are you?”

There was a pause, just the sound of his breathing crackling through the line. For a moment, I thought he might hang up, but then he spoke again, quieter this time, almost hesitant. “I’m close. I’ll be there soon.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving me staring at the screen, the silence suddenly suffocating. I stood up, pacing the length of the room, my mind racing. Something was wrong. Something had been wrong for a long time, and now it was right on the edge of boiling over.

Before I could think too hard about it, there was a soft knock at the door, so gentle I almost missed it. I opened it slowly, and there he was, drenched in rain and shadow, his cane folded neatly in his hand. He slipped inside without a word, his movements fluid and deliberate, like he already knew every corner of the room without needing to look.

Matt didn’t bother with his usual pleasantries. His steps were deliberate, purposeful as he walked further into my apartment, each footfall soft but assured, like he was gliding through the dark. The cane folded in his grip felt more like an afterthought, something he carried not out of necessity but routine. He knew the layout of my space better than anyone—better than me, even. He’d memorized every table leg, every uneven floorboard, every creak and groan of the old walls.

But tonight, he was different. He carried the weight of the city with him, the air around him heavy with the scent of rain, sweat, and something darker—something sharp and metallic, like the echo of a fight that hadn’t yet ended. His hair was wet, plastered against his forehead, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and ragged, stripped of the warmth I’d come to know. It was the voice of someone used to giving orders, not asking questions.

“I’m sorry for calling like that,” he said, but it didn’t sound like an apology. His voice had an edge to it, something deeper, grittier, that sent a shiver down my spine. It was like he’d brought the city’s darkness with him, dragging it through the threshold and spilling it onto my worn carpet. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay,” I said, though it wasn’t. None of this was okay, and the way he was looking at me—like he was seeing something but not quite there—made my chest tighten. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, but I didn’t believe him. There were bruises creeping along his jaw, a faint trickle of dried blood near his ear that he hadn’t bothered to clean. Up close, I could smell it—the iron tang of fresh cuts mingling with the faint musk of leather and sweat. It was the scent of the city at its worst, of late nights and alleyways, of battles fought in places no one was meant to see. I reached out instinctively, my hand hovering just over his cheek, but he pulled back, stiffening at the contact.

“Matt,” I said, my voice breaking at the sight of him. “What the hell is going on with you?”

He turned away, his grip tightening around his cane, knuckles white against the dark wood. I watched as he leaned against the wall, his shoulders slumped, a man teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t name. The air between us was thick, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid, and I felt like I was grasping at smoke, trying to catch hold of a man who was slipping further and further away.

“Fisk is getting bolder,” Matt said finally, his voice low and laced with something that bordered on a snarl. “He’s… He’s tearing this city apart.”

I flinched at the venom in his tone. I’d heard Matt angry before, but this was different—this was rage, pure and unfiltered, the kind that didn’t just come from frustration but from something deeper, something personal. I knew Fisk was bad news—he was on every channel, his smug face plastered across every screen in Hell’s Kitchen. But this… this was something else.

“What does that have to do with you?” I asked, my voice small in the dim room. “Why are you always in the middle of this?”

His silence was answer enough. Matt clenched his jaw, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap. I could see the conflict warring in his expression, the shadows under his eyes deepening as he struggled to keep his secrets buried. It was like he was on the brink of telling me something—something that could change everything—but fear held him back. Or maybe it was pride.

“I can’t tell you,” he said finally, each word dragged out like it hurt to say. “I want to. God, I want to tell you everything, but I can’t. Not yet.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest, feeling the weight of his words settle like lead in my stomach. There was so much he wasn’t saying, so many cracks in the façade he’d spent years building, and I was terrified of what lay underneath. But more than that, I was scared of losing him—of watching him disappear into the darkness he’d been dancing with for far too long.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Matt,” I said, stepping closer, my hand reaching for his despite the chill between us. “Whatever it is, whatever you’re fighting, let me help you.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, I saw the mask slip, just a little. There was something broken in his eyes, something fragile and desperate that he couldn’t quite hide. He reached up, his fingers brushing mine in a touch so light it was almost a question, and for the first time that night, I thought he might actually let me in.

But then the mask was back, the walls slamming down as he pulled away, retreating into himself like he always did. “I can’t,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain against the window. “Not yet.”

And just like that, the distance between us stretched wide again, the unspoken things building a wall I couldn’t see over. Matt turned, folding his cane with a practiced flick of his wrist, and headed toward the door, his shoulders hunched against the weight of his own secrets.

I watched him go, feeling the ache of his absence before he’d even left the room. There was so much I wanted to say, so much I needed to hear, but the words wouldn’t come. Matt paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob, and for a moment, I thought he might turn back, that he might finally tell me the truth.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he glanced over his shoulder, his face half-hidden in shadow. “Stay safe,” he said, his voice raw and jagged, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. And then he was gone, swallowed by the night and the storm outside, leaving me alone in the dim glow of my apartment, surrounded by questions that I didn’t have the answers to.

I stood there long after the door had closed, staring at the empty space where he’d been, my heart heavy with the weight of all the things we never said. Whatever was going on with Matt, it was bigger than me, bigger than both of us. And as much as I wanted to help, to fight alongside him, I knew that some battles he would have to face alone.

For now, all I could do was wait.

---

**Flashback:**

The first time he showed up like this, it was raining, too. I remember the soft patter against the window, the way the city seemed to hold its breath as he stumbled inside, dripping and bruised. I’d never seen him look so small, so utterly defeated, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if the man standing in front of me was Matt Murdock or the ghost of the vigilante he’d tried so hard to keep hidden. His suit was torn in places, blood seeping through the fabric, and his hair was a matted mess sticking to his forehead. There was a wild, desperate look in his eyes, like he’d been running from something that still had its claws in him.

“Matt?” I’d whispered, the question hanging heavy in the air between us. He didn’t answer, just stood there, water pooling at his feet, his hands trembling as he struggled to pull off his mask. I’d never seen him like this—so vulnerable, so raw. It was like watching a dam break, the weight of everything he’d been carrying spilling out all at once.

“Sorry,” he’d muttered, voice cracking as he finally let the mask fall to the floor. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

I didn’t ask questions. Not then. I just took him by the arm, guiding him to the couch as he sagged against me, the strength in his legs giving way. He winced when I touched his side, the sharp intake of breath telling me more than words ever could. He was hurt—badly. And yet, he’d come here. To me. When he could barely stand, when his body was a map of pain and bruises, he’d chosen my door.

I’d gone to grab a first aid kit, but by the time I’d returned, he was already trying to clean his wounds, his movements stiff and shaky. I watched him struggle, stubbornly pushing through the pain like it was a challenge he couldn’t afford to lose. I sat beside him, taking the cloth from his hands, my touch gentle, careful not to push too hard.

“Let me help,” I’d said softly, and he’d nodded, too exhausted to argue.

.

As I wrapped his ribs, I couldn’t help but notice the faint tremor in his hands, the way he clenched his jaw like he was holding something back. He’d always been good at that—at hiding. But that night, in the dim light of my apartment, it was like the mask he wore had slipped, just a little, and I could see the man beneath. The one who bled, who hurt, who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders even when it was too much.

“Thank you,” he’d said quietly when I was done, his voice barely above a whisper. It was the kind of gratitude that came from a place of deep, unspoken pain, and it hit me harder than I expected. There was something in his eyes then, something vulnerable and raw that he rarely let anyone see. And in that moment, I’d realized just how much he was fighting—not just the criminals, the shadows of Hell’s Kitchen, but himself. His past, his guilt, the unrelenting need to do more, to be more than just the blind lawyer or the devil in the dark.

“I’m here,” I’d told him, my voice steady despite the tremor in my heart. “Whenever you need me.”

He’d nodded, but there was a sadness in his smile, a flicker of something that told me he didn’t believe it could be that simple. And maybe it wasn’t. But I’d meant every word. Because Matt was more than just the man who kept coming back bruised and battered. He was the one who fought for the voiceless, who stood up when no one else would. And even though he never said it, I knew that, in his own way, he was fighting for me too.

But as I watched him disappear into the night once more, a shadow among the rain-soaked streets, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were both losing a battle we didn’t know how to win. That no matter how many times he found his way back to my door, we were still trapped in this endless dance of secrets and silence.

Now, standing alone in the dim light of my apartment, I thought of that night—the first time he’d let his guard down, the first time he’d let me see the cracks in his armor. It was a memory that haunted me, one that lingered in the quiet moments when I was left to wonder if there would ever be a day when Matt didn’t feel the need to fight alone.

And as I stared at the door, hoping against hope that he might come back, I realized that all I could do was wait. To be here when he was ready. To love him in the silence, even if it meant loving a man who might never be able to love himself.

*flashback end*

*The next morning*

I stood there long after the door had closed, staring at the empty space where Matt had been. The silence was overwhelming, filled with questions that spun wildly in my head. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to make sense of it all, but every thought led me back to the same place: Matt was in trouble, and whatever he was facing was bigger than anything I could handle alone.

I grabbed my phone, my fingers trembling as I scrolled through my contacts. Foggy’s name stared back at me, a small comfort in a sea of uncertainty. If anyone could make sense of this, it was Foggy. He was Matt’s best friend, his anchor, the one person who’d always managed to pull him back when the darkness threatened to consume him.

I hit call, pressing the phone to my ear, pacing anxiously around the apartment as it rang.

“Hey, what’s up?” Foggy’s voice was light, but there was a tiredness beneath it, the kind that came from too many late nights and too much worrying.

“It’s Matt,” I said, the words rushing out before I could stop them. “Something’s… something’s really wrong.”

There was a pause, and I could almost hear the shift in Foggy’s demeanor, the lightness gone in an instant. “What happened? Is he hurt?”

“He’s…” I hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “He showed up here, bruised and bleeding, and he wouldn’t tell me what was going on. He said Fisk is tearing the city apart, but it’s more than that. It’s like he’s… unraveling.”

“Shit,” Foggy muttered, his voice laced with a mix of anger and fear. “Where is he now?”

“He left. I tried to get him to stay, to talk, but he just—he wouldn’t let me in. He’s shutting everyone out, and I don’t know what to do.”

Foggy sighed heavily, and I could hear him moving, grabbing his things. “I’m on my way. I’ll call Karen too. Meet us at Josie’s in ten.”

He hung up before I could respond, and I was left staring at the phone, feeling the weight of what was happening settle even heavier on my shoulders. I knew this wasn’t the first time Matt had gone off the rails, but something about tonight felt different, like he was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and there was no pulling him back. Not without help.

I grabbed my coat and headed out, the cold night air hitting me as I made my way to Josie’s. The streets were slick with rain, the city lights reflecting in the puddles like fractured stars. It felt fitting, somehow—everything just a little broken, a little off.

When I walked into the bar, Foggy was already there, pacing near the entrance. His expression was a mix of worry and frustration, the lines on his face deeper than I remembered. Karen was seated at a table nearby, her eyes flicking anxiously between her phone and the door. She looked up when she saw me, her expression softening, but the concern was still etched in every line of her face.

“I got here as fast as I could,” Karen said, her voice quiet but urgent. “What’s going on? What happened with Matt?”

I slid into the seat beside her, feeling the warmth of the bar’s dim lighting chase away the chill from outside. “He’s falling apart, Karen. He came to my place tonight, bruised and bloody, talking about Fisk, about the city tearing itself apart. But he wouldn’t tell me anything real. He wouldn’t let me help.”

Foggy sat down across from us, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s been pulling away for weeks now. Every time I try to get through to him, he shuts me out. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That maybe he’d get it together, that he’d let one of us in. But it’s like he’s on some kind of self-destruct path, and he won’t stop until he’s—”

He trailed off, the fear in his eyes saying more than his words ever could. I knew what he was thinking, what we were all thinking: that one day, Matt might not come back from whatever fight he’d thrown himself into.

Karen leaned forward, her voice a whisper as she tried to piece it all together. “Did he say anything about Fisk? About what’s going on?”

“Just that Fisk is getting bolder,” I said, the memory of Matt’s snarled words still fresh, still raw. “He’s acting like this is his fight, like he’s the only one who can stop it. But he’s not just angry, he’s… he’s scared. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Foggy slammed his fist on the table, startling both of us. “Goddammit, Matt. Why does he always think he has to do this alone? We’re his friends, for Christ’s sake. We’re supposed to be in this together.”

Karen placed a hand on Foggy’s arm, her touch gentle, but her voice firm. “We need to find him. Before he does something reckless.”

“But how?” I asked, feeling the weight of the question settle heavily between us. “He’s not exactly easy to track down, and even if we do find him, how do we get through to him?”

Foggy looked at me, his expression softening just a little. “We just… we keep trying. We keep showing up, no matter how many times he pushes us away. Matt’s stubborn, but he’s not invincible. He’s still human, and he needs us, whether he wants to admit it or not.”

Karen nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. “We start with what we know. We dig into Fisk, figure out what’s got Matt so spooked. And we keep reaching out, keep reminding him that he’s not alone in this.”

I glanced between them, feeling a surge of something close to hope. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to keep fighting, enough to keep believing that maybe, somehow, we could pull Matt back from the edge before it was too late.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “We’re in this together.”

And as we sat there, huddled in the dim light of Josie’s, I felt the faint stirrings of resolve, the beginning of a plan. We weren’t going to give up on Matt. Not now, not ever. Because no matter how far he fell, no matter how deep the darkness, we were his light. And we were going to find him, to stand by him, to love him through the silence.