101susu101

[101susu101]

Beneath the Mask

Part 4 of Crossfire Series

Ship: Matt Murdock X OC, Frank Castle's sister x Matt Murdock

Rating: 18+

Takes place during season 2 of Daredevil

A/N This series is a slow burn romance between Matt Murdock and my own female OC (Alana Castle) she is Frank castles sister. The storyline follows season 2 of daredevil but without the Elektra and the “hand” storyline . The plot will include parts of the first season of the punisher as well. There’s a lot of mystery , angst , fluff. There will be warnings for smut. Let me know if you want to be in the tag list 🤍

Teaser

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The sky was shifting from charcoal to slate gray by the time you put your car in park. Dawn’s light bled slowly across the skyline, casting sharp angles against the cold metal fire escapes and glass-slick windows. The earlier rain had stopped, but the city remained soaked and glistening. The pavement shimmered with reflection and blurred red and blue strobes painting fractured patterns on the wet asphalt.

Police were everywhere.

Marked cruisers lined the block two streets over, their lights spinning silently now, engines still hot. Murmured voices crackled through radios, the occasional bark of a sergeant cut the air, and the low churn of a perimeter was forming. You knew you had to move fast, before someone else found him.

You hesitated before you grabbed the tactical mask from your passenger seat and shoved it into your bag of medical supplies, slinging the whole thing over your shoulder. You knew it kept you hidden and safe but at times you found yourself conflicted by who you wanted to be, Alana Castle? Nurse Grace? or the woman in the mask? You shook those thoughts away and kept your mind focused on the task at hand.

You popped open the glove compartment and retrieved your firearm, checking the magazine before tucking it into your waistband.

Just in case.

You swallowed hard, then dryly downed the stimulant pills from your center console it was your failsafe for nights like this, when sleep wasn’t an option. Pulling your hood over your head, you stepped out cautiously into the stillness. The rest of the distance had to be covered on foot it was too risky to be spotted near the scene in a vehicle. But that was fine.

People rarely saw you. Not unless you wanted them to.

By the time you reached the alley behind 53rd, the smell hit you first, old grease and stale piss. The concrete was slick from the earlier downpour, trash clung to corners, and the distant hum of city life was dulled beneath the tension in your gut.

Who doesn't love Hell's kitchen? You thought to yourself sarcastically as you grimaced at the unpleasant scent.

You searched the alley, ears straining, eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.

Nothing.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, frustration mounting. You kicked the nearest dumpster hard enough to make it rattle.

Then paused.

What are the odds…?

A sick feeling bloomed in your stomach as you moved back toward the dumpster and cautiously stepped up onto its edge. Peering down into the garbage, you prayed it wasn’t too late.

A hand.

It hung limp beneath a heap of trash bags, fingers twitching weakly, streaked with grime and dried blood. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, your voice barely registering as the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ear overpowered it. You quickly dropped your medical bag to the ground.

It was him.

Daredevil.

Your heart sank like a stone.

He must’ve fallen in when Frank shot him.

You scrambled up the side of the dumpster, the metal groaning beneath your weight. Trash bags gave way as you shoved them aside, revealing the crumpled figure beneath them. Blood pooled around him. No metaphor, he was literally lying in the garbage, barely conscious, maybe dying.

Without hesitation, you grabbed his arms and hoisted, groaning as his weight dragged you down. He was heavier than he looked, and your bruised rib screamed in protest. As soon as you got his torso out, your foot slipped.

“Shit!” you gasped, falling back hard as he collapsed on top of you, knocking the air from your lungs. His large stature was no match for your small frame as you squirmed under him.

Your eyes caught on the fracture across the middle of his helmet. A clean crack spidering outward, right where Frank had shot him.

The bullet hadn’t pierced. Thank God for bulletproof armor. Even with the weight of him crushing you, you still felt relief wash over you at that thought.

You managed to grit your teeth and use all your force to squirm out from under him, dragging him carefully against the alley wall so you could assess the damage. You sat there a second, catching your breath, just staring.

He looked… still. So normal.

The infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was limp like a broken marionette. The red suit was scraped and bloodied, patches so dark they looked black in the early morning light. One leg was twisted, and his arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Blood streamed down from beneath his mask. The feeling of guilt pierced at your insides at the state of him.

You scooted closer, heart racing. One hand brushed his chiseled cheek, the other pressed gently against his solid chest. You leaned in and checked for a pulse.

There. Faint.

Relief nearly knocked you flat. Your knees buckled, and you exhaled hard.

“Okay,” you breathed. “You’re not dead. That’s good.”

You fumbled for your medical kit and slipped on gloves, then hesitated, your fingers hovering near the edge of his mask. You knew what you had to do, but you couldn't help but feel like it was intrusive. Wrong. But if you were going to save him, you had to see the extent of the damage.

And if you were being completely honest with yourself… You were curious as well. You peeled the mask back slowly, inch by careful inch.

Bruised skin. A split brow. Blood had run into his hairline, down his jaw And then...

Your breath caught.

You knew that face.

The man from the hospital. The tall one in the suit, the blind man with the cane. He’d come in with the blonde woman and Grotto. He’d listened more than he spoke as if he were reading you. Still. Poised. Like he could see something the rest of you couldn’t.

Wait...

Blind.

He was blind.

You grabbed your penlight and flicked it on, lifting one of his lids and shining it into his eye.

No response.

“How the hell…” you whispered, stunned. “How the hell are you him?”

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. A blind man.

And somehow, he moved through the dark like it was daylight. You couldn't help but feel a mixture of shock and fascination as you watched him.

You ran a quick check to make sure he was stable, no punctured lung,

thank God. Weak pulse, yes. Dislocated shoulder. Definitely a concussion. A CT scan would be needed, and he’d need stitches for the gash above his brow. You couldn’t do it all alone.

He needed a hospital.

But how the hell could you get him there without exposing yourself or him?

You bit your lip as you looked down at his hands. Calloused. Scarred. His knuckles were raw with fresh scrapes, layered over older bruises. He’d fought hard but not to kill. You remembered how he moved. Calculated, controlled. Striking to disable, not destroy.

And for that, you were angry.

Angry that Frank had tried to kill someone who hadn’t tried to kill him. Angry that the rumors were true. Daredevil didn’t kill.

But this wasn’t the time for ethics. This was triage.

Your breath caught in your throat when you noticed him suddenly stir beside you, a low groan escaping his lips.

“Shit,” you hissed. You moved quickly, pulled the sedative from your kit, and injected it into his thigh. His body slackened again almost immediately.

You weren’t sure how he’d react when he came to, and this alley was still crawling with cops it was safer to keep him under.

You started pacing, racking your brain. You needed a plan and you needed it fast.

As you looked up you noticed a figure across the street you took a few steps closer and squinted to get a good look at him.

A homeless man, bare-chested, wearing only a dirty pair of boxers.

Thats when It clicked.

You had to strip him. The only thing that would expose him would be his suit and mask; other than that, he is just a poor blind man who got jumped in the streets of Hell's Kitchen, which unfortunately was just another Tuesday for people in this city, and no one would question it.

You crouched down and carefully removed the armored suit, layer by layer, avoiding his wounds. It felt wrong, intimate in a way it shouldn’t. You’d done this countless times in the ER and in the army to be able to assess wounds better. But this felt different.

When you were finished, he was left in nothing but his boxers. Bare. Vulnerable. Anonymous. Just a man. Not a myth.

From where you were standing, that’s all he looked like. Just a man—one who’d been through hell.

You couldn't help but gaze over his body, old scars, healed fractures, faded burns. Like Frank. Like you. His body was a journal written in bruises and blood. You felt bad watching him in such a vulnerable state, you quickly averted your gaze and cursed yourself under your breath before getting up from your crouched position.

You packed the suit and mask into your bag, zipped it tight, then pulled out the burner phone Frank had given you.

9-1-1 you dialed

“There’s someone in the alley off 53rd. He was jumped. He’s unconscious. Please, send an ambulance!”

You hung up without waiting for a reply.

Then you vanished into the shadows across the street, watching the alley from a concealed vantage point. You weren’t leaving him. Not until he was safe.

Minutes later, sirens wailed in the distance.

You watched as paramedics swarmed the alley, lifting him gently, placing him on a stretcher. They didn’t know. They had no idea who they were touching.

No idea they were brushing the Devil’s skin.

You didn’t breathe until the ambulance drove away. Then you sprinted for your car and pulled out onto the wet street, tires hissing over pavement.

You followed them.

To the hospital.

Later that night

The ER had gone quiet, eerily so. Most of the critical patients were moved to different wings as the cops investigated the shooting from last night. That rare, thick hush that settles only in the stillness between emergencies. It wrapped around you like fog, pressing in against the soft hum of machines and the sterile scent of antiseptic. The fluorescents buzzed above, casting their tired light across the linoleum floor and the man lying unconscious in Room 4.

You leaned back in the chair beside his bed, the vinyl creaking under your weight. Your shift had ended hours ago. You’d eaten nothing but a stale muffin and guzzled down too much caffeine, your stomach now audibly protesting. Your back ached. Your eyes burned. Your head throbbed in time with your pulse. But still… you stayed.

You didn’t know why, not exactly. It wasn’t protocol. You’d done your part: assisted trauma, kept him stable, passed the chart, updated the board. Technically, you should’ve left. You’d tried. But every time you stood, something inside you refused to move. Like your body had rooted itself beside him. Like you owed him something.

Maybe you did.

After all, it was partially your fault he was here. Yours and Frank’s. The rooftop. The blood. The gunfire. Your brother left chaos in his wake, and you couldn’t stop it, but at least you’d saved one person from the wreckage. That counted for something, didn’t it?

You drew in a slow breath and looked at the man beside you. Frank thought he’d just been collateral damage, but you knew better. Some people didn’t get in the way by accident. Some people had to.

Just like you.

He lay still beneath the hospital blanket, bruises darkening the sharp angles of his face, a healing cut at the corner of his mouth. He looked younger like this. Vulnerable. The edges of him softened without all the tension and fight. It made you wonder who he really was beneath it all, behind the pain, the mask. 

Then he stirred.

You sat up straighter, instinctively alert as his brow furrowed, jaw twitching in discomfort. He winced before he was even fully awake.

“Where am I?” he rasped, voice rough and cracked.

His eyes blinked open, unfocused, scanning the ceiling like it might hold the answer.

“Hey it’s okay, You’re at Metro General,” you said softly, rising to your feet and setting the clipboard aside. You kept your voice warm, even. Calm. “You were brought in a few hours ago. Pretty banged up. But you’re safe now. We’re taking care of you.”

He didn’t relax. If anything, something in his expression shifted, beneath the bruises, you saw it: panic. No, not panic. Recognition. Awareness.

His hand moved under the blanket, ghosting over the thin fabric of the hospital gown, fingers searching for something that wasn’t there. You knew exactly where his mind drifted to.

“M-My clothes?” he asked, a sharp edge in his voice. His eyes didn’t move. Still fixed on the ceiling.

“They brought you in, in just your boxers sir” you told him before he could spiral. “No ID. No phone. You were unconscious, bleeding out. But no need to worry your stable now”

You kept your tone steady, non-threatening. You were good at this, at talking people down. But this wasn’t just fear. It was sharper than that. Calculating.

Even half-conscious, you could tell he was assessing you. Testing. You recognized it immediately.

This wasn’t a man used to being vulnerable. This was someone who survived on staying hidden.

“Were you the one who brought me in?” he asked, finally turning his head toward you. He couldn’t see you, but somehow, you still felt seen.

You dropped your gaze, a habit more than anything. “No. I was already on shift. Someone else called it in.”

He studied you. Searching for cracks. You let him look and you stood your ground not wanting to sound or appear uncertain.

“Did anyone say who it was?” he questioned

“No. Sorry.” your voice fell flat but the apology was real, you were sorry. For it all.

The silence stretched. You watched his fingers twitch beneath the blanket, the subtle flinch of pain as he took in a shallow breath. You recognized the way he guarded his ribs; classic fracture behavior.

“You want me to call someone?” you offered gently, resting a hand on your hip. “Friend? Family?”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “There’s a number. Foggy Nelson. My business partner.”

You grabbed the notepad and clicked your pen. “Go ahead.”

He recited it from memory, and you jotted it down. But before you reached for the phone, you paused.

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Matt,” he said. Then, with a slight hitch, “Matthew Murdock.”

You nodded, tucked the name away, and stepped out to make the call.

When you returned, he was looking in your direction again…still. There was something softer in his expression now. A flicker of something close to recognition.

“Thank you for that, Nurse.”

“No need to thank me, Mr. Murdock,” you replied, smiling faintly as you set the pad down. “I’m just doing my job.”

Still, guilt tugged at the edges of your stomach.

He smiled. And for the first time, you noticed, he was listening to your voice more than your words.

“I can’t help but feel like we’ve met,” he said slowly. “Your voice. It’s… familiar.”

Your heart gave a small, panicked flutter. You forced yourself to stay calm.

“Uh, y-yeah. I think you came in last night,” you said quickly, grasping at the first story that came to mind. “With a few people. The Schaffers? And a blonde guy? Bar fight, I think.”

He seemed to relax at that. He nodded slightly.

“Nurse Grace?”

“Yeah. Alana Grace.” You don’t even know why you gave your first name, it was just instinct at that moment. 

“Alana,” he repeated. And when he said it, it sounded different; intentional. Like he was committing it to memory.

“I’m off shift soon, but you’re stuck with me ‘til then.”

You let yourself smile, your first real one in hours.

He tried to sit up. Grimaced. His hand shot to his ribs, a quiet groan slipping past his lips.

“Careful,” you murmured, stepping in and placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

Your fingers brushed the blanket aside. The dressing was loose. Bloodstained.

“I need to check this,” you said, hesitating just long enough to catch his nod. You pulled the gown down slightly.

And froze.

Jesus.

His torso was a roadmap of pain; lean muscle, old scars, and fresh wounds. The kind of body that didn’t just survive life but fought through it, every inch of him a quiet war story. You didn’t really take it in fully in the alleyway, probably because you were in a rush to get him help.

You knew you shouldn’t look. But you did. Your fingers hovered a second too long and you felt your pulse spike in your eyes. You were close to him, leaning down on his torso you could feel his hot breath on your neck from the side and you could smell the warmth of his skin under the antiseptic, ironically it sent a shiver down your spine.

Matt’s head tilted, just a fraction, you knew he couldn’t see you…but it felt like he could.

You didn’t speak, but your body did. Your stare lingered a beat too long and you could've sworn you saw the corner of his mouth twitch up into a slight smirk from the corner of your eye.

You swallowed hard and grabbed a pair of gloves as you tried to focus on cleaning his bandage, he’s just a regular patient you thought to yourself, this is clinical, you needed to be detached. You couldn’t afford to expose that you knew who he was. But you couldn’t help but feel like he radiated something quiet but intense. Like he could see through the air itself. And suddenly, you felt… vulnerable.

You cleared your throat, desperate to shift the mood.

“So, what do you do?” you asked, unwrapping a fresh bandage and pressing it gently into place. “You don’t strike me as the bar fight type.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he said flatly.

You blinked. You didn’t know what you expected his answer to be, but definitely not a lawyer of all things… “A blind lawyer walking around Hell’s Kitchen at two in the morning? That’s bold.”

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I was checking on a client.”

Too smooth. Too quick. You clocked it instantly.

“Oh? The Schaffers right? The blonde and her husband. They’re your clients?”

He stiffened.

“Are they okay?” he asked sharply. “Are they still here?”

You hesitated. Just long enough to measure your answer.

“I think they were discharged before I came on.”

Technically not a lie.

He went quiet. His jaw clenched.

Your hand moved on instinct, resting lightly on his forearm.

“Easy,” you said gently as you helped him lay back down on the bed.

He exhaled a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

You helped adjust the gown back over his shoulders. You looked down at him and tried to read him but something in his eyes shifted; guarded again. Like he’d locked the door to whatever was behind them.

Before you could press him further, a sharp knock on the door cut through the room.

“Ahem.”

You jumped, hand snapping back from Matt’s shoulder as Janet, the head nurse, stepped in, clipboard in hand and judgment in her eyes.

She looked between you and Matt, then raised a brow.

“You’ve been off shift for over two hours,” she said. You felt Matt shift from beside you at what she said  “And you’ve got blood on your temple.”

You blinked. Reached up, fingers brushing the shallow cut near your hairline; the one you’d forgotten about. The rooftop.

Shit.

Panic licked the back of your throat.

Matt tilted his head, as if just now realizing the injury was there. You watched as he furrowed his brow , his look was intense calculated.

“What happened?” Janet asked as you walked up to her at the doorway and spoke in a whisper hoping Matt wouldn't hear 

“I-uh…” you hesitated. “Long shift. I must’ve fainted. Hit my head on the counter.”

Janet frowned. “You need to go home and get that checked out before you leave.”

“I’m fine really-” you tried to protest but she cut you off

“You’re not fine, you’re exhausted. And now you’re bleeding. Go rest. We’ve got it from here.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the tension in the room had already shifted. You looked back at Matt and noticed something.

He was watching you. Not just listening- but sensing. Noticing.

“Alright,”  you said quietly, backing down.

You left the room slowly, fingertips brushing the doorframe, pulse still racing. you didn’t look back this time…but you didn’t have to. 

You knew he was watching you, maybe not with his sight. But a part of him sensed something was off.

[101susu101]

The Distance between Us

Part 3 of Crossfire series

Ship: Matt Murdock X OC, Frank Castle's sister x Matt Murdock

Rating: 18+

Takes place during season 2 of Daredevil

A/N This is a slow burn romance between Matt Murdock and my own female OC (Alana Castle) she is Frank castles sister. The storyline follows season 2 of daredevil but without the Elektra and the “hand” storyline . The plot will include parts of the first season of the punisher as well. There’s a lot of mystery , angst , fluff. There will be warnings for smut. Let me know if you want to be in the tag list 🤍

Teaser

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

The single-room studio you called home was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp you’d switched on while working on Frank. You liked it this way, when the light focused only on what mattered, keeping the rest of the world in the dark. It made it easier to ignore everything else.

The glow stretched across his battered frame, casting long shadows over the jagged web of scars, bruises, and blood that painted his skin like a brutal war map. It was like every inch of his body bore a permanent record of violence. Crimson shimmered beneath the yellow bulb, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the sharp sting of antiseptic.

You worked in silence, hoodie sleeves shoved up, knees tucked beneath you as you leaned over him on the edge of your mattress. Your fingers moved with practiced precision, threading the needle through torn flesh at his shoulder, each stitch pulling something deeper out of you. You’d done this too many times. The stitching itself wasn’t the hard part anymore. It was knowing it would never be the last time. There’d always be another fight. Another wound. Another piece of him breaking.

A faint scent of vanilla and sandalwood still clung to the air, remnants of a half-burned candle on the windowsill. One of your coworkers had said it helped with sleep. It never helped you. Your thoughts were too loud for anything that simple. And now the room reeked of blood, sweat, alcohol, and something heavier underneath it all, grief. The irony was that you could probably sleep better surrounded by that scent than the one meant to soothe you.

Outside, rain tapped at the window in a steady rhythm. Sirens wailed in the distance. The city breathed beneath you, relentless and indifferent. Somewhere below, the subway rumbled by, vibrating through the floor. But here, in this room, the world had shrunk to the open wound in Frank’s shoulder and the growing chasm between his silence and your aching need to reach him.

He sat shirtless on the edge of your twin mattress, elbows on his knees, head bowed low. His eyes were fixed on the floor, glassy, black, unreadable. Like he wasn’t really there at all. You kept stitching, watching him carefully, waiting for a flinch, a wince, anything to prove he was still in there.

But Frank didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

You swallowed hard. You were used to this part by now. The vanishing. The radio silence. The ghost he became after Maria and the kids. Every time he disappeared, you hunted him down like some kind of detective. The burner phone he promised to keep on him? Always dead. You’d catch something on the news, another body, another firefight, and you’d chase after shadows, heart in your throat, praying it wasn’t him.

And then, just like clockwork, he’d either show up at your door or you would find him; Broken. Bleeding. Wordless.

You’d patch him up. He’d leave. No goodbye. No thank you. Just gone.

You didn’t know how much longer you could do this. Every time he left, it felt like he took a piece of you with him, and you weren’t sure there was anything left to give.

Your hands didn’t shake. But something in your chest did.

You pulled the last stitch tight and clipped the thread, reaching for the gauze. “Y’know,” you said softly, voice barely louder than the hum of the city, “I’ve been looking for you.”

No response.

You pressed the gauze to the wound. “For months. The burner was dead. No signs, no markers. I thought you were-” You swallowed back the tears. “I thought I was too late this time.”

Finally, his eyes lifted to meet yours. But there was no warmth there. No relief. Just hollow stillness.

“Told you the burner’s for emergencies only,” he said, voice low and flat, sharp as broken glass.

You scoffed and pulled your hands back. Your voice cut sharper now. “And what the hell do you think this was, Frank? The cops almost got to you first.” It killed you how little he cared about himself

You stood and crossed to the sink, tossing the bloody rag into it with more force than necessary. You turned on the water and scrubbed your hands under the scalding stream.

“And the guy on the roof,” you added more quietly, guilt coiling in your chest like smoke. You had to go back for him you thought yourself

Frank’s voice came, gravel and thunder. “He didn’t get me.”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Yeah. You made damn sure of that, didn’t you?” you muttered, turning to face him, jaw tight. Still upset at him for shooting the man in the face . You only hoped that the mask he was wearing was bulletproof.

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, silent.

“You’re not even gonna say anything?” you asked, voice cracking and filled with desperation “Not even a sorry, or ‘I’m okay’?”

He didn’t look up. “What do you want me to say, Lana?”

“I don’t know,” you said, softer now, the fight draining out of you. “That you’re done. That you’re not going to die out there.”

Frank shook his head, barely. “It’s not done.”

You took a breath. Braced yourself. “You can just leave Grotto, okay? He’s already in police custody. Let the system handle it. Just this once, please let it go.” You tried to plead but he cut you off

Frank didn’t even blink. He shook his head slowly, voice rough and low. “I have to finish the job.” It sounded more like a vow to himself than a response to you.

You crossed the room again, knelt in front of him, desperate to make him look at you. “This isn’t justice, Frank. It’s suicide. You’re walking into hell like you don’t care if you make it back.”

And then he looked at you. Really looked.

“I don’t.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. You felt the sting of tears in the corner of your eyes beginning to well up.

You stood, blinking fast, turning away before he could see your face fall apart.

“I’m going to check on the body. If he’s really gone,” you muttered, tugging your boots on quickly wanting to distract yourself from this conversation that pained you more than the broken rib at your side or the cut on your head.

Frank’s brow twitched. “And if he’s not?”

You paused, knowing exactly what he meant. “Then I’ll figure it out.”

“You gonna finish it?” he asked. “That what you’re gonna do now?” The last part of his sentence almost came out in a mocking tone as if he didn’t believe you could deal with something like that

You shook your head. “He was protecting someone, Frank. He wasn’t your enemy.”

“He got in the way.”

Your voice rose before you could stop it. “And what happens the day I get in your way? You gonna finish me too?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Frank didn’t answer and a part of you was actually scared to know what his answer may be . Frank wasn’t Frank anymore you knew that even though you held on desperately you knew something was broken.

You stepped closer, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you could hold your heart together with your own hands. You tried one more time to get through to him.

“Stay,” you whispered your voice coming out in a plea “Please. Just stay. Talk to me. Let me help.”

He let out a long exhale, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” your voice cracked. “Why can’t you let me in? You keep pushing me away like it’s gonna fix something.”

He stood slowly, muscles tight, blood still drying on his skin. Towering over you, all shadow and silence.

“Some things can’t be fixed,” he said, pulling on his shirt.

“And you think you’re one of them, huh?” you asked softly, already knowing the answer.

He didn’t respond. Just grabbed his jacket from the chair, pulled on his boots with practiced, deadly calm, the kind he wore like armor before walking back towards the war.

The door creaked open. You let yourself believe, just for a second, that he might stop. Turn around. Say something.

But all he said was:

“Don’t wait up.”

And then he was gone.

[101susu101]

Destruction and Chaos

Part 2 of Crossfire series

Ship: Matt Murdock X OC, Frank Castle's sister x Matt Murdock

Rating: 18+

Takes place during season 2 of Daredevil

A/N This is a slow burn romance between Matt Murdock and my own female OC (Alana Castle) she is Frank castles sister. The storyline follows season 2 of daredevil but without the Elektra and the “hand” storyline . The plot will include parts of the first season of the punisher as well. There’s a lot of mystery , angst , fluff. There will be warnings for smut. Let me know if you want to be in the tag list 🤍

Teaser

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

The night air clings to your skin as you scale the fire escape, breathe tight in your lungs, suit slick with sweat. Behind your black hood and tactical face mask, your heart pounds harder than your boots slamming against rusted metal. Exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover how you felt , the energy drink you chugged earlier barely dented the weight of another sleepless night. But you push through anyway.

You move like a shadow fast, deliberate, as you pull yourself onto the rooftop. The keycard scanner beeps quietly as you swipe it, and the access door clicks open. You step forward ready and alert. The inside hits you with a wash of artificial cold and sterile fluorescence, casting everything in that sickly blue glow hospitals always have.

Your hand hovers near the gun at your hip. Every step is calculated, your senses wired tight. The corridor is quiet. Too quiet. You press against the wall, ears straining past the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices.

This wing had barely any patients, you made sure of that. A nurse owed you a favor, and you cashed it in to have Grotto moved here. Fewer eyes. Less risk.

It was supposed to be clean. Controlled.

An extraction job.

You needed Grotto alive , he was your only chance of finding Frank before the city tore him apart… or he tore it down.

You swallow hard. No time for those thoughts. Not now.

You turn the corridor and relax a bit when you notice Room 414 is just up ahead. Your ears perk up in alert when sudden voices rise around the corner, nurses, maybe a security guard. You curse under your breath and duck into a supply closet to your right pressing yourself into the shadows and holding your breath. After a few moments the footsteps pass and you remained unnoticed. A beat later, so does the tension in your chest as you let out a quiet sigh of relief.

And then…chaos.

Screams. Gunfire. A blur rushes past the open door in front of you , Grotto, wide-eyed and bleeding, stumbling alongside the blonde woman dragging him by the arm.

Shit.

Then him.

You don’t think. You just move.

You lunge out, arm swinging wide. Your gloved hand grabs the shotgun in his grip and yanks it sideways. The other slams the butt into his temple.

Frank doesn’t flinch.

His eyes are empty. Cold. Autopilot. Dread coils in your gut.

He tears the weapon from your grip and shoves you hard. Your back hits the linoleum with a bone-rattling thud, pain sparking down your spine. You slide back, dazed, just in time to see him level the shotgun and fire. Glass shatters. Screams rip through the corridor.

He’s cutting a path of destruction and fear, your brother, the Punisher.

You scramble to your feet and throw yourself at him again. This time you take him down, tackling him from behind just as he raises the gun for another shot. You straddle him, pinning his arms with your knees, panting, the shotgun clattering to the side. You grab it quickly and aim it at his face.

“Stand down!” you bark, voice distorted through your mask, thick with rage and panic.

Frank stares up at you, chest heaving. Then he smirks.

For a split second, all you see is the brother who used to walk you home from school. The one who scared off bullies and tucked you in after nightmares. That version is long gone, buried under grief, war, and blood.

But you don’t want to lose what’s left. You can’t.

Before you can say a word to calm him down, he shifts, too fast. You’re disarmed in a blink. He grabs the shotgun and slams it across your head.

White hot pain explodes behind your eyes. You hit the floor with a grunt, the world spinning. Blood trickles down your temple. The taste of copper fills your mouth.

“Son of a bitch,” you rasp, touching the wet warmth with your glove. He just doesn’t quit does he?, you think to yourself, frustration bubbling.

Around you, people scream. Nurses, patients all frozen in horror. Sirens scream outside, a warning you don’t have time to heed.

You force yourself up. Vision swimming your head pounding.

He’s gone you realize as you look around frantically.

You lock eyes with a nurse who stares at you, trembling.

You curse yourself internally as you realize what you must do , you quickly rip your sidearm from its holster. Screams erupt again in fear as you level it at the nearest person.

“Where the hell did he go?!” you snarl demanding answers.

She chokes on a sob, hands up. “I-I think… he went to the roof…”

You don’t wait.

You bolt, feet pounding against tile, gun in hand. I’m close, you think, lungs burning.

Then- “Hold it right there!” A cop rounds the corner, gun drawn.

You curse and fire but not at him, at the overhead light above him. It bursts in a hail of sparks and glass. He flinches and covers his head, giving you a clear break to sprint past him, taking the stairs two at a time. Your skull throbs, blood dripping into your mask. But you run.

You can’t stop.

You burst onto the rooftop, heart hammering.

Frank stands at the edge, hunched over a sniper rifle aimed at the street below.

Your gaze follows the line of sight.

The blonde and Grotto.

He’s going to take the shot. He’s going to kill them.

Your heart drops, but your body moves before your mind can stop it. You raise your gun, aiming for his shoulder. You won’t kill him, but you’ll wound him if you have to.

You hold your breathe as your finger comes into contact with the trigger when all of a sudden…

A red blur crashes down.

You freeze. Breath hitching.

Daredevil.

You’ve only heard stories. Brutal. Relentless. Never lethal.

He slams into Frank, knocking the rifle aside. They fight like animals, Frank, all rage and fire. Daredevil, all precision and fury.

You dive in, tackling the man in red you didn’t want this fight to go far. But he’s fast. His elbow clips your jaw. You duck his next swing and flip him, kicking him to the ground. But it’s only seconds before he’s on his feet again, and Frank is lunging too.

Daredevil lands a solid punch to Frank’s ribs. You move to intercept, but a savage kick sends you flying. Your body slams into the concrete ledge. Agony blooms in your ribs.

Through the haze, you see fists flying, bodies slamming into walls. Grunts. Snarls. Impact after brutal impact.

Then… Frank pulls a knife.

You scramble for your baton and hurl it in his direction. It spins through the air, cracking against his hand. The knife drops causing Frank to curse in pain as he turns his head to you in a look mixed with betrayal and shock. Daredevil takes the opening, pummels him and pins him down.

You ignore the pain in your body and the feeling of fire in your chest as you struggle to lift yourself up not wanting this fight to go to far, you run towards them

Stop this you have to stop this you thought to yourself and then …

“Bang.” Frank muttered before the sound of a gunshot rippled through your ears

The sound punches the breath out of your lungs.

You watch in horror as Frank pulls a pistol from his ankle holster and shoots Daredevil in the head.

Time stops.

“NOOOO!” you don’t even register that you were screaming until after the fact . You lunge forward but it’s too late.

Daredevil stumbles. Blood blossoms from beneath the mask as he sways before tumbling over the edge. You tried to grab him but he fell quicker than you acted .

You anxiously peered down over the ledge fearful of what you were going to see, of what your brother just did . But the alleyway Is dark below. You can’t see anything. You stare in shock, shaking. Hands clutch the concrete. He was just trying to protect them you thought to yourself as guilt washed over you and you realized you and your brother’s actions resulted in his demise.

Behind you, Frank groans.

You turn, eyes burning, chest heaving. Tears blur your vision.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Frank?!” you shout.

He leans against the wall, bleeding, breath ragged. His expression is empty.

“Nice to see you too, Alana,” he mutters, smug. Hollow as he clutches his side from pain like nothing just happened.

You don’t know what breaks more

Your heart, or your faith.

[101susu101]

Echoes in the Blood

Part 1 of Crossfire series

Ship: Matt Murdock X OC, Frank Castle's sister x Matt Murdock

Rating: 18+

Takes place during season 2 of Daredevil

A/N This is a slow burn romance between Matt Murdock and my own female OC (Alana Castle) she is Frank castles sister. The storyline follows season 2 of daredevil but without the Elektra and the “hand” storyline . The plot will include parts of the first season of the punisher as well. There’s a lot of mystery , angst , fluff. There will be warnings for smut. Let me know if you want to be in the tag list 🤍

Teaser

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

You were exhausted.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sterile shadows across the gleaming floors of Metro General Hospital. The sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the air around you, bleach, blood, sweat, and adrenaline all tangled into one familiar cocktail. The familiarity of it brought you a sense of comfort in a weird way. You wiped the back of your hand across your forehead, catching a trail of sweat just before it trickled into your eyes. The clock on the wall ticked past hour twelve of your shift. Over time, again you thought to yourself. Not that it mattered. In Hell’s Kitchen, chaos didn’t keep a schedule. It was just another regular day, if anything here could still be called "regular." Crime rates were high, which meant injuries were higher. Death wasn’t rare. And this… this was your reality, not very different from your past, which was why you were one of the top nurses here. You can work through the chaos and welcome it with open arms consistently. It didn't scare you; it eased you in a way.

A fresh wave of sirens screamed somewhere in the distance, muffled by the thick walls of the ER. Another trauma, probably. Another life held together by gauze, luck, and the grace of whoever might still be listening up there.

You finished suturing a boy who was no older than eighteen. Too young for scars like these. Too young to bleed like this. You tied the last knot with practiced ease, your hands moving on autopilot, and pressed gauze over the angry wound on his side.

"Get him fluids, please," you said without raising your voice.

"Yes, Nurse Grace," the orderly nodded, already wheeling the gurney toward recovery.

You stripped off your gloves, tossed them into the biohazard bin, and moved toward the sink to scrub your hands clean. The water was lukewarm and the soap stung your raw skin, but you welcomed the distraction. The repetition. The control. Your reflection in the stainless steel faucet looked pale, worn, and older than it had this morning.

You glanced down. Your scrubs were stained—dried blood in a jagged pattern across your thigh. A leftover from a trauma call earlier. No time to change. You grabbed your clipboard and pushed through the swinging double doors back into the ER. The noise hit you instantly, phones ringing, patients groaning, voices calling out in desperation or command. You were used to it. Thrived in it even. It kept your mind too occupied to drift into places you didn’t want it to go.

Still, you yawned, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand. One hour of sleep in the past twenty-four wasn’t sustainable, but you knew better than to complain. Fatigue was a luxury. You made a mental note to grab coffee from the cafeteria if the universe gave you a five-minute window. That seemed unlikely.

The head nurse, Janet, spotted you from across the room and made a beeline for you, clipboard in hand. You groaned internally when she spotted you, she always gave you the shittiest cases because she knew you could handle it.

“Grace. You’re up. Incoming gunshot trauma in trauma bay 2, he’s stable, but he’s not alone. You’ll need to get the people with him to fill out the intake form,” she said, her voice clipped and efficient.

You blinked, nodded, and took the clipboard she handed over.

“Got it,” you murmured, already moving toward Trauma Bay Two. “Duty calls,” you whispered to yourself.

The fluorescent lights flickered slightly as you approached the curtained-off area. A strange hum filled your ears—not electrical. Intuition. Your gut tightened.

You pulled the curtain aside and froze. Your breath hitched in your throat for a second when you realized who you were looking at.

There he was.

Frankie Grotto.

Unconscious, pale against the starched white hospital sheets. A gunshot wound to the abdomen, but he was stable according to the monitor’s steady beep. But it was definitely him. The man you'd been tracking earlier. The man he had tried to kill.

Your pulse spiked, chest tightening, but you quickly shook the thoughts away and swallowed hard before making your way in.

And then you saw them, three people gathered around the bed. Strangers, but not forgettable ones.

A tall, pretty blonde woman with worried blue eyes and a forced, practiced smile. Next to her, a man with chin-length blond hair and an anxious, almost apologetic demeanor. And finally, a third man, tall, dark-haired, wearing a sharp black suit and sunglasses that did not belong in a hospital. He held a cane in one hand, fingers curled around the handle with careful precision.

Blind, you realized. But there was something about him that made your stomach twist. He didn’t fidget like most people would. He didn’t look uncertain or disoriented. In fact, he looked… focused. Unnervingly so. As if he were reading the room through sheer presence alone.

As if he were reading you.

The blonde woman stepped forward first, her voice hesitant. “Hi, um, our friend here, Steve Schaffer. He got into a bar fight. I’m his wife. These two were just helping me get him here safely.”

You gave her a tight smile and jotted down the fake name without comment. Your instincts were already screaming liars in all caps. But you were good at reading people. That was your gift. That, and keeping your face calm while your brain did the calculus.

“A bar fight, huh?” you repeated mildly, glancing toward Grotto again.

“Yes. Very sudden. Very messy,” the man in the suit replied smoothly. His voice was even, almost gentle. Controlled. But you heard the steel behind it.

He was watching you. Not with his eyes, but with something else. Presence. Intent. Like he was trying to figure out your game, the same way you were figuring out his.

Interesting.

You kept your expression neutral and offered the clipboard. “Well, Mrs. Schaffer, I’m going to need his ID, and you’ll need to fill this out before we can get him situated. He’s stable, but he’ll be here for at least a few days.”

The blonde hesitated, you noticed she looked toward the two men nervously before she spoke again, “I looked in his pockets already, but I couldn’t find his ID. He must’ve dropped it at the bar. Is it okay if we admit him for now? I promise, as soon as he wakes up, I’ll go grab it myself. I just… I don’t want to leave him like this. I hope you understand.”

You studied her carefully. There was truth in her eyes, truth layered over lies, but it was enough. You needed Grotto in your sights, and this was the only way.

You nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll make an exception. But I need that ID soon.”

She exhaled in visible relief. “Thank you.”

Then the man with the cane stepped forward. “Thank you again, Nurse…?”

He tilted his head just slightly, prompting you for your name. You blinked for a second, wondering why he didn’t just read your nametag, then cursed yourself internally. Of course. He couldn’t see it.

“Grace,” you answered. “Nurse Grace.”

He nodded, a small twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Grace. That seems fitting.”

There it was again, that strange edge to him. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he could feel the tension humming under your skin.

You returned a polite smile to the trio, handed the form to another nurse with a quick set of instructions, then stepped out into the hallway. Your shoes squeaked against the tile as you walked, suddenly aware of how tight your chest felt. You checked the clock: 9:45 PM.

You’d seen enough for one night.

You signed out, shoved your things into your locker, and grabbed your coat. Your fingers trembled slightly, not from fear, but from anticipation. Grotto being here… it changed everything. It was a variable you hadn’t accounted for, but also an opportunity you couldn’t ignore.

You pushed out into the cool night air, your breath fogging in the dark.

Grotto was here and he was still alive.

Which meant HE was closer than you thought.

And if Grotto was a ticking time bomb—then you had just stepped into the blast radius.

Whatever came next, you’d have to be ready.

And you would be.

[101susu101]

Teaser poster for a fanfic I am writing

Crossfire

Ana Des Armes staring as Alana Castle

Alana Grace Castle was a veteran, a Navy corpsman who once stitched up wounds on the battlefield… and sometimes made them when survival demanded it.

After her final tour, she came home hoping to live a quieter life near her family. She left the Marines, became a nurse, and tried to bury the war behind her.

But when her family was brutally murdered and her brother Frank turned into a soldier of vengeance, Alana was dragged into the shadows , not to fight alongside him, but to stop him from losing what little soul he had left. To protect what remained of her last living family.

Now living a double life, Alana wears a mask of her own. And when she crosses paths with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, everything changes. Matt Murdock doesn’t know who the mysterious woman is, only that she saved his life… and that the sound of her voice haunts him.

As Matt inches closer to the truth, what begins as suspicion turns to connection, a fragile thread between two wounded souls torn between justice and vengeance, guilt and survival.

But in a city that bleeds, where trust is a risk and love is a liability...

what happens when your heart is tied to two men on opposite sides of a war…

and you're the one standing in the crossfire?

Read below!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[101susu101]

That one scene him saying 'sweetheart' has me in a chokehold istg

[101susu101]

marvel saw these scenes and said "what if we make everyone miserable?"

[101susu101]

black suit matt >

[101susu101]

Frank and Karen

Daredevil Season 2 + The Punisher + DDBA