#matt murdock au

[moonpascal]

self insert x canon will always hold a special place in my heart

[cellophaine]

Chapter IV: Entrechat

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, description of injuries and blood, short and simple medical procedure, toxic environment.

Word Count: 5.9k

Author's Note: This is the longest chapter of the series to date! (by only 600 words but still). I ended up having to cut a chunk because time wasn't on my side and also I kept adding more stuff to the chapter and complicated the process. But here it is! I hope you will enjoy it 🫶

GIF Source – The GIF is extremely relevant!!

Your dance bag used to be indicative of your day. The heavier the bag, the longer the day, the more exhausted you'd be at the end of it. The bag would be strewn with multiple pairs of pointe shoes, two wrap skirts of different lengths, a practice tutu, warmup layers and tools, water and food. You would spend most of the day inside. Class in the morning, rehearsal for your part, and more often than not, understudy for Christine. You were only allowed to take your lunch break when the director was satisfied with your work, so it gave you an incentive to dance well and to perform perfectly every day. Every time. Some days, you didn't get a break until mid-afternoon. Despite your frustration and exhaustion, it was hard to find fault in Roger's teaching method as it clearly worked. A few passionate critics called you 'Roger Emerson's artistry crafted in a human form, and the true successor to Christine Lambert's illustrious career'. Jo and Amy shared a look of concern when you told them about the behind-the-scenes stuff, so you learned to sugarcoat the reality for them. You figured that they wouldn't get it. The harsh environment simply was something you had to live with in order to thrive. To be the best performer you could be.

In preparation for a new season, the stage calls could be as late as 10:30 PM. On performance days, you'd stay at the theatre, getting ready with your hair, makeup, and costume before helping others. You would often leave the theatre very late, walking fast with your head slightly down, a pocket knife clenched in your fist, hidden in the full bag. 

Your bag is still a reflection of your day. It holds a single pair of soft shoes, a water bottle, and the keys to your apartment and mailbox. Its inconsequential weight on your shoulder speaks for what you think of yourself – aimless, unmoored to a real and substantial purpose. No ballet class, no performance. No adoring audience who cheers for you as you take your bow at the end of the night. There are over eight million people in New York. No one cares that you used to dance for a mid-tier ballet company, and now working as a secretary for a mid-tier law firm. You have nothing except for the self-imposed helplessness. And it holds you motionlessly at the entrance to Jo's new gym.

You're torn between two opposite points of the axis – the yearning to go back to the one thing you've done your whole life, and the fear that your moment was gone the night of your injury. You know that you can't stay away from ballet for too long as the fleeting nature of your youth and the tragically short career you chose, and still love, pull at the back of your mind. They tell you the more you spend away from the art, that’s more time you don’t have wasted. But when you finally decided tonight was the night you finally made a tepid return to ballet, you're still scared. What is the point? You can never be as good as you used to be. The thought has been exhaustingly persistent. But seclusion has provided you with a comforting contemplation that you can accept. There is no audience that you have to perform for tonight. There is a sense of self-assurance that even if your dancing is mediocre, no one else will be around to witness it, except for you. You don't even have to dance if you don't want to. You quickly insert the key into the lock and turn, the door opens to your newfound determination. 

Upon entry, you can already see why Jo bought this place. It has an old-school vibe, and of course, the boxing ring to the left of the room. New lockers spread along the wall near the entrance, breaking up by a hallway and Jo's office from what you can see. A couple of towel carts gather below the window looking out into the gym. The back of the sign Fogwell’s Gym is prominent even in the low street lights, each letter red, big and bold in their respective glass pane. Sandbags spread sporadically throughout the room, but you’re not here for them. You keep straight and reach the new addition to the gym as Jo instructed on the right, opposite the boxing ring. You wave at Leon – the night cleaner – before entering the room.

The studio is small and separated from the open space, and more narrow than the room you used to dance in at Lady Liberty, but it works better than your apartment. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the length of the wall, reflecting the empty room except for a standard moveable barre on the opposite side. The window blind is drawn on the view of the boxing ring and the rest of the gym, and you keep it that way. You bring the barre to the middle of the room, vertically to the mirror, and put on the shoes. You didn’t bother putting on a leotard and tights, settling for a pair of leggings and a fitted shirt. The simple and form-hugging outfit is enough to see your lines. 

The music playing through your phone speaker is loud enough for you to follow in the stillness of the building. Plié, tendu, ronde de jambe à terre. You go through each exercise with ease. Balançoire, fondu, ronde de jambe en l'air. Your mind and muscle memories work in tandem, guiding your movements. Frappé, petit battements, relevé. Every day for five, sometimes six, days of the week for years. Adagio, grand battement, arabesque penché. Your body is warm, your alignment refined and you find yourself not too concerned about the predicament you're wrapped up in as you move onto centre work.

After a couple of simple combinations, you recall the Cupid variation from Don Quixote. It was nowhere near the hardest variation you'd done, but with the level you're on at the moment, the agility and quick footwork required would be a challenge. But you want to feel the satisfaction of successfully executing a complete piece. So you search for the music, and mark it out with your hands and feet.

Music fills the room, a little louder this time, but doesn’t mute the sound of pressure every time your feet touch the floor. You can’t land as softly as you used to, but you try your best to hold your weight. You feel a pinch in your leg on a piqué turn, but you push through to the flow of the music. As the variation almost nears the end, the door to the main area of the gym creaks loudly, and whoever enters inadvertently takes away your focus with them. Your feet knock together clumsily on an assemblé, making you lose balance when you come back to the floor. You stumble, letting the notes float past you and eventually end. The muffled conversation in the other room announces the unmistakable presence of another. Jo let you know about Leon, and you haven't expected the company of anyone else during the gym's off hours. You peek through the blind to find the familiar shape of a person your eyes perpetually search for throughout the workday. You open the door but stay at the threshold. And call out hesitantly.

“Matt?”

He turns to your direction and says your name. He's surprised to see you, but there is a moment of delay as if he already knew you were here.

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to work out.”

He’s wearing a black tank, grey sweatpants, an old pair of trainers and a gym bag by his side. Your eyes trail over the stretch along the arm holes, noticing how worn the shirt looks, and how his arms look so much bigger than you've imagined. Not that you want to admit you have thought about his arms, but you can acknowledge that the dress shirts and suit jackets he usually wears are quite deceiving. 

You course correct at his plain answer.

“But the gym is closed.”

“I can say the same to you.”

“My friend gave me the access. She owns the place.”

He thinks for a moment. 

“Ahh. That explains the new equipments.”

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of his attempt at redirecting your attention.

“You still haven't answered my question.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, amused at your directness. 

“Right, well, I also get after-hours access because of Leon.”

The man mentioned has already gone home, it seems.

“Oh yeah? You bribed him, didn't you?”

You lean against the door. Matt puts both hands up, feigning innocence.

“I admitted to no such thing.”

Your conversation has taken on a playful edge, and you allow yourself to lean into it.

“It’s clear to me that that’s what happened.”

“Are you conducting a cross-examination on me?"

"It doesn't have to be, but since you insist …"

He shakes his head in amusement.

"Can't believe it's only been two weeks since you started working for us. If I didn't know any better, I would think you'd been with us from the day we opened the practice.”

“Thank you. I’m just a quick learner. You’d know that if you came to the interview.”

Matt wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. You were only joking, but when he speaks, you can hear a touch of seriousness in his voice.

“I’m glad I missed it.”

“Why?”

The question was only a notch above a whisper, but he heard it. 

“That led us to here. You're working with us. And I get to see you more often.”

His admission draws a soft intake of air from you. You feel the skin on your cheeks and ears grow warm as your heart quickens its pace.

“Flirting with me won’t distract me from the fact that you’re trespassing.”

He turns his head to curse softly under his breath in a slightly exaggerated manner. You chuckle at his attempt to make you laugh. 

“You’re good.”

He says, shaking his head, the smile on his lips widens.

“Don’t worry, I’m just joking. I won’t tell Jo about this.”

Jo is already on the fence about Matt. Knowing about his trespassing will only aggravate her.

“What about you? What are you doing here?”

Matt asks. You straighten up from where you’re standing, suddenly feeling defensive despite the question being innocuous. 

“I’m here to … dance. I want to slowly get back to ballet. My apartment is too small for what I want to do so … here I am.”

His face brightens.

“That’s great. I’m glad you’ve decided to give it another chance. You told me how much you missed it."

You're surprised to see he still remembered what you told him on the first night you met. 

“You'll regret that when I play the same music over and over.”

“Go ahead. I don't mind. I need to expand my playlist.”

“Let me guess. All you listen to is emo, broody music that fuels your tenancy in court.”

His head tilts slightly to the side at your poking fun at him.

“Broody? Is that what you think of me?”

“A little bit. Sometimes. It’s just that … you have that air about you. Like you’re suppressing something, all the time.”

A flash of something you can't name crosses his face. But it's gone as he puts on an easy smile. 

“Hm, I didn’t expect to be cross-examined on top of a psychoanalysis coming to the gym tonight.”

“Maybe I really have spent too much time with you three.”

You share a laugh. The banter is nice. You get to talk freely to one another, and your overthinking ceases to make an appearance in this moment. The air is not laden with dread, frustration or misunderstanding like two nights ago. You have thought about the situation since after that night, and you feel like you owe Matt honesty.

“I should apologize to you. For the other night.”

Matt’s brows furrow as you keep going. 

“I misconstrued your words and intention.”

"You don't have to apologize. I could've handled it better. I should've addressed you properly–"

You interrupt with a call for his name. 

“Thank you for doing that, but it was mostly my fault. I was overly sensitive, and frankly, in way over my head about a similar situation. I was just worried that you … might have changed your mind."

“Changed my mind about what?”

Honesty, you remind yourself.

“… About me. With all of that stuff that happened with my old company, I thought you might think that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

Understanding dawns on his features. He softens.

“What happened at your old company is not your fault. I meant it the first time, and I still mean it now: anything happened between us will stay between us."

You know that now.

"And I enjoy having you around the office. I really do.”

You can't tame the happy smile on your face. You let it mirror Matt's own. 

“I enjoy being around you, as well.”

A quiet understanding makes the air between you lighter. The knot in your stomach unravels. You clear your throat, bringing both of you out of the comfortable quiet. 

“I’ll … let you get back to it.”

“Me, too.”

“I’ll close the door so the music won’t be too loud for you.”

“I really don’t mind either way.”

“Accommodating, as always.”

With a final remark and one last look at Matt, you retreat into the room and close the door anyway. As the night goes on, you can hear the rhythmic punches on the sandbag next to your own classical playlist. The melodies blur into one another, making up their own unique existence in an unlikely place.

/

You start going to Fogwell’s every other day. You find yourself looking forward to the visit for more than one reason. Every time you push through the discomfort that your old injury brings, the experience invigorates you, and you feel like you’re gaining a fraction of the old you back. You retrieve fragments of your old balance, strength, and flexibility. You're not confident enough to practice in pointe shoes yet, content with dancing in soft canvas shoes. You've been looking into ballet classes for adult dancers. A structured class with lesson plans can bolster your own framework and accelerate your improvement. You used to have classes at least five days a week, but for now, once to twice a week would be sufficient. Ballet classes are plentiful in New York, you just need to take the plunge.

You see Matt on and off throughout the nights you go. Seeing him is the other reason, but you can never admit it out loud to anyone. The delicate balance between you is restored, and you don't want to overcomplicate it. But there is no harm in innocuous talking that often veers on the side of flirting when both parties are willing participants. You chat and rehash about what happened at work before going back to your own things. You don't like staring at Matt, the act is too desperate, but your gaze does linger from time to time. The sandbag shakes from Matt's exertion, and you find yourself wondering if that's how he got the scars on his knuckles. The size of his arms, which are corded with muscles, fluster you when you've stared for too long. 

You have been avoiding Jo's invites to hang out. Not to keep Matt's trespassing a secret, but you don’t like the way she tries to overshadow your thoughts and opinions with her own. The last time you saw her, she only said what she said because she was looking out for you. But you also know how once she has formed an idea about someone in her head, it’d be hard for her to let it go. If you agree to meet up, you know that she'll ask you about Matt again, and even worse, if you tell her about the misunderstanding, she'll only double down and urge you to quit your job at the firm. No matter what, you can't win. For right now, no one needs to know. Your connection with Matt remains as yours and his alone. 

/

Time goes by, and the most accurate measure of it is your growing closeness with Karen, Foggy, and especially, Matt. To be more specific, it has been a little over a month since you started working for the firm. It’s not enough time for you to comfortably get drinks with them yet, but enough to be included and tag along on coffee runs and lunch breaks. 

Therefore, you notice that Matt is late this morning, even though technically speaking, he was late on the day of your interview as well. He's always early or on time, so for his office to still be empty by the time the clock hits 10:45 is not like him. You pretend that you’re not even glancing at the time every five minutes, but you do. When you're even just a little restless, your mind takes over and forms an unpleasant thought. Matt must've spent the night with a woman. 

The sudden delivery of the notion feels like a sharp sting on your cheeks. Your heart clenches, and what feels awfully similar to jealousy flares in your chest, making your stomach churn. You try to push the bitter feelings out, but it's too late. The silent acknowledgement is enough for your mind to helplessly dive deeper into the hole the invasive idea has dug. You don't have the right to be jealous, you're only Matt's colleague. What he chooses to do outside of work is none of your concern. With anyone is none of your rights to even question. Still, as much as you try to pretend that it doesn’t affect you, it does. Did he treat her nicely like the way he did with you? Did he kiss her with the same vigour? Same softness? Did he listen to her problems? Did he make breakfast for her this morning and that’s why he’s late? Maybe he's kissing her goodbye right now, with the promise of more whispered on her lips as he pulls away. The mental image of Matt kissing someone else pulls and cuts into your increasingly sensitive disposition. You look away from the document you weren’t really reading, willing your mind to make the words make sense again. 

You haven't made much progress when Matt comes through the door a few minutes later, looking quite pale and dishevelled. He says good morning to you and quickly crosses the space to go to his office. Your response fades on your lips as he closes the door behind him. The cold demeanour is enough to spark a disappointment ember. It grows hot in your chest and along your skin as the conclusion clicks in place: he did spend the previous night with a woman. You look at the computer, hoping a vision change will help you forget quickly.

Matt often observes quietly, heedful of every little thing. He chimes in when something doesn't make sense, or when a question needs an answer. But in today's meeting, he is unusually silent. You notice the way he pushes his glasses up on his nose every other minute, the way he touches a particular part of his torso more often than not, and when you angle yourself in a way that grants you a view under the unbuttoned suit jacket, you find red spots that look like blood on his white shirt. You can't help but blurt out.

“Are you bleeding?”

Ms. Carrero turns to you, as do Karen and Foggy. You don’t care the way their bewildered gazes as you pull on Matt's hands, the ones that are trying to button his jacket up.

“It’s nothing.”

You part the material to find the small splotches of blood seeping through the cotton. Foggy’s voice is alarmed when he asks.

“What happened?”

Matt stumbles over his words, trying to smooth out his explanation.

“Oh, uh … kitchen … accident. I ran into a knife that I forgot I put there.”

“Are you okay?”

Ms. Carrero asks with concern laced in her scrunched brows. Matt nods, giving her a tight smile.

“You should probably get that taken care of.”

“It's not that bad. I can wait until the meeting is over.”

You know what Matt is trying to do, and you refuse to let him slide this under the rug. You say without giving him another chance to make up an excuse. 

“Karen and Foggy can take care of the meeting. I can help you clean up.”

Karen nods while Foggy agrees with you. Matt hesitates. You lower your voice, almost pleading with him. 

“Please, before you bleed out in front of Ms. Carrero.”

Matt concedes after a brief moment. You excuse yourselves as you stand up and walk to the door, holding it open for Matt to step through. The meeting reconvenes while you lead Matt into his office. You pull out the chair so he can sit and ask him to unbutton his shirt. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me out to dinner first?”

Despite the cheeky remark, he listens to you, shrugging off the suit jacket. 

“That’s a great idea considering how your kitchen skills don’t seem to be that great. Let’s keep you away from those knives for a while, yeah?”

You pull the chair on the opposite side of the desk and set it up next to Matt's. 

“Ouch. Here I was, thinking we were having a good thing going on.”

You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Your voice softens.

“I’ll be right back.”

You search for the first aid kit in the kitchen before moving to your desk. In your bag, you find the tin of all-heal ointment balm and a Tide pen. You return to Matt’s office to find him leaning back on the chair with the few buttons unfastened from the bottom of the shirt. You set the kit on the desk, settle into the chair and ask.

“Can you hold your shirt up for me?”

This time, he listens without a sly remark. Your knees knock together as you get closer, and he accommodates you by parting his thighs. You slot in between, trying to calm your nerves at your proximity. He folds the material and holds it to his chest, revealing the expanse of smooth skin, well-defined abs, and a bloody bandage at his side. You're distracted by the sight momentarily before informing him of what you're going to do, and he nods. The wet patch comes off slowly under your careful fingers. The cut is much deeper than you thought, and the way Matt’s playing it off like it’s nothing alarms you. When you voice your concern, he only shrugs.

“I’ve had worse.”

“How? I’m very worried about your worse if this is nothing.”

The knot in your stomach tightens. You observe the wound, and it looks deeper than a simple kitchen knife cut. 

“It looks a lot worse than it feels, trust me.”

“It also doesn't look like a simple accident.”

“Just my luck.”

"Did you try to impress someone? A woman you met at the bar, perhaps?"

You hope the joke didn't come off as forced as it sounds in your head. Matt gives you an easy, playful smile.

"No, there was no one to impress. My kitchen wouldn't be a mess if that was the case."

You release a disbelieving hum, and Matt holds the free hand up.

"I swear. This was a one-off incident."

"Right."

You shake your head, the corner of your lips involuntarily curl into a grin. You dip your head to take a closer look. Even though the wound is small and manageable, it still has a gaping opening, so slapping fresh gauze and bandage on top won't hold the edges close. You look into the first aid kit and are surprised to find the basics of what you need to properly clean and seal the injury. You put on a pair of gloves and grab a packet of anti-bacterial wipes.

“I will have to give you a couple of stitches so the wound can stay close, okay?”

His brows raise above the red glasses. 

“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”

He hisses softly as you clean the area with the wipe. 

“Of course I do. I’ve darned shoes before. Can’t be that hard to stitch you up.”

You chuckle when his expression betrays him. He looks worried and on edge. 

“I’m just joking. I know enough to take care of a simple wound like this.”

You clean the needle with an antiseptic cloth and prepare the thread.

“If I hurt you, let me know, okay?”

The smirk on his lips is cocky, yet simultaneously endearing. 

“I’m a big boy. I can handle a needle.”

“But not a knife, apparently.”

That draws a deep chuckle from Matt. The room gradually falls into silence as you pour all of your focus on steadying your hands and making sure you don't pierce his skin too deeply. He takes the pain exceptionally well with only a few sharp breaths and soft gasps here and there. 

“Did you have to do this a lot? Back when you were still dancing?”

His voice is as gentle as your hands. You take a moment before responding. 

“Not really. It didn’t happen as often as you might think.”

His thoughtful silence gives you the courage to go on. 

“I’d get blisters, cracked toe nails, things like that. The company started out very small so we didn't get proper healthcare professionals until about three years ago.”

Your hands are steady as you make it to the other half of the wound.

“It was the first performance of the season. I needed to rehearse for this one role, and all of the studios were taken. So I practiced in a closet full of costumes and set pieces. When I … basically spun around the room, I cut myself on one of the metal poles that they used as the foundation for the set. Tore through my tights and I started bleeding. I went home, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, secured a bandage on top and hoped for the best.

“During the show the next day, the wound opened and it soaked through the white tights I had to wear. After the show, the director said that if I pulled something like that again and didn’t get my injury in line for the next day's performance, he would bench me for the rest of the season. I didn't have enough money to get it checked out at a hospital. So I went to my friend slash roommate.”

“Did that friend happen to be Jo?”

“Yes. She used to be a professional boxer. She taught me how to stitch up my wound. Since I had to dance more than one role, on top of the two performances every day for six days straight as well, the wound would rip a little. So I had to add one or two stitches here and there.”

He breathes sharply as the spot you poke through is particularly tender.

“That sounds awful.”

“Dancing with the cut wasn't the best feeling, but at least I learned how to stitch up a wound from it.”

You cut the thread off and dab away the blood seeping through the now-closed cut. You take the gloves off and open the tin. A faint scent of soothing tea tree extract emanates as you take some ointment on your finger. You carefully smear a thin layer along the edge of the cut. Matt keeps still, holding his breathing to an almost motionless state. You close the lid and tap it twice before placing it on the table.

“Apply this after your shower, and whenever you change the bandage. It’ll help a lot.”

“Thank you.”

You cover the wound with new gauze and bandage.

“Thank you for telling me. And for stitching me up, of course.”

“Thank you for listening. Now, we have to take care of your shirt.”

“Right. Can’t go to my next meeting like this.”

He moves to unfasten the rest of the buttons, but you put your hand on top of his. 

"You don't have to take it off. I can do it with this pen here."

He keeps his hands to the side as you flatten the material over your palm. The spots aren't too big, nothing a little diligent work can't fix. You dab the tip of the pen on the spots repeatedly before spreading the liquid. You watch as the red diminishes into a light pink then the barely-there colour of rust. 

You put the implements back before closing the kit. You're about to stand up to leave when Matt reaches out and holds your wrist, keeping you there.

“I appreciate you doing this for me. Truly.”

Your heart stutters at the small swipe of his thumb on your pulse. You think about what Jo said. The man sitting in front of you is proving that he is anything but the terrible, awful things Jo thinks he might be capable of.

“You’re welcome.”

The moment is transient, and you miss his warmth when he lets you go. You're about to leave the room when he calls out to you.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“Not tonight. But tomorrow night. Definitely.”

/

That night, you take the subway to Greenwich Village. The ballet studio is on the third floor of the building, and you're the first one to arrive for class. You go through your warm-up routine in the corner of the room, staying out of the way as other students trickle in. Your guts alternate between excitement and nervousness, and both do little to ease your mind. This is an intermediate class for pre-professionals and advanced students. The room is filled with mostly younger people, and everyone gathers in groups.

The class goes quiet when an older woman enters the room with a big notebook on her arm. Charlotte Hill. She was an intern at the American Ballet Theatre for two years before quitting to found her own dance center after her name. You did a quick Google search before coming in, wanting to know the teacher a little more before the class. Everyone quietly put the finishing touches on their dancewear and grab their spots on the barre. Music flares through the speaker, and everyone starts the plié exercise without guidance from the teacher. You quickly follow others by watching them, but you still feel lost. Barre exercises vary depending on the teacher, the studio or the school. But to dive right into it without a single word going through the steps is bizarre. At Lady Liberty, the headmistress always went through the steps, even if it was just the names of them.

Because your spot is in a corner, when you do a soutenu turn to the other side, you have limited vision of what others are doing. There is no mirror on the wall when you work on the other side. You try your best to memorize the unfamiliar combinations as barre stretches on, but you can't keep up as well as others. Charlotte makes her way towards you, watching you struggle as the music changes again and again. The other students in the class go through each exercise easier as if they have done this so many times before, and you realize that is the case. You're singled out, your dancing is quite stiff with the teacher standing only two feet away from you. Her face is grim, and you can feel the mild contempt in her gaze, following your every movement. When she finally walks away, you can see discreet and sympathetic glances from a few students who look at you. Your nose burns, but you refuse to cry. You move your feet and your arms, you incline, raise and tilt your head. You keep dancing. 

After putting the barre away, the class has a moment to drink water. One of the students who spared you a glance earlier comes up to you. 

“I recognize you. You used to dance with Lady Liberty Theatre, right?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I get a seasonal ticket every year. I watched you perform several times now. You danced beautifully.”

“Thank you.”

She probably didn’t mean it, but the past tense has an unwanted effect on you. You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling as she introduces herself. Judging by the teacher's look of disinterest for you at barre, it's not an uncommon thought that you're no longer capable of dancing like you used to. 

The class ends on a disastrous note. You could follow the centre works Charlotte gave decently, but that wasn't enough for her. You were asked to repeat a combination because according to her, your techniques were off. By that point, your muscles were strained, you were tired, but you carried it out anyway. You did everything she asked of you, even when she got into your space, following you as you moved through the space, shouting each step into your face. When you stumbled, she scoffed loudly, expressing her displeasure at your mediocrity while everyone else watched.

You stuff everything into your bag and try to leave the class as soon as possible, but the teacher calls out to you by your full name. So she knows who you are. 

"We have classes for little children. Maybe you can come in and watch some day. You might learn something from them."

You're enraged, and you don't care about the consequences. Your voice is level when you answer her with defiance.

"You're just a terrible teacher. Don't project that onto me."

The sneer on her lips sours into a scowl. 

"Your career is over. It's time you look for something else to do instead of wasting my time."

"Who are you to speak to me like this? At least I had a career. I'll be more than happy to never return to this place again."

You walk away before she can come up with a rebuttal. You know that you shouldn't have stooped to her level, but you don't care. You refuse to shed a tear over the teacher's deplorable hostility. Despite the positive changes in the ballet world in recent years, with more inclusivity and acceptance of races, body types, and backgrounds, there are still remnants of the old system that refuse to die. Those bits and pieces are carried on through people like Charlotte Hill, believing that ballet is the type of art that is reserved and accessible for people of certain classes. You scorn and reject that belief. 

A smaller, but more insistent part of you thinks that the teacher's attitude stemmed from the fact that your place in ballet is not yours anymore. You chose to step away, to give it up, and you don't deserve a second chance. 

Your hair is still wet when your head hits the pillow. You're exhausted and wracked with guilt and self-hatred. The night floats by, and the sun peeks through the open curtain, the soft light touches your unmoving form gently. But you're already awake, unable to sleep with the teacher's spiteful words and contemptuous looks embedded under your eyelids every time you close your eyes. 

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[ddejavvu]

m.list - matt murdock

blurbs:

you interrupt matt's patrol

matt's tired after patrol

you like matt's chest hair

professor!matt

showering with matt

matt + "where did your clothes go?"

prince!matt

kidnapper!matt

matt + edging

matt + enemies to lovers

stalker!matt | 2

matt comforting you after a nightmare

you're insecure during sex

matt notices your harmful habits

matt cuddles you on your period

mafia!matt

matt learns to braid

patching matt up after patrol

priest!matt

roommate!matt

matt + rivals to lovers

matt makes a better second impression

your dog likes matt's seeing eye dog

[elgrandeavocados]

dissolution (part 27) | matt murdock x ofc

Story Synopsis: Elizabeth Herrera and Matt Murdock go way back. Friends since college, the two have known each other for ten years. But as a couple, they’ve been together for four and lately, their relationship is hanging by a thread, and the two are desperate to make it work.

Will their relationship survive? Or will memories of their past hinder them from healing? MATURE.

Author’s Note: Suprise! A new chapter of 'Dissolution' is finally here. This one is pretty short, but I still hope you enjoy it. 💗 P.S. Part 28 is already in the works, and I may or may not have been working on a new fic idea. Everyone says, "Thank you, Born Again!”

P.P.S. I made a gif! Let’s say another thank you to the BA team for capturing such amazing city shots!

Read Part 27 of 'Dissolution' HERE

Excerpt from Part 27

“How do you think she’ll react?”

I looked away from the window and over to Derek. He was smiling softly at me, the bouquet of white lilies he had picked up before we left his place to make our trip to visit my mother, was on his lap. 

“I’m not really sure,” I said. “I doubt she’ll react the way your family did.”

A few days ago, over dinner, we broke the news to his family that we were engaged. Both his mother and sister had squealed so loud, that I was sure that the glass cups on the table would shatter. His father, on the other hand, shot up from his seat, ran to the kitchen, and brought back a bottle of champagne, not caring that it spilled onto the expensive rug underneath his feet.

“What makes you think that?” Derek asked.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her excited let alone let out a ‘Yay!’ She’s a bit subdued in that department.”

“Maybe she will this time.”

Highly doubtful.

“Yeah.” I looked back out the window. “Maybe...”

[devilfic]

Saw the previous Matt Murdock post and I can’t help but think of him as college professor dynamic???!

LIKE HOW WOULD HE BE?

❝criminal law professor!matt murdock❞

cw: law school professor matt being everyone's wet dream, brief mention of alcohol, brief suggestive content. words: 1.3k.

AHHHHHHH criminal law professor!matt who never set out to teach but got invited to a lecture held by an old lawyer friend of his and built up such good rapport with the students that when one of them came up to him after class and told him they'd sign up for any class he'd teach, the cogs started turning

only teaches one class a semester, probably one class a year

one of those professors that almost everybody wants to get in with but is prone to several dropouts after the first two weeks because of his teaching style

he's very casual most of the time but very much hands-on and will not let up on you for a second if he thinks it's a teaching moment

he's relentless. he is not an easy A but you will come out of his class better than you went in

his favorite part of the job is getting into ethical debates with the students

likes to do a lot of mock trials and very regularly stick his students with cases that test their moral judgment

it's not to make them feel bad or play at having the higher moral ground if they make a "wrong" decision, but more so to force them to consider what they're willing to compromise on to win a case

and whether winning cases is the best thing for them or for their client

he's the type of professor who will gladly stay an hour or two after class just chatting it up with students over cases he's done in the past or answering questions about practicing law professionally

he grades hard but he always offers ample feedback to make his students do better next time

has a saying that he'll never turn down a coffee from a student trying to butter him up

and immediately follows up with "it won't make me change your grade but it will help me remember your name"

this motherfucker definitely likes to sit on the edge of his desk while teaching, too

undoes his tie a bit when he gets passionate about a topic, rolls up his shirt sleeves to his elbows, has to stop himself from pacing the room without his walking stick when he feels particularly excited about a discussion

does not care about late work like at all

as long as you get it to him before the end of the semester, you'll be fine

you'll be panicking, emailing him about how you're so sorry but your laptop got stolen on your way home and that you'll have to rewrite your entire paper from scratch in the school lab tonight so it'll be a day late and you'll get a response back in 4 minutes that just says "No problem, stay safe - Sent from my iPhone"

and... your laptop is mysteriously returned a few days later. apparently whoever stole it had a serious change of heart. you also got a 98 on your paper

(he may not be swayed to change your grade with coffee but he is a bit of a softie when it comes to stuff like this)

he's also just the hottest professor on campus. do I even have to say it at this point

comes to class everyday in a nice button-up, very form-fitting trousers (none of his students have ever seen him in a pair of jeans nor will they), glasses perched on the tip of his nose, a leather messenger bag at his side that is mysteriously well-stocked with first aid supplies, and a loose red tie around his throat

do you see the vision

cancels class often because of daredevil business and treats these as days to work on papers

tries not to cut class short because of daredevil business

it actually makes him a bit sad when he has to, and so he makes it an open invitation that if students catch him out in the wild or walking around campus, they can bother him as much as they want

his TA is a little (a lot) exasperated with him but he makes up for it by buying them food. it has actually put a dent in his budget at this point but their appeasement makes it worth it

he has an office on campus but he very rarely uses it for office hours, you can pretty much find him anywhere BUT his office

he likes to meet in coffee shops or lecture halls or parks on campus because he feels like it's less daunting for students to just sit and talk out in the open

he's very popular on valentine's day

students and faculty alike will shower him with chocolates and mini bottles of wine and roses and proposals to go out for drinks sometime and he always accepts the gifts graciously

and then passes them onto his TA, karen, or foggy

although he'd be lying if he said he didn't keep some of the wine for himself

he has a strict rule against dating within the university, he'd just rather it not be awkward

now,,, a one night stand with a fellow professor maybe? no strings attached? he's not opposed to that

let's just say that tie and office are getting put to good use-

if you're a student and want a piece though, you're gonna have to wait until you've gotten your degree, sorry

he happens to like his one class a semester/year and he'd very much not like to deal with the legal repercussions of getting caught with a student. repercussions of which he is well-versed in

but alright. I mentioned that he sometimes has to cancel class because of daredevil business and so I MUST tackle the big question: does anyone suspect him

yes and no

it starts out simple. sometimes he shows up to lectures with cuts and bruises, some bandaged but fresh, and swears that it's nothing to worry about. you might catch him wearing the rare sweater on those days, even

when he gets questioned about it, he sort of spins some half-baked lie about boxing being his part-time hobby

and then people start noticing that he's never around when there's a daredevil sighting

now, he doesn't always cancel class for daredevil business. sometimes it's because he's got a client to take care of!

but he also loves to invite his students to sit in on the less serious cases so. what gives

one student starts a rumor and then it kind of becomes a joke in class that professor murdock is secretly daredevil

most of them don't take it seriously because how could their sweet, chill, blind professor murdock be a crime-fighting vigilante? it just wouldn't make sense!

and you know what this bitch does? he feeds into it

student: yeah, professor murdock is daredevil. that's a good one

matt: what do you mean?

student: oh, it's just a joke! we know you couldn't be daredevil

matt: but I am

student: hahaha that's funny

matt: no, I really am daredevil. haven't you noticed? same build, never in the same place at the same time, devilishly handsome

student: uh-huh, sure thing professor

matt: is it cause I'm blind? that's pretty insensitive, don't you think? you don't think blind people just read braille all day and get walked across the street, do you? is that what you think?

student: well I mean no but like... I mean.... uh....

matt: nahhh I'm just fucking with you. I am daredevil, though

student: hahaha for sure man, definitely

matt:

he does fly too close to the sun one day though when one of his students tries to debate him in class about it for shits and giggles and accidentally comes up with such a compelling argument for why he could definitely be daredevil that he sort of just nervously laughs and stops making jokes about it for the next four weeks

also keeps a flask in his desk drawer to pour into his mug after a rough night on patrol. but if anyone asks, no the fuck he didn't. mind your business. you have a C in his class

taglist: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @theclassicvinyldragon @marina-and-the-memes

[madschiavelique]

𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐧!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐀𝐔

This au was first talked about on 04/11/2023 with my amazing bestie @sunflowersandsapphires and I thought it could be cute to share these thoughts !! (I'm gonna post several AUs ideas we had and discussed on throughout the months because DAMN the thoughts are delicious)

please note that english is not my first language and that there might be some little grammar mistakes here and there !

word count : 2,2k

We’re all familiar from up close or far of the myth of Medusa, also known as one of the gorgons. People often tend to forget that there were 3 gorgons on this myth : Medusa (of course), but also her sisters Euryale and Stheno. 

To give you a bit of a refresh on the myth of Medusa – just from memories okay, the versions of each myth vary in mythology and this is the one i remember best – she was in love with Poseidon and the god decided at one point to bring her to one of Athena’s temples so that they could make love there, her two sisters helping her getting in. 

The two lovers were taken during the act by Athena herself who cursed the 3 women by making them gorgons, creatures with snake hair (and body too I believe) that could turn to stone anyone that made the mistake of looking at them in the eyes.

So my mind went like “huh, wait a minute you’d have to be able to see to actually turn to stone right ? So what would happen if-” and it all clicked.

I think somehow Athena’s magic on the gorgons would make them prone to often get reached by men that are ill-intended. So who knows, what if reader is one of the gorgon sisters, hum ? 

What if men in the past have tried to come and attack you, what if men in the past successfully killed your two sisters and that you’re now all alone ? What if you lost faith in the possibility of anyone being nice to you, or of anyone not considering you as the monster that you are ?

You lived bitterly, secluded in an area people never walked by in fear of getting attacked by you. You're just so used to people coming to you with the intention of killing you that you expect everything to be a threat. You know better than to be afraid, your powers serve you well enough that you don't have to live in fear.

Until one day, Matt gets lost. He’s never passed through that area before, and the surroundings are so different to his sensitivity. There’s a certain presence, an aura that makes his senses blurry as he walks hesitantly.

Of course, you notice his presence. You’re used to living underground, and the vibrations his footsteps and his stick send through the earth are enough for you to come to the surface. You get out, ready to fight, ready to stare, ready to kill.

He hears you, turning around and simply asking “Hello ?”

But ironically, you’re the one to freeze this time : he is looking in the void, and the usual signs of petrification are not lining up on his body. You frown, and the gut wrenching feeling of fear takes you as much as the weight lifting sensation of relief.

Maybe your powers aren’t working anymore, maybe this is your last moments of torment, maybe you will join your sisters in Hell, maybe you’ll die and get humiliated once more. 

But maybe you’re finally free from your curse, maybe only the snakes remain on your head but you can’t turn anyone to statues anymore : maybe you can finally get out of this situation where you’re all alone.

You just want to make sure though, so you step forward a bit, not entirely in case he tries to attack you by surprise, and ask “Why have you come here ?”

He tilts his head towards the sound of your voice, a curious gleam passing his eyes as his eyes won’t settle on you.

“I’m lost.” he answers.

Now you scoff, thinking it’s another trick to make you fall. You’ve had wise men trying to kill you in the past, using their wits to trap you in enigmas or other stupidities that would bring your downfall. 

“I don’t fall for tricks and traps,” you say as you step closer to him.

He doesn’t seem to step back, nor does he seem afraid, not in the slightest. You tilt your head a bit until your eyes bore into his, making sure your gaze is aligned with his own.

He frowns, tilting his own head to the side, “Tricks and traps ?”

Your eyes go wide and your shoulders fall as the realisation hits you : he’s blind.

The fear dissipates, but gives its place to disappointment. Of course your curse is not lifted, of course the possibility of you going back to a semi-normal life is purely impossible. You step back, looking at him as if discovering him for a second time.

“You’re not here to kill me ?” you question as you cross your arms over your chest.

He’s the one to scoff now, placing both of his hands on his stick.

“Kill you ? Why would I do such a thing ?”

There’s genuine confusion in his tone, but you’re not ready to let your guard down about all of this.

“Don’t play ignorant, you know why.”

“I assure you I don’t.” he answers. 

Now you’re both confused.

You are mostly because it’s the first time your powers don’t act on someone, as well as the first time someone isn’t here to kill you nor is aware of your existence.

As for him, he’d just arrived here because he had lost his way, and now here he was in front of a woman that was claiming he was here to kill her. So who could she be that people came so often here with that purpose only ? 

There was something different about you, your smell indicated a strong presence of wet stone, but of something much different. Something that smelled like warm sand, like diluted metal, like scales of snakes. He wondered if perhaps you had one on you, or if the area had plenty of them he had to beware of.

You couldn’t tell if he knew of the legends, for who knows : maybe your sister’s tale had gone forgotten. If he was aware of your story however, he looked like someone pretty calm about it, which made the word ‘unusual’ turn into a euphemism for your situation.

“You’re simply lost ?” you end up interrogating.

“I never used this passageway before,” he conceded, “I wanted to use it as a shortcut, but I’ve never gone this far away from the places I know by heart.”

You continued looking at him. He was well built, enough that his physique could be considered as one of the many heroes that had tried harming you. Yet the more you looked at him, the less the thought of him being here to cause you pain and kill you faded. He only had a bag, and his walking stick. 

Your silence perplexed him.

“Why would people want to kill you ?” he asked again, pulling you back from your reverie.

The question made you feel weird, because it seemed like such an evidence to you that seeing an alternative to this interrogation seemed impossible on the spot. Why would they not want to kill you ? They had plenty of reasons anyway.

“Doesn’t matter,” you answered on the spot as this being somehow the only thing your could provide as an answer.

“I think it does,” he interjected, and your parted your lips.

In all these years of being a gorgon, never had your had much of a conversation like so. He surely didn’t care about your life, and maybe was this another ruse to lure you in and make you easier to kill.

Guessing how answering these questions wasn’t one of your fortes, he sighed.

“Could you help me find my way back, please ?”

You’re hesitant on the case of his demand. Every man before him had wronged you, had turned against you to try and bring some glory to their pathetically short lives while you remained eternal and undefeated. 

What if it was another trick by Athena ? What if this was her final resort to bring glory to humans ?

And in any case, men had taken away your sisters, how could you not be angry at them and not wish to help them ? 

But this one… He seemed kind, disinterested in any kind of glory in any shape or form, just a blind man lost in your woods.

Not daring to be closer to him or even touching him in case this could ease your way into death, you grabbed the foot of his stick and rose back up.

“Hold on to it,” you mumbled as you started walking towards the next path.

You turned a second to him, a grin plastered on his face. Not a vicious one, to your relief, but a grateful smile.

“Why’s a lady like you all by herself on this desertic passage ?” he questioned, walking at your pace as he tried to make sure by waving his arm in front of him that he wouldn’t be hitting anything.

You weren’t here to make friends with men, but you hadn’t talked to anyone in a while. The sight of him having so much trouble directing himself because of your gauche handling of his stick sent you a wave of pity. You dropped the wood, and he stopped, surprised.

“Already there ?” he asked in surprise.

But you came to him, taking his hand and have it circle your arm so that he could still use his stick.

“Thank you,” he softly smiled as you both started walking again, your mind trying to chase away the way his arm against yours felt. “So, why are you all alone in here ?”

“Because bad men chased me until there was no place other than there for me to live,” which wasn’t far off the mark.

“Exiled ?” he interrogated.

“Feared.” you breathed.

“How could you be feared ?” the question rang wrong to him.

“How could I not,” you almost laugh as your free hand comes to caress the neck of a snake.

“I don’t find you terrifying,” his lips came to form an inverted smile as he rose his eyebrows.

“It’s because you are safe from my unwanted danger.” 

“Am I holding the hand of the most dangerous person to ever be ?” he laughed, the lack of seriousness in his tone making the situation all the more ironic for you.

“You just might,” you answered, a bit less tense than you were seconds ago.

“Well, it pleases me,” he admitted and you stiffened.

Trying to play it cool and not get nervous that this could be your last conversation ever, you asked : 

“To be in danger ?”

His head turned to yours, his gaze still lost somewhere you could never be in.

“To be in good company.”

Your walk with him came to an end, and Matt had by now remembered the way to get to the path. He wished you goodbyes, and you came back to your cave thinking how much of a strange situation it had been. 

He hadn’t tried to kill you on the way, but maybe had an acolyte of some sort of his placed a trap in your cave. You meticulously made your way back to your place, but nothing different was to be found.

What an odd encounter.

And thus he came a second time to you.

“I’ve lost my way again,” he had explained.

“Have you got the memory of a goldfish ?”

But nevertheless, you had accompanied him back again, and had chatted again, and waved goodbyes again.

But still, he kept getting lost, and kept coming back to you for your guidance. 

You had the full conviction by now that he had the worst sense of orientation a man could have ever gotten.

And he had the full conviction that you were not a monster, so he pretended to not know his way although he now knew it by heart just to have an excuse to meet you again and talk to you.

“Seems like I really can’t remember my way anymore.”

“Matt, you always come to me with the exact same path, you know that right-”

“Really can’t remember it anymore, such a shame, looks like you’ll once again have to accompany me.

“It’s the second time you’ve come to see me today.”

Of course he tries to play it off and placing this on his atrocious sense of orientation, but there are some moments where he accidentally lets the cover slip.

“It’s near a huge rock.” you explain again.

“You mean the one shaped like a heart that is about 300 steps from here ?”

“Yes exact- wait a minute, if you know the placement so well, how come you always get lost ?”

“...”

“...?”

“Amnesia has taken me, what were we talking about ?”

“Matt you’ve gotten ‘amnesia’ three times this week. You need to speak to someone about that.

“You shouldn’t worry. Actually I feel like I have most of my sense in your presence lately, your company cures me of my own obliviousness-” he says as he trips over a rock immediately.

And you’re quite oblivious to this, but also the more you understand about this, the least do you complain about it. 

Maybe loneliness started slipping away from you after all.

(I could continue on this au but I have WAY too many others in mind that I want to put out there !!! I'd love to see any of the thoughts you'd have on this au besties <33)

[savemefromanepicoftimewasted]

DD:BA has reignited my love for writing and while I know I’m going to write both fics. I want to know which one you want to read first!

Also. As always if you’d like to be tagged reply to this post, or shoot me an ask!

[somethingblu3]

i can't stop thinking about treason. i need you to think about CIA Agent Matt Murdock here for a second...

[donottouchredbutton]

this might be the weirdest idea i’ve ever had but hear me out: life is strange au but with college!matt murdock

[sgt-morgan]

Christmas reblog!

Jingle Bells 🎄

Summary: a very DD Christmas. Robin and Matt enjoy their family.

Warnings: AFAB and Female identifying reader. Catholic iconography. Other than that? A wholesome ass Christmas fic.

A/N: Merry Chrysler! Happy Hondadays! Here’s some fluff or whatever.

Daredevil Masterlist

Robin is sure of very little, but she is sure of this. If there was ever a time of year that she could describe as Matt’s favorite, it was Christmas. Now one would think that Christmas might not be such a merry time for a blind man with no parents. Talks of Family and ice everywhere really weren’t his favorite things. However, there was something so deeply satisfying and nostalgic in the Christmas season he couldn’t bring himself to hate. The smell of cinnamon, the sound of carols, people doing good things for no reason. It was magical and totally pure. So when you had a baby, oh boy were you so sure his love of Christmas would increase tenfold, and you were absolutely correct.

When Jackie was very little, it didn’t fully get to be the Christmas he was building to. Echoes of it were there, the ornament he bought every year, her tiny hand print embedded in it with the year written in braille so you could both look back at how little she was and how she had grown. There was midnight mass, reading the night before Christmas, and setting out cookies and milk for Santa, he was just biding his time till she was able to fully appreciate and participate in all Christmas had to offer, and now that she was four? Well, go time had commenced.

December first, the elf arrived. A jovial little letter, clearly typed by foggy, proclaiming that this was her Elf Sparkles. Sparkles had come for December to report back to Santa about her behavior, and boy was she an exciting little elf. Sparkles started simple, stealing her toys to read a book, making a super long straw to share her hot chocolate, making snow angels out of flour. It delighted Jackie every morning to see where the little elf had run off too and what mess she created, and you loved it a bit as well, Matt never telling you where the little guy was gonna end up. Then it got more complex, the most complex of the pranks coming on the 22nd of December, when you woke to a Polaroid of Spider man and Daredevil Gift wrapping YOUR APARTMENT with SPARKLES. Your house looked as if Santa’s bag barfed all over your home. Lampshades, shelves, the fridge, your favorite mug. Nothing was spared from Sparkles’ wrapping rampage.

“Mathew, the kitchen cabinets!” You chuckled, your whole kitchen was decorated in avengers and Spiderman themed wrapping paper, every cabinet covered by the festive paper. Your daughter was thrilled, laughing hysterically at the colorful paper strewn about the house.

“Naughty elf! Naughty spidey!” She giggled, petting affectionately at the cabinets, and opening them in delight to find that even her granola bars had been gift wrapped.

Matt grinned in absolute joy. So happy it was causing his girls so much mirth. This was what he wanted, he wanted a family to make these memories with, something fun and exciting and screaming of holiday joy. He always wanted these moments for himself, and now he gets to have them with his baby girl and his crazy wife.

No matter what holiday though, Robin is still Robin. (And by that we mean a menace.) Matt came home from work one day to a lot more giggling than usual, and at Christmas, this almost always meant shenanigans from his two most lovely of girls.

“Uh oh, it sounds too silly in here.” He smile, taking off his coat and resting his cane and briefcase by the door.

“No Dada, we’re not too silly, we’re just silly enough.” Your little girl giggled and his heart swelled.

“Just silly enough? What does that mean?” He laughed, scooping up the giggling girl and making his way to scoop you up from where you were rested against the arm of your couch.

“Why nothing Batdad, we were just singing a Christmas song!” You grinned and Matt rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah? And what song was that Robin?” He replies giving you a quick peck on the lips as you turned your attention to his tiny baby clone who was squirming in anticipation like a balloon about to bust.

“I’ll sing it!” She squealed, wrapping her arms around Matt’s Neck as if her excitement needed to be expressed in violent affection.

“Take it away bat baby!” You laughed and then your tiny daughter, love of Matt’s life, proceeded to bust his ear drums.

“DASHING THROUGH THE SNOOOOW IN A ONE HORSE OPEN SLEEEEEIGH JOKER’S ON THE GOOOO LAUGHING ALL THE WAAAAY! BELLS ON PENGUINS RING MAKE RIDDLER WANNA FIIIIGHT TWO FACE FLIPS A COIN AND SINGS THIS SONG TONIGHT! OHHHHH! JINGLE BELLS! BATMAN SMELLS! ROBIN LAYED AN EGG! BATMOBILE LOST A WHEEL AND THE JOKER DID BALLEEEEEEEEET!” When she had finished you cheered and clapped, cackling at the shocked look on Matt’s face with a grin. Matt smiled through bleeding eardrums and clapped as well, cradling his little family in his arms and then promptly releasing his little girl when she was ready to run off again.

“Batman smells? Really Robin?” Matt shook his head. “My ears are still ringing.” You laughed at that, your daughter was certainly no musical ingénue, she was more like a musical jet engine.

“I like the ballet bit. Never heard that one before!” You laughed throwing your arms around Matt’s neck and smacking a kiss on his cheek as you turned to watch your four year old traipse around the house in a tutu and mismatched Christmas socks. The picture of childish dishevelment.

“She certainly takes after her mother in the creativity department.” Matt laughed, wrapping you up in his arms. “I hope you sent a video to Foggy, he’s been dying for new material to show off his Goddaughter.” Matt mumbled into your hair while listening to the little thumps of his daughters tiny feet as she ran about the apartment. Her childish scent was tinged with sweat, and he could feel the radiating heat of her flushed skin as she continued to dance and sing about the house. He grinned, she would sleep easy to tonight, visions of sugarplums dancing in her head. That’s good, because tomorrow would be a late night.

Christmas Eve always starts with cookie decorating with the Godparents. Karen and Foggy (and by extension a now very pregnant Marcy and a very testy Frank Castle.) pile into your home shaking off snow, and baring various Christmas gifts and well wishes. Karen and Marcy help you bake off cookies, and the boys all supervise getting your very festive Chinese takeout. Once the cookies are cooled and bellies are full of lo mein and sweet and sour chicken, the decorating can begin.

“I hear a lot of giggling over in that corner, Robin? Foggy? Care to share with the class?” Karen giggles, helping Jackie eat a chocolate button that was never going to make it on that poorly decorated Snowman cookie to be honest.

“Why Karen, I’m just uh-“ you start with a grin and Matt cuts you off instantly.

“That’s a lie. No use continuing.” He giggles, and you stick your younger out, knowing damn well that his stupid bat sonar or whatever would tell him you’d done it.

“Fine, I was flexing my artistic muscle with Fogward here, and I made a little Snow Devil.” You held up a crudely decorated snowman, donned in red, with two red Christmas bulb shaped sprinkles for horns, and everyone laughs. It looked like somebody murdered an alien, the red icing sliding off the cookie in gloopy dollops of sugar. “Hey! Don’t laugh! I worked really hard on him.” You pout.

“Oh god,” Foggy wheezes, clutching Franks shaking shoulders. “It looks like a muppet!” That sends everyone into another fit of laughter, and you roll your eyes.

“Don’t pout Robin it’s- cute?” Karen squeaks and you sink into your chair a bit further.

“Awe,” Matt chuckles, stroking your hair and placing a kiss to your head. “Don’t worry baby, I think it looks great.” He smiled, your daughter nods, and let’s your hair affectionately, and you sat up a bit straighter, setting back to work until you realized-

“WAIT! MATT YOU ASSHOLE! YOU’RE BLI-“ he cute you off with a kiss and you huff, going back to decorating cookies. He better be glad he’s cute.

After the cookies, Jackie opens presents from her Godparents and one from Mommy and Daddy. Your present normally being a stuffed animal and matching Christmas Jammies.

“Of course!” Karen cackles as Jackie opens what has to be the pjs.

“Oh they’re awesome! I want a pair!” Foggy laughs, grabbing Matt’s pj gift and tossing them at him.

“Oh Red, these are just top notch.” Frank laughs when Matt unwraps his set.

“What are they?” Matt laughs. The material is soft, it’ll be perfectly warm and comfortable, so that at least is nice. He knew they had to look ridiculous though, the others were laughing too hard.

“Holy Mistletoe Batman! You’re on PJ’s!” You laugh. Yes, you had bought your family Batman themed pajamas. The pajamas had Batman putting the Star on top of the tree, while all the Robins supervised. The arms and pants were all in black and red buffalo plaid. Matt groaned when Foggy finally caught his breath and described them. these had to be a joke. “Suck it up Batman! It was either this or Spiderman, there were no Daredevil options because it’s a holy day, and nobody is wearing devil themed Santa jammies. Be glad I was merciful.”

Once all the gifts were opened, Jackie was put down for a nap and the adults watched a Christmas movie, and drank until they had to split ways for their own various Christmas duties. Then they woke Jackie and got ready to leave.

Midnight Mass was a must in the Murdock household. Now, Robin holds no qualm with Jesus, whatever her beliefs on faith, she goes to Mass for Matt, and she goes because Maggie only seldomly gets to see her one and only Granddaughter, and Christmas Mass is one of her favorites.

So your little family, at 10pm, piles into a pew, Matt dressed respectably in a suit and tie, and you and little Robin in your matching Batman holiday pjs. (Because Crime doesn’t take time off for the holidays Mathew, and if she’s just gonna sleep through the back half. There is no reason she shouldn’t be in PJs. Besides, Maggie thinks they’re cute, and I wanted her to see them ok?) Matt sits there, helping a droopy eyed Jackie hold a candle, and he thinks about how different his life is now and he’s just… grateful. In years past Matt was sat here alone, clutching his cane and lighting candles and singing o come o come Emanuel begging not just for the coming of Christ, but for a coming of… something more than this. Something to break up the pity from the family behind him wondering what he would be doing alone on Christmas, from the bitter cold of an empty apartment, an empty bed. And now he had it, and as little Jackie fell asleep on his shoulder while they sang Abide with Me, his gratitude was renewed and he clutched his family just that much tighter as the choir sang.

“When other helpers fail, and comforts flee. Help of Helpless O abide with me.”

The next Morning, Matt is up before the rest of his little family. His energy is high, and he has the biggest smile on his face. Soon, his living room would be loud noise and new toys, but for now he was enjoying the greatest gift of all. His Family, safe and content, sleeping soundly in his home. He makes a cup of coffee for each of you, and starts the cinnamon rolls you insist are a Christmas necessity. Once they’re in, he goes to your shared bedroom perches himself on his side of the bed, and presses a kiss to your head.

“Merry Christmas.” He mumbled into your bed head, stroking a soothing hand down your spine. You groan and stretch, shuffling your head into his lap.

“Good morning Devil man, Merry Christmas.” You sigh, basking in the warmth of your always hot husband. “I’m starting the countdown DD, we gonna have a Christmas crazed kiddo here any minute now. 3-2-“

“Mommy! Daddy! SANTA!” A squealing ball of energy crashed onto your bed, and Matt had just enough time to save the coffee.

“Man, you sure you don’t have super senses?” He grumbled gathering his little girl to his chest while she squealed and tried to break free of him.

“No, but she always wakes up about thirty minutes after you do. Like clockwork.” You grumble, “Alright! Time to open up gifts! RAH!” You roar, springing up from bed and snatching a still giggling Jackie from her father whose expression told you that right now, even if you had killed a man, he would still believe you had hung the moon.

The next hour is a flurry of wrapping paper, coffee, cinnamon rolls, and batteries. Matt wouldn’t have it any other way. Each new gift ramped Jackie up further, and he loved every minute of her pure and childish excitement that made her so wonderful. Her heartbeat was steady and strong, each exciting new thing would send it racing. She was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Dad! Look! I got a Malibu Barbie! I never even wrote that down! I didn’t tell you or mommy!? How did Santa know!?” She squealed, launching herself at Matt so he could open it.

“I don’t know baby! Santa is just magical!” He smirked and you rolled your eyes, knowing damn well he used his freaky super senses picking her up from daycare to overhear her talking to her friend about wanting one on the playground.

Next we’re your gifts, and Matt was so excited to hear you open yours he could hardly sit still.

“Jeez Bman, you look like you’re ready to take a bite out of crime. Cool it!” You giggled, kissing Matt softly on the nose and cupping his face lovingly.

“Go on Robin! Open it!” He groaned, thrusting your gift into your hands ceremoniously.

You chuckle, and open the box to find a beautiful charm bracelet. The charms being, a boxing glove, a wine bottle, a baby bottle, a peach, a coffee cup, a gavel, and a tiny Batman symbol. You tear up at the eclectic little mix of Charms, and chuckle at the wonderful memories the bring. It’s so sweet, every little thing was so thoughtful even your stupid inside jokes had made the cut. It made you love your husband even more.

“Oh Matt,” you sigh, throwing your arms around him. He buries his face in your shoulder with no hesitation, enjoying the sensation of your love and joy at his little gift. “You even got a charm that matches that peachy ass of yours.” He can feel your shit eating grin from a mile away, and he scoffs, ruffling your hair and pulling you into a sweet kiss.

“Merry Christmas Robin, yah filthy animal.”

Soon, all the gifts were opened. All the paper scattered around the house, the sugar rush had ended, and now on a calm white Christmas morning, Matt was sitting on the couch, with Jackie curled up in his lap where her little sugar crashed body was sleeping soundly. You were sat on the ground, putting batteries in a toy and sipping on egg nog, and he was the most content he’d ever been in his life.

“Oh! Matt! I almost forgot!” You gasped suddenly springing up from your spot on the floor and rushing into your room to grab something. “One last little gift babe!”

Matt beamed and accepted the gift with a grin, kissing you softly in thanks. You loved when he was like this, all soft and sentimental, he was like a big giant Daredevil shaped teddy bear. You bit your nails as he opened the gift, carefully feeling at the edges, his still tired brain and senses not picking up on what he was holding at first. Then he froze, ah, there it is.

“Merry Christmas Batman, you’re gonna be a dad again.”

Tags: @pbeckn26

[mqonlighting]

hear me out: civilian deadpool au except he just keeps getting arrested for the STRANGEST THINGS (illegal ownership of a chicken? someone just dumped an egg on his street? it hatches when he’s trying to cook it for breakfast? he RAISED IT?) and matt murdock is his exhausted lawyer who has to keep telling him to shut up in the interrogation room.

does he ever actually go to jail? no, maybe probation, maybe a fine. but arrested? half sure every cop in the city is just sick of hearing about his life. every juror thinks he’s just morbidly unlucky and a tiny bit moronic.

and he is.

detective: (sigh) so you have a chicken?

wade: oh, yeah, yolko ono! she’s my pride and joy, i had a mug and a mousepad printed- *pulling out wallet pictures*

matt: wade. no.

wade: i could bring her over if you want-

matt: WADE.

one time matt has to spring wade for grand theft auto of the nice old lady he lives next doors to. the automobile he supposedly stole? a select elevated motorized wheelchair.

wade: she LENT me the chair.

detective: and how’d she do that?

wade: i broke into her backyard because i heard a thump and i thought she fell over.

matt: jesus—

wade: so she didn’t fall over. apparently it was a twig that fell on an ice chest. but she was there, and she was yelling ‘jazzy! jazzy!’ and i was wondering why she was telling me to grab her jazzy, but i wasn’t about to turn down a free jazzy. so i walk over to it, i turn it on, i hop on, i say thank you to the kind old lady, and i wheel it out of there.

matt: goddamn it, wade—

detective: you stole a permobil.

wade: pardon?

detective: the wheelchair was a permobil.

wade: she said it was a jazzy!

detective: …

detective: jazzy is her HUSBAND.

wade: …

detective: …

matt: i give up.

and the nail in everyone’s coffin? when the precinct brings in wade’s fucking kidnap victim.

peter: kidnap? me?

detective: were you or were you not kidnapped by wade wilson and driven to the middle of nowhere?

peter: listen, man, farthest wade ever drove me was to a gamestop in manhattan from queens. i don’t drive. and then i ask if we can hit a seven eleven, since i really wanted a bag of chips. but then i fall asleep in the passenger seat on the way there. and when i wake up, i’m home - he didn’t buy me the bag of chips, though.

detective: … and when state troopers spotted his car in philadelphia? with someone passed out inside?

peter: we were in philly? and he didn’t wake me up?

detective: do you seriously mean to tell me you were completely passed out for a two hour and ten minute drive?

peter: i’m a college student with rent due in a month and a new paper due every time i breathe. and wade is an idiot who doesn’t know left from right, boots up waze, says his goodbyes to the universe, and starts driving. i think there’s your case.

detective: …

detective: damn it.

[cellophaine]

Chapter I: En Avant

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: Fluff.

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: The first chapter is finally here!! I'm very excited to bring this new series to you. It's what I've been thinking about for a few months now. It came to me while I was still working on A Languor Spell, and now I can give it my full attention. Thank you for your patience! I hope you will enjoy the first chapter!

P/S: This is my first time writing in present tense, so if there's any mistake please let me know so I can fix it!

Disclaimer: I'm not a professional ballet dancer. I'm an adult beginner, and I've been taking classes consistently for over a year now. I just want to say that the series isn't written with the experience of a professional ballerina, but with my love for the art and the extensive research that I've done and will continue to do. I don't choose to write the Reader as a ballerina because of the aesthetic, but because I think there are so many things to explore in the original story that I've come up with, with the Reader being in the industry.

GIF Source: @/petertingle-yipyip

There has always been an emptiness residing within the frame of your body. In the absence of your old life, it has grown expeditiously. It carves into your body and makes a home in the forefront of your mind. On worse days, you feel as if anyone can see at first glance, how incomplete of a person you are. On better days, like today, you can hide it well, even from your closest friend. But right now, sitting in a dimly lit bar across from the friend you have known since you moved to this city at 18, you feel the person you're supposed to be has taken your anatomy apart. You're disembodied, scattered, and fractional.

Jo notices your silence and reaches over the table, laying her hand atop yours.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

Jo’s proposal. How can you not think about it? It has never left your mind ever since she mentioned it. Her newly acquired gym could be a place for you to get back to dancing in complete privacy. And you won’t have to pay a dime.

“I spruced up the place a little bit and will be adding more equipment. I can get whatever you need so it can be a proper space for you to practice.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Jo casts a sympathetic look at you, her voice careful.

“How’s your foot?”

You flex and point the right foot under the table, recalling the phantom pain that was your consistent companion for the most part of last year.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Are you still seeing Amy?”

“Of course. She’d bite my head off if I missed our appointment.”

You share a knowing chuckle, knowing Amy's personality. You know her through Jo, and they dated briefly in college. The two stayed friends afterward. After leaving Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre, your physical health was left to your own management. Your gaps of knowledge were filled in by Amy, a physical therapist who stepped in and offered her help voluntarily when Jo mentioned your situation. You still meet biweekly at her practice in Harlem, and the three of you hang out from time to time.

“Come to my gym.”

She hastily continues once she sees the decline perches on your pressed lips.

“It’s free.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. You’ll have to get a barre, and the flooring might not be suitable–“

“I don’t care about the cost. I just want to do this for you. Let someone do a nice thing for you every once in a while.”

You meet her eyes, resisting her act of kindness with silence. You know how to pick your battles, and this is the one you have lost from the start, judging by Jo's stern gaze. You sigh.

“I’ll think about it.”

A victory smile graces her lips.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Jo leans into the table, her hand reaching for yours.

“I want to see you dance on the stage again. You’re a beautiful ballerina, and I know this is not the end for you.”

You know she means well, but her words feel like claws, sinking their sharp ends into your heart. You haven't danced since the injury, and a part of you knows that you might never dance as well as you once did. The best version of you had lived that life to its fullest potential, the life of endless classes and rehearsals, soldout shows, ending many nights and seasons to the deafening cheers from the audience. Your current self is only a shadow, living a partial existence and mourning the past as time passes and your grasp on it weakens.

You want the endless optimism Jo seems to possess. She’s always so assertive in everything she does. From her university days pursuing a bachelor's degree in sports science to her boxing competition days to buying a gym, she has a sense of self-assurance that carries her throughout the years you've known her ever since you became roommates when you first moved to New York. And you admire that about her endlessly. Her goals might vary, but her passion for them never wavers. Her faith in you seems to share the same sentiment.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, hoping your face doesn't betray your true thoughts. Jo squeezes your hand and lets go. She checks her wristwatch, and with a silent glance, you understand that she has to leave. Jo meets you as you stand up from your side of the booth, drawing you into a crushing hug.

“Will you be okay here?”

She pulls back. You smile and pat her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. Just want to finish my drink.”

She takes a step backward as she waves.

“Good luck tomorrow!”

You raise your hand in response and watch her tall and brawny frame vanish through the door. You drop your arm, but you don't sit down. Taking a discreet glance at the bar, your heart rate spikes ever so slightly at the sight of the stranger you noticed earlier when you bought the drinks.

As you waited for your drinks, he came in and settled for a spot at the bar. The lady whose name you learned earlier, Josie, greeted him, asking where his friends were, so you assumed he was a regular. He was good-looking, you admitted before finding yourself staring at him. You averted your gaze, but couldn't help taking in other details. The folded cane rested on the bar top as Josie slid a glass of amber liquid in front of him. The scarred knuckles as he brought it to his lush lips. The suit was pristine for the most part except for the minimal wrinkles from the day's wear and the loosened tie. The red-tinted glasses perched on his pronounced nose, under the tousled sweep of dark hair. The soft smile brightened his handsome face as the other bartender told him something, which you had to tear your eyes away from when Josie placed the drinks in front of you. You thanked her and headed back to your table, feeling a touch of disappointment in your throat.

There is no denying that you want to approach him. But your nerves intervene with all the questions. What if he rejected you? What if he thought you were a creep for approaching him? What if he just wanted to be left alone? He has been sitting by the bar by himself ever since he came in, you notice. You'd ask if you could join him, and possibly buy him a drink if he was up for it. If he said no, that'd be fine. You would respect his wish and leave him alone. You have a feeling you'd regret it if you didn't at least try.

You gulp down your drink for a little liquid courage and make your way over to the bar. Your heart rate accelerates the closer you get to him, but you are determined to get over the little hurdle. You stop within a conversational distance and use your best composed voice.

“Hi, may I join you?”

He turns in his seat and gives you a friendly smile.

“Of course not. Please do.”

The high chair is a comfortable and respectful distance away from his, but still close enough for a private conversation. The stranger has angled his body toward you, and his openness eases the knot in your stomach. At this distance, you can see that he is even more handsome up close. Heat seeps into your cheeks at the full comprehension of his handsomeness up close. The neon signs around help shape the shadows and highlights that are already there in his features. The strong jawline and defined nose blend in harmony with the soft hair and luscious lips. You find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from his moving lips, and only a brief moment later you realize he has asked for your name.

You tell him and laugh nervously, blaming the lively ambience around you. He humours you with a chuckle of his own and reciprocates.

"Matt. Nice to meet you."

“Nice to meet you.”

He reaches out with a hand, and you grab it. Your heart beats a little faster at the feel of his hand, warm and a little rough. You pull away first, conscious of the coldness of your hand. You eye his almost empty glass.

“Would you like another drink?”

“If that makes you stay with me for the rest of the evening, I’d love one.”

Charming. You allow an amused and breathy chuckle to escape, and order another fill of your drinks. When Josie turns away to make them, Matt asks.

“What are we celebrating tonight?”

You think about it for a moment.

“This is not really a celebration since I haven’t gotten the job yet.”

“When is the interview?”

“It's … tomorrow.”

His brows raise above the glasses.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little bit. It’s been a while since my last normal job.”

“What were you doing before?”

Josie puts down the drinks in front of you.

“I’m a– I was a ballerina.”

“Was?”

You run a finger over the cool and smooth edge of the glass, taking a moment to tell a stranger about one of your worst shame.

“I haven’t danced professionally in over a year."

“May I ask why?"

The edge of his lips settles into a neutral line. No pity, just a willingness to listen. It is exactly what you need.

“Yes, but it's just … complicated.”

“How so?”

The old life that you once lived feels so out of your grasp now. Besides the occasional flareups, most mornings, you get up with minimal or no degree of soreness or pain, and you fear that signals the end of your life as a ballerina.

Retirement in your late twenties wasn't something you thought of when you were 18, fresh out of high school with an offer letter from Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre. Moving from a small, sylvan town to a big, lively city like New York was a dream come true. You got to live out the life your younger self used to dream about. How wonderful it was. Dancing on the big stage before the bright stage lights in front of the audience. The early classes, late stage calls, costume fittings, and demanding rehearsals leading up to the shows were all worth it. Because when you got to dance, it was just you and the music. Your body knew the techniques, learned the steps and how to master them. You bent music with your carefully crafted movements and turned the piece into your own interpretation. You worked hard on your craft and artistic abilities, and you thought that it paid off with your promotion from corps de ballet to the first soloist assembly after six years.

But for Matt's sake, you don't go into any of that.

“Well … being a principal dancer in my old company is a great honour since we're– they're much smaller than the American Ballet Theatre, New York City Ballet, etc … There were, and still are, only two dancers in that role. They were Christine and Guilherme. Christine'd been with the company since the early days. Many people came to the shows to see her dance. She and Guilherme brought in so many loyal audiences and sponsors over the years. So you can imagine what a big deal it was when Christine decided to retire."

He nods, his understanding and inclination to follow the story are apparent.

"Roger, the artistic director, wanted to appoint a first soloist, which is just a step below principal, to take over in her place. I was a soloist, and I was Christine's understudy for a few years until her retirement. I performed when she couldn't, when she needed to reserve her strength for important shows, on top of the roles I had to prepare and perform in those productions. So I thought it was my opportunity to get that promotion, you know? I always brought my best to work, and I pushed myself even harder that season to prove that I have what it takes to be a principal dancer. I was in and out of classes, rehearsals, and performances every day for over three months. On the days we had two shows a day, oftentimes I'd have to perform in both so Christine could have a break."

Matt listens intently, following your words with an attentiveness that you find endearing.

“In the final week of Sleeping Beauty, I had this pain along my heel. But I ignored it and pushed through out of fear that they would dismiss me. At that point, they already had a favourite. One of the directors even told me that I should quit while I was ahead and that I should be happy staying as a soloist."

You swallow the lump in your throat and go on.

"I couldn't take my bow that night, because as soon as my part was done and I went behind the stage, I passed out. It turned out I got an Achilles rupture.

“I had the surgery and was in a boot for a while. I was so desperate to show them my dedication and how good I was by going back to the studio just the day after they allowed me to go without the boot. And I made the injury worse. I was admitted for a partial rupture a week later.”

You thought you could do it. Bearing and hiding the pain so you would stand out as the best selection for the new principal dancer. Yet, all of that hard work didn’t matter in the end. It never mattered the moment Claudia Mavis signed a contract with Lady Liberty.

“In the hospital, Roger told me that he decided to promote Claudia, even though by that point she had been with the company for only one season. Then, I found out that Claudia left her previous company because they wouldn’t promote her. But here's the funniest part. After class one day, Claudia told me that they offered her a new contract two weeks before my accident. So I never had the chance in the first place."

You chuckle bitterly, remembering the tightness of your chest when you found out.

"They announced Christine's replacement at the last show of the season. Roger expected me to continue my duties as a soloist and an understudy for Claudia. But I just … couldn't do it. So I quit.”

“I’m sure when you come back to it, you will still be amazing.”

You don't even try to hide the disbelieving and playful scoff that escapes.

“You're just flattering me.”

There's not a trace of that cocky confidence of a man who thinks he just scores big with a woman because of a throwaway, vague statement he thinks will please her.

“I mean it. I enjoy music and dance performances in a way most can’t. When I really pay attention, I can hear … movements. The rhythm of someone’s feet striking the ground in time with the music when done right is beautiful. The way you talk about ballet shows me how much you truly care for the art. Like you live and breathe it.”

You tug on your bottom lip with your teeth in quiet contemplation before answering him.

“I did. It was a big part of my life.”

“It still can be.”

You let out a noncommittal hum.

"We'll see."

You took sips of your respective drinks, allowing the moment to reset itself. But Matt isn't quite done with the questions. You give him the go-ahead.

"Why ballet?"

“I just love the duality of it. We're supposed to look graceful and effortless while our blisters have blisters, our toes are bleeding, our legs are cramping. We have to dance through all of that and much worse. I like the pain sometimes. It means that I’m doing it right.”

“I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”

The quip takes you by surprise, but you quickly recover.

"Huh. I usually don't reveal that information to anyone until I'm ready to sleep with them."

Matt's tongue licks at his bottom lip, amused by your response.

"Maybe we are just that compatible."

Maybe it is the alcohol that makes you a little lightheaded, but the conversation has taken on a flirty turn, and you lean into each other's space, sharing a bashful, quiet laugh.

The person who took the seat next to yours when you were in the middle of your story bumps into you from behind, pushing you further into Matt's space. They apologize, and you tell them it's fine. The bar top has grown a little more crowded with new visitors. You think about what you could do to make some space when Matt reaches out and pulls your chair closer, so close that your knees touch. The contact is minimal, yet insistent, and you can't help the heat that races to your skin and the wild rhythms of your heart. Even your internal self admits that was the hottest thing Matt has done so far.

You clear your thoughts, focusing on the man sitting so much closer to you now.

“I'm so sorry. I feel like I've been talking about myself for the past hour.”

“No, don't stop. I like it. You have a beautiful voice.”

If he kept this going, you would need to check yourself for a fever. You clear your throat.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer. My partners and I have our own practice here in Hell's Kitchen.”

“Wow, that's amazing. What do you specialize in?”

“A little bit of everything. We started out representing people who can’t afford the legal service. Pro bono work basically. We still do that, but we have been getting more clients who can pay for our services.”

“Hm. It makes perfect sense. I can see that about you. The good guy.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“You know the right questions to ask. You got me talking about myself for … way too long. And your face …”

You trail off. Almost two drinks have worked their magic on your unabashed honesty.

“My face?”

His plush lips lift in a curious smile.

“Yeah, your face. You made me feel … safe and welcome so I could tell my story. Your face stayed neutral when I went on and on about it. No pity or judgment. You looked like you really cared about me, or my case.”

“I do care about you. And for the record, I appreciate every detail you gave me.”

You know that he might say this just to please you, but his earnestness says otherwise.

“Thank you. I needed that. Not many people care about me, especially after my fallout with the company.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It never was.”

Matt puts a hand on yours on the bar top. You stared at his scarred knuckles, your heart beating along the seam of your body with a slight increase in rhythm. Your hand itched to weave itself into his, to lay flat against the warmth of his palm. As if your body has thrown caution to the wind and wants to do just exactly what it wants to, your pointer finger moves involuntarily. He pulls his hand back, an apology on his lips.

“I’m sorry–“

“No, don’t.”

You reach out with the other hand and keep Matt there. You run your thumb over his knuckles as if to soothe him, to tell him that this is okay. You want this. The additional contact exhilarates you, as you haven't felt another’s touch that isn't from Jo or Amy in a long time. Dating has always been the last thing on your mind, especially in the past year. But right here, right now, being with Matt is easy. There is no pressure. No hindrance. Even though you've met only for two hours, Matt has listened to you. He takes a soft and shaky breath, and your eyes follow the way his chest slightly expands.

Your pointer finger traces the raised edges of his scars, and he lets you. The air seems to thin as your pulse drums a frantic beat under your skin.

“Do you beat people up in your client’s honour?”

“Only those who deserve it.”

You chuckle, and you lean into him as if you can't help yourself. The world has gone quiet around you, and the only thing left on your mind is to have his lips on yours. Your voice is only a breath above a whisper, and you're afraid Matt might miss it entirely amongst the loud voices of others.

“Can I kiss you?’’

He releases a sharp exhale as if he has been waiting for you to utter those words all evening.

“Please.”

You lean in, carefully, slowly. His lips slightly part in an open invitation, and you meet in the middle. The touch is gentle, soft tissues overlap in slow, indulgent caresses. Simple, yet it invokes a craving in you. The need for him to be even closer, the yearning to find out the taste of him. Matt touches your jaw, and draws you in closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself go. Eager, perching on the territory of desperation as the pressure on your lips grows more insistently. You're entangled in an exhilarating chase, circling around each other like you simply can't resist the pull that's been there since the moment you sat down. Matt silently asks for entry at the seam of your lips, and you respond in kind. His tongue strokes yours and suddenly, there is a new kind of invisible vapour that you're breathing in. It's overwhelming, yet not enough at the same time. You can taste the bitterness of the whisky that makes you wince on normal occasions, but on Matt's tongue, it's addictive and inexplicably irresistible. His air runs wild in your lungs, warming your body from the inside, awakening your nerves.

You break away at the sound of a teasing whistle clearly directed at you, reminding you of where you are. Matt’s face is flushed red, and you want to see how far down the colour goes under the suit and tie he's wearing. His hand is still on your jaw, gently caressing the line like he doesn't want to let go. And you don't want to let him go either.

“Can we go back to your place?”

The question rolls off your tongue, and he nods immediately, a little breathlessly. You stand up from your chairs at the same time. Matt reaches for his coat that is on the back of the chair. You shrug your own on and avert your gaze when Matt subtly adjusts his slacks. You put the bills down for your drinks, shutting Matt down when he objects to the idea. His hand find yours when you offer it to him, and you walk into the brisk air together.

The walk back didn't take too long. Matt held your hand the whole time, and the small gesture made your insides flutter. He lets you go when you reach his apartment. The unit number 6A has almost faded into the dark door. He unlocks the door and tells you where the light switch is. You turn it on, and place your coat in his awaiting palm. You follow him further into the apartment and take in the space.

“Who did you kill to get this place?”

Matt chuckles, discarding his tie with one hand.

“No killing involved. The neon sign out there is enough to chase people away.”

Your gaze falls on the giant, blinking advertisement outside the window.

“Nothing a few blackout curtains won't fix.”

He drapes the black tie on the back of the couch as you turn to the other side of the apartment.

“Do those stairs lead to the rooftop?”

“Yes, they do.”

You keep your back to him.

"Do you go up there often?"

"From time to time."

"This is … wow."

You're not sure why you're stalling. You pretend to look around as you try to brush off a nagging feeling that has settled in the pit of your stomach. Just the nerves, you think. You're out of practice, that's all.

So you clear your throat and say.

“Is your bedroom behind that bigger sliding door?”

He nods. You feel a little out of place, so you gravitate towards him, a familiar presence in a strange space. Matt lets you come to him, giving you all the control. You lean in and attach your lips to his, allowing it to follow the natural progression as it did back at Josie's. Your legs tangle and stumble towards the bedroom, your lips never too far away from one another. You think you might hit the closed door, but before that can happen, Matt pulls you flush against his body with one hand and uses the other to slide the door open in one smooth, practiced move. You pull away when you need to catch your breath.

“May I …”

You touch the side of his glasses. After a quiet moment, he gives you permission to take them, and you do. Slowly, and with the utmost care you can manage, you set them on the bedside table. His eyes are closed when you straighten. You caress his cheek, feeling the way his features form together. Your touch is soothing, and you hope he can feel the patience you offer to him. There is no rush, no pressure. After a long moment, Matt opens his eyes, and you take them in. You can see how he tries to meet your eyes in his own way. The shade of hazel is shrouded by the low light and the occasional shutter of his eyelids.

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

You raise slightly on your tiptoes and kiss his eyelids, feeling his lashes fluttering softly. He waits for you to return to him, and seeks out your lips in a delicate manner.

You fall onto the bed together. Matt braces himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. You pull his head down to yours, kissing and nibbling on the stretch of stubble along his jaw. His soft groans of approval encourage the other hand to travel downward, pulling on the white dress shirt. Once it's free from the slacks, you weave your hand inside and run your palm along the expanse of his torso. The dips and raises of his well-defined abs are warm under your palm, and the sensation stokes the molten liquid that's nestling deep inside you. You feel the feverish need edging over that part of you that you want to ignore.

The gradual pullback doesn't feel like a rejection at first, but merely an invitation to follow. So you do, your hands work to unbutton his shirt. But Matt slows you down to a stop, holding your hands to his lips and placing kisses on your palms. You blink, still snarled in the haze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Confronted. The only word that can describe accurately how you're feeling.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your heart …”

His hand trails from your collarbone to your chest where your heart resides within in a way that feels strangely intimate and not at all invasive. You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was beating. It's pounding. You are more nervous about this than you thought.

“… is beating quite fast. Are you nervous?”

You're safe. It's an innate feeling, and while you can't explain it, you know lying to Matt serves no purpose here. He seems to have a way to read you without using his sight.

“Yes, a little bit. I haven’t done this before. Sleeping with a stranger, I mean.”

“I see. We don’t have to do this.”

You raise yourself on your elbows.

“No, I wanted to go back here, with you. I want this.”

“But it doesn’t mean you owe me anything. If you change your mind for whatever reason, I'm okay with that as well."

Matt presses a kiss to your forehead.

"We can always try this again at another time.”

Guilt claws at you, urging you to do anything to please him.

“I’m sorry. I gave you the wrong signal.”

“Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for.”

He tries to find your hand, and you offer it to him. He gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“I had a good time with a beautiful woman, then I got to kiss her, all in one night, and that's enough.”

You guffaw, throwing your head back at the blatant flirt.

“You don’t even know how I look like.”

“No, I don’t. But I have my own way to tell. You sound beautiful.”

An idea materializes in your mind, and you give in to it. You bring his hand to your face, trailing along the side of your face. He gets the hint and begins his own exploration of your features. The way he takes his time, following the slopes of your face, his touch gentle, ghosting over your skin. He stops at your lips and soothes his thumb over the kiss-swollen flesh. You sigh softly. He gives you one last kiss, his tenderness makes your heart soar.

“Would you like something comfortable to sleep in?”

“I'm fine with anything you have.”

Matt finds his closet and pulls out a grey sweatshirt. He tells you where the bathroom is, and you take the folded shirt with you. You clean yourself up with water before stripping down to your underwear. You put the soft material over your body. It smells like him, and soft, just like him. You come out of the washroom and see his bare back for a split second before he pulls the shirt down. He has changed into a pair of grey sweatpants and a black shirt that hugs his chest and biceps beautifully.

You stand by his bed, not sure where you can come in despite the two of you ruffling the sheets not even ten minutes ago. Matt chooses for you, settling on the space facing the window, leaving you the side which is closer to the sliding door. His sheets are silky soft, and you feel yourself sinking right into them. You turn to face Matt, touching his shoulder. He faces you fully, his eyes settling on a point on the lower part of your face.

“Thank you.”

You whisper.

“Thank me by staying for breakfast.”

“Why breakfast?”

“I can't send you off to your interview on an empty stomach, can I? It's the least I can do.”

A rueful smile graces your lips.

“I can’t wait.”

You fell asleep with ease. At one point during the night, you could feel Matt detach himself from you, and out of a vague desperation that you couldn't process, you held tighter onto him involuntarily. At that, he stopped moving, and you felt a soothing pattern trailing over your head, luring you back to sleep again. His warmth carried you through the few hours that you slept.

It's a little past 4 AM when you wake, and find Matt still sleeping peacefully. Torn, but you come to accept that leaving is for the best. You get out of bed gently, thankful that the wooden floor didn't make a noise. You take his sweatshirt off and fold it, putting it on top of the pillow that you slept on. After putting on the clothes from the night before, you leave with much regret in your heart.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

For updates, please follow @cellophaine-archives

[ddejavvu]

sooo mei I was reading through your matt murdock ml and stumbled across the mafia one and pleaseee that is so cute, would you ever expand on that au? like maybe r’s flat is broken into and before she can even go to the cops there’s a bunch of matt’s guys there like don’t worry we’ve got it handled and she’s just ???

mafia!matt is the last thing i thought i'd be writing in the year 2024 but i can work with what you gave me <3

--

You're not sure whether you'd consider yourself lucky for escaping the bank unscathed, or unlucky for having been in the bank during an active shooting in the first place. Either way, the entire ordeal leaves you unsettled for weeks. You're bordering on agoraphobic, but food is a must, so you set out to brave the streets of Hell's Kitchen in search of something quick and dirty.

Upon your return, you know you're unlucky. You'd locked the door when you'd left, but evidently that doesn't stop someone who's desperate enough to break into a place that's barely up to code. You stare into the gaping, dark recess of your burgled apartment, noting that several electronics and appliances are out of place, but none of them appear to be missing. Your television is cracked, but you suppose your computer will be a suitable replacement until you can manage to afford a new screen.

You back away from the door just in case there's still someone inside; you're not stupid enough to investigate for yourself. However, the moment you step back, you ram into someone behind you, and your mottled nerves make you nearly shoot out of your skin.

All you can manage is a muffled, 'mmf!' when a hand clamps itself over your mouth, but the voice accompanying the hand is quick to assure you, "Easy, tuts, we're not gonna make it worse. We're with- uh, the cops. Okay? We got a call from the neighbors, 'said they heard someone breakin' in. We've got it handled, alright? Just relax. You can head back inside, that creep is long gone. We'll have someone stand guard outside, got it?"

You're only let go of when your captor deems you calm, but your heart is still racing in your chest when you turn to face him. He doesn't look anything like a police officer, but he does look menacing. He shows you a badge and I.D, and they look authentic enough for your arrythmia to settle.

"Go on," He ushers you towards the door, "Get in there, we'll take care of it from here."

You adjust your grip on your plastic bag of frozen meals, passing a couple other men that are now posted at the front door of your apartment. Each attempts a kind smile at you, and you're glad to shut the door on them once you get inside.

There's a man on your couch.

You don't notice until you flick the light switch on, but he's sitting there, clad in a suit and sunglasses. You shriek, and briefly consider whether or not your frozen ravioli could be used as a suitable projectile.

"Relax," The man stands, an easy smile on his face, one that drips with sympathy, "I'm Matt. I'm here to stand guard."

"Why were you sitting in the dark?!" You demand, now doubting the validity of the police badge you'd seen earlier, regretting the decision to trust these less-than-official men.

"It doesn't matter to me whether it's light or dark," He chuckles, and your face flushes momentarily when you realize what his sunglasses are for.

"Oh. Well- well you're not doing a very good job of making me relax, Matt. I feel like I'm more in danger of you than I am of someone else breaking into my house."

The man's smile is gentle, but not weak, "Sorry. Just go about your business, okay Y/N? We'll replace your damaged property and be out of your hair as soon as we can eliminate the threat.”

"Eliminate...?" You echo cautiously, "How long does that take?"

"Depends. A day. A week. Months, maybe. But this is all for your precaution, Y/N," He stands, making his way over to you and carefully feeling out the broken glass on the floor with the toe of his shoe. He places a hand on your shoulder, "Just trust me, I'm here to help. None of this will ever happen to you again- not on my watch."

[elgrandeavocados]

dissolution (part 28) | matt murdock x ofc

Story Synopsis: Elizabeth Herrera and Matt Murdock go way back. Friends since college, the two have known each other for ten years. But as a couple, they’ve been together for four and lately, their relationship is hanging by a thread, and the two are desperate to make it work.

Will their relationship survive? Or will memories of their past hinder them from healing? MATURE.

Author’s Note: Well, hey there! A new chapter of 'Dissolution' is here. I honestly thought this chapter would take me longer to finish, seeing as I mentioned it would be long, but when the words came to me, I just let them take control, and here we are! I hope you enjoy it, and I can't wait to read your thoughts.

Also, Did you notice the new thing I tried out regarding El messaging? What do we think? I think it reads more naturally, but I'm open to hearing what you think and whether it should stay or change back to the old format! 💗

Read Part 28 of ‘Dissolution’ HERE

Excerpt from Part 28

Tiredly, Matt shook his head.

I sat more comfortably beside him, crisscrossing my legs before moving my hand to his forehead to check his temperature. I moved my hand behind his neck before grabbing his hand into mine. “What happened?”

“I just got a little lightheaded,” he whispered.

“Did you get up too fast?”

He nodded.

“You didn’t fall, right?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“What else is it?” I asked. I felt his thumb brush over my knuckles. “What else happened?”

“What makes you think something else happened?” he asked softly.

“You’ve been crying.”

[celestianstars]

Such a cool idea!! Matt as the literal devil with an angel reader! Your mind! 🫶🏾🖤 I love everything about this, the imagery, how the devil himself is claiming us as his own, literally has a grip on a wing! The poetry and symbolism of it all! Woww! So good!

Devil's Own

Pairing: devil! Matt Murdock x angel! reader (no other specifications)

Word Count: 700 words

Outline: A devoted angel knows how to hide from the devil. What about an enamored angel?

Warnings: dark themes, implied manipulation, mild violence & death.

Author’s Note: This was supposed to be my Halloween fic, based on a request I got for this pairing. Sorta Poetic.

P.S: dividers by @firefly-graphics // banners by @maysdigitalarts

Main Masterlist ・❥・Matt Murdock Masterlist

His hands are strong, his grip tight on you, squeezing your bones. 

One crack and you will be gone—his, forever. 

You try to fight the tears that pooled below your eyes. Because you know it would only make him happier. He is sadistic, with his horns shining bright in the dim moonlight. Your white dress is drenched in your blood as he twists your wing in his hands trying to break them. 

“You don’t need them anymore, my love.”

His voice echoes through your head, making you nauseous.

But you know you can feel something else as well.

Darkness loves the light so much that it wants to devour it.

This was never about hatred. This was never about opposite sides. Just a declaration of love however twisted to a virgin’s eyes might look.

A young lover’s song.

Devils love their angels. 

Devils chase the angels.

Devils devour their angels.

Until they capture them forever deep inside the earth.

Caged. 

It would be a nightmare to be someone’s possession forevermore…

Madness. Really.

Living forever in his cage.

You knew that. There’s nothing that you didn’t already know. But now it wouldn’t matter anymore. You didn’t have long left. His fist pushes your wing down and all you can feel is love.

Why?

For centuries you had learned how to hide, how to walk only in the light, obey the sun and run alongside him. You have been hiding from the night, from them, the devil, the thieves with shining smiles, their velvet robes, their strong aroma. 

You tried to stay away. 

At least that’s what you told your elders.

Did you try to stay away?

The clock can’t turn backward.

Did you shield your face from the eyes of the devil?

Or did you cut strands of your hair with golden scissors savaging them through the darkest alleys?

You were a traitor and that you knew.

You were a traitor from the moment your eyes met his. 

And you’d never regret it.

At night he’d whistle and call out for you, calling you his, repeating your name like a chant and a prayer. Creating such soft music, filling your heart with lustful thoughts that occupied your head until you couldn’t tell reality from a daydream anymore.

You wanted to look at him.

To follow his voice, touch his hand, lay on his naked chest.

You longed to become the devil’s own.

But can the devil truly love?

What does the devil know about love?

He just wanted your wings and your light.

You dreamt of his lips on your skin, fire on fire, engulfing you and turning you into his own. In his warm embrace, dress begone, fingers intertwined, his grip on you. Touching your body, caressing your skin.

And that’s where you were now. 

Right under his spell.

You could have sworn you were deep in the woods protected by old magic but somehow he had pulled you out. Dragged out in the streets and now he was holding your wing. 

You had to put on at least a little bit of a show. 

Did you hide? Or did you lift the spell? You were a clever one, weren’t you?

He must have known how easily you would have fallen for him, he would smell the desire on your skin, your lust growing on you.

But you can’t let him have that easy, could you?

You keep your head away from him, don’t want to see him, don’t want to meet his gaze and most importantly you‘d never want him to learn just how much you had been praying to get captured by him. 

One breath.

Two breaths.

The pain is no more. Your wings are laying on the dirt and all you feel is free.

A strange sensation overfills you and the feeling of something soft and velvety is evident on your lips. You open your eyes and see him, the devil himself, kissing your lips, touching your skin with a wondrous delicacy that makes your heart beat again.

Rebirth.

In his arms, you were born again as the devil’s very own. 

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

for updates please follow @fluffyprettykittylibrary and turn on post notifications!

[sassatoru]

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗗𝗨𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗟'𝗦 𝗞𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗡 - 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵. 𝘰𝘯𝘦

prev / next | masterlist

pairing. batfam x batsis!reader + platonic!matt murdock x batsis!reader

warnings. swearing, child neglect, mentions of an accident that makes you blind, canon/typical violence, nothing goes with comics, OOC matt murdock

wc. 1.2k

Jason had disappeared again, where to, no one knew. All that you had been told was he and Bruce had another one of their many fights, this time it had gotten physical.

You had only found out weeks after his disappearance. Having been in New York for the last two weeks.

You were amused to find out that he hadn’t actually left Gotham, instead he was sitting across from you munching down his burger, the sounds made were disgusting and you thanked whatever God out there that you couldn’t see it.

You listened with a smile as your older brother rambled on about how pissed off he was at Bruce, your unseeing eyes hidden behind a pair of tinted circular glasses.

The glasses were new, not the fact you were wearing them, just the fact that instead of them bearing the usual black tint you often wore it was now a dark purple.

Jason was the only sibling you confided in with your newest secret, a new name whispered amongst Gotham crooks and villains. He was against it at first, completely against it but when he saw you fight finally. His mind was changed.

If you learnt this much in two weeks, what could you do if you had two months. Or two years?

Jason wouldn’t this but he could see the Bruce in you, how quickly and how resilient you were becoming. Someone who could match the Batman in skill despite not having sight, he’d stick by to help you figure all that stuff out.

So for now Jason would support your decision, help you from behind the computer for now until he’d be ready to come back as Red Hood. But for now he could settle with lunch dates with his little sister during the day and helping you kick ass during the night.

“So, you going back to New York so this Murdock guy can train you more?” Jason asked with a mouth full of burger and you grimaced at the sound of his chewing.

“I might not if I’m going to be hearing your chewing in more detail from now on.” You grumbled, reaching out for your milkshake. Jason snorted in response, swallowing down his food.

“You can hear that?” He asks intrigued.

You only nodded in response, before shrugging. “‘S not much. Matt can heat heartbeats, but he said if i continue focusing and blocking out noises I don’t need to hear I’ll get there soon enough.”

Jason nodded along, you assumed by the sound of hair ruffling.

“So what can you hear so far?” He asked.

“Breathing, chewing, things far away sometimes, i can hear more sometimes and then other times i can’t hear anything at all.”

Jason hums, pausing to watch you, “you look happier.” He blurts out, “i mean compared to how you were, stashed away in the manor.”

You hide your smile behind the milkshake and Jason smiles, “I’m glad.”

———

“Breathe,” Matt instructs, hands on your shoulders. “Focus on his heartbeat, ignore mine, find him.”

Your breathing evens out, and Matt can hear your heart slow down, relaxing from your earlier training as you tried to find the heartbeat of the other man in the room. “I can’t—” you try to complain.

“Do it,” Matt repeats, “focus.”

Then you hear it, another heartbeat echoing through your ears coming from your, “left.” You mutter and Matt grins, ruffling the top of your head.

“That’s creepy,” Peter’s voice calls out, “it’s like there’s two of you now.” His footsteps get closer, stopping right in front of you.

“I should properly introduce the two of you,” Matt says. “Peter this is y/n Wayne. Kid, this is Peter Parker, he’s Spider-Man.”

"Spider-man?" You snorted, "what, were there no other names available?"

Peter groaned, crossing his arms like a pouty child. "Shut up," he grumbled.

"breaks over," Matt calls out and now its your turn to groan, all morning since you got back to New York he's been training you.

Starting with sitting silently in one place and picking out quieter sounds and now you were training to fight more.

Because no way in hell was Matt going to let you fight freely in Gotham city without further extensive training. So for now, you were getting your ass handed to you, and it sucked.

———

Bruce started at the screens in front of him, the sound of his youngest sons sparing in the background didn’t phase him, he was getting irritated with the new presence in Gotham. Some newbie calling themselves Duchess, a who had never crossed paths with him by some miracle.

actually it seemed every time Bruce arrived on scene, the Duchess just disappeared, as if she had some sixth sense for him. There was limited footage of her too, just little blurs of shitty CCTV cameras of a girl with a bandana tied around her eyes and in full black. Hands wrapped in black bandages, any distinguished features covered up, leaving the possibilities of her identity to thousands of candidates.

The only other thing Bruce had on her being her constant travel between Gotham and New York, specifically Hell’s Kitchen. But he got no leads from there, other than the Duchess being in cahoots with the Daredevil and his allies.

So, after hours of analysing footage, names and failing to hack into SHEILD’s servers, the only thing Bruce had gotten was that this Duchess being; female and lives in Gotham or New York.

“Nothing?” Dick’s voice comes from beside him, arms crossed as he leans back against the desk, sweating as he had just returned from patrol with Cass and Steph.

Bruce grunts in response and Dick takes it as a yes, “damn.” He mutters with a sigh, “well I’m heading home. I need sleep and I have work in the morning,” Dick says, stretching his arm, patting his shoulder as he heads up the stairs and out of the cave.

Was he actually heading home? No. He was off to do his own investigation about this Duchess. Hopefully he’d actually find something.

———

Navigating Gotham was easy when you had the heartbeats of the people who you want to avoid memorised. But New York? Not so easy, the streets were louder, busier, people walked around freely and not in quiet groups armed with knives to avoid being attacked.

At first the noises were overwhelming to your senses, but overtime you had learnt how to block out certain sounds, like cars, random clicking, rats, water, the unimportant things. And the noise became more bearable, you could tell the difference between human heartbeats and animal ones.

“This way,” Matt spoke, jumping over building to building with you following closely behind.

He had talked about getting you a suit made but until then the outfit you had on currently would do fine. The sounds of Peter’s webshooters were in the background, “are you sure about this? I mean she’s still new to this, taking her out on patrol might be a bad idea.” Peter spoke, trying to be a voice of reason.

“I’m sure,” Matt says his voice distorted due to the sound of an explosion in the background, the smell of smoke filling your noses.

“That can’t be good,” you mutter, nose scrunching at the smell.

“Definitely not,” Peter nods in agreement before the three of you head over towards the scene.

—tbc

© e-nonsense. do no copy/steal/translate. do it and I’ll bite your toes off