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shiorimakibawrites · 2 months ago

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Breaking and Entering (The Phantom #1)

Word Count: ~5200 Main Pairing: Matt Murdock x Project Beagle! Reader Summary: You arrive in New York City tired, hungry, and in need of a shower. Warnings: Referenced canon-typical violence, crime, fugitive on the run, swearing, feelings of isolation, nudity, fear, psychic abilities, self-deprecation, implied past attempted sexual assault, referenced domestic violence The Phantom Masterlist Matt Murdock/Daredevil Masterlist My General Masterlist Taglist: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer, @beezusvreeland, @yarrystyleeza, @justvalkyrie, @xoxabs88xox, @flynnethenerd A03 Link

Special thanks to @pastafossa for permission to write this alternate take on your story and for beta-reading this chapter.

Chapter 1: Breaking and Entering

So this is the Big Apple, you thought as you walked out of the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Maybe someone else would have found the shift from the relative quiet of the Greyhound bus to the chaos of the terminal and the bustling street outside overwhelming. You saw it as a sanctuary. You plunged into the sea of people that you hoped to disappear into. Just another tourist marveling at the skyscrapers, painted gold by the setting sun. Just another transplant from nowhere looking for a fresh start, a place where they could shed their past and become someone new.

Being a needle in a haystack isn't a terrible approach, you mused to yourself as you settled onto a subway train. It has served you well over the last decade and some change. But always, always, the past came knocking like the inconsiderate bastard that it was and burnt your haystack to the ground. Which was why this time, you were going to be a needle in a needle stack. Thousands of people came to New York City everyday. If there was anywhere in the world where you would be just another face in the crowd, it ought to be here.

Please, you plead with whatever cosmic force looked out for people like you. Give me a couple of months here.

You were so tired. You haven't stopped moving for the last three months. He had gotten too close in Tampa. Far too close, you remembered with a shudder. You had managed to get away but it hadn't been clean. The resulting paranoia had you ditching all your planned next location options. They could be compromised. So you laid false trails to them and elsewhere while you roamed with no particular destination in mind. Eeny-meeny-miny-moe to pick a direction. Deciding on how much to pay for a plane or bus ticket based on the price of Twinkies at the last Stop-n-Slip you had been in. Stealing a car from long-term parking at the airport. Accepting a ride from two guys in a 67 Chevy Impala to anywhere but here.

It had eventually pointed your wandering feet toward New York City. A place where you ought to be to vanish for a few months. A place where you could rest and regain your strength. Just one more false trail, you promised yourself. Then I can rest.

And done, you thought as you finished altering the passenger manifest of a plane to show one Katherine Monroe boarding at JFK on a flight bound for Dallas-Fort Worth. It was such a shame that said airport was going to be experiencing glitches in their security cameras and boarding software that will make it impossible to know if Ms. Monroe caught the connecting flight to El Paso or not. It was equally unlucky that certain cameras here at JFK were down for maintenance for the last hour and wouldn't be operational again for at least another hour.

All of which should have your pursuers chasing their tails for a while. It wasn't unusual for you to book a flight with a layover, then skip the connecting flight to head out in entirely the opposite direction. Or the same general direction but with a different city in mind. It also wouldn't be unusual for you to go through the entire journey, connecting flights and all. Let them wonder if you had disappeared into Dallas or gone all the way to El Paso and took advantage of its proximity to the border to slip into Mexico again. Or the directions pointing south was a red herring and your actual goal was the border with Canada.

Which had been tempting. There was a lot of sparsely populated wilderness along the US-Canada border, a rugged terrain where, with the right skills, you could lead anyone hunting you around by their noses for years. Maybe after the forest ate a sufficient number of them, they'd take the hint and leave you the fuck alone.

You snorted. Not gonna happen. The very idea that you had beaten Him simply did not compute. He would never accept it. Never stop hunting you or Twenty as long as He was alive. Therefore the hunters were never stop searching.

And I can never stop running, never truly be free, you thought bitterly. The best you'd get was a few months of rest in a place where no one could really know you. I'll always be alone. You took a deep breath, then swallowed down the ache and exhaustion. You weren't going to cry. He had already stolen enough of your tears.

You stowed your laptop back into your bag. Time to go. While this chain coffee shop had taken care of your hunger, you still needed to find shelter and a shower. Not necessarily in that order.

Hours later, you were reconsidering staying in New York. It had been hot and muggy when you arrived but you had hoped that as night fell, it would cool off. No such luck. The sun had disappeared but the heat remained. Even the criminals and the working girls seem to have fled the streets in search of air that wasn't thick as syrup.

"And just as sticky," you grumbled to yourself as you trudged up the stairs. You were in decent shape but six flights of stairs in this heat had left you dripping wet with sweat. Adding that to the grime of more than a week's travel with only bathroom sinks to wash in left you feeling even grosser than you already felt before starting this quest for a shower.

A hotel room likely had a shower but they also cost money. Money that you were starting to run short of. Well, short of money on your person. You had money squirreled away in secret accounts but getting that cash in your hands tonight would be…difficult. You never moved the money in your secret accounts into one of your public accounts without engaging in a misdirecting trail of false transfers and dummy accounts to confuse those hunting you. A process that took time and concentration, both of which were difficult to come by when you were tired and itchy from sweat.

Your other preferred methods of…er, acquiring…fast funds either also required same concentration or were hampered by the late hour. There were less preferred methods but those were also much higher risk. Especially in this city. Even the few hours you had spent in the city had been enough to hear about the mysterious vigilante who roamed Hell's Kitchen aka the very streets you were perched above right now. This 'Man in Black' is rapidly becoming a thorn in the side of the Russian mob but he had made his distaste for unorganized criminals loud and clear. Call you a coward but you'd rather not get your ass kicked tonight, thank you very much.

But as mentioned, you needed a shower and somewhere to sleep. It's hard to get a legal job when you look like you haven't slept or bathed much for more than a week. Ask you how you know. But you also couldn't afford to be put in the hospital or a jail cell. Not if you wanted to keep what little freedom and life you had. Maybe you should find a different neighborhood to attempt this in but everywhere else you had looked so far had been busier, with too many potential witnesses…

Besides it couldn't hurt to look. Nothing illegal about looking.

You made yourself as comfortable as you could be sitting on the roof in this heat, took a deep breath, then opened your third eye. For lack of a better term. What you had read online didn't quite match your experience but it was closer than anything else you had found.

The sensation was impossible to fully describe. You had tried on those nights when you couldn't sleep. It felt a bit like blinking open your eyes after a long nap but also like relaxing a muscle that had been held in tension too long at the same time and like finally getting to relieve your full bladder all at the same time and happening in the center of your forehead. And then you could see.

White unfurled around you, shining as bright as the sun at midday. It stung and made your eyes water. After a moment, the brightness dimmed to something closer to moonlight, allowing you to see the individual threads flapping and coiling in the air like ribbons dancing with the wind. Except it wasn't the wind moving these threads.

Part of that movement was that the people attached to them were moving but even when someone was still, their threads kept moving. The only time you had even seen someone's threads stop was the moment they died. The threads would freeze then every strand of theirs would turn a dull gray before falling limply to pool around their person. The only movement and sign of life being the blue-gray threads belonging to those left behind.

The dimming also allows you to see their true colors. Aside from the aforementioned blue-gray and white, threads of red, blue, green, orange, and yellow in every conceivable shade painted the city and its people with vibrant color. Over the years, you have learned what the different colors mean. Blues were for connections to objects, anything that wasn't alive and they ranged from soft powder blue for something new to the rich hue of lapis lazuli for a person's most cherished possession. The other colors were seemingly reserved for the living. Anything from butter yellow to vibrant red signified a bond of mutual affection between one person and another person or an animal. The stronger the bond, the redder their shared thread became. And if that affection was one-sided? Then the thread was green. And like the other threads, the more vibrant the hue, the stronger that feeling was.

You always felt bad for anyone with a forest green thread. It must be so painful to be so in love with someone who doesn't love you back.

It took a moment to sort out the threads. There weren't many coming from the building under your feet. Which you expected since it was nearly empty. That was not the case with the buildings on either side of you. Your fingers skimmed the surface of each thread, not deep enough to see the roads within but enough to feel. Whispers of emotions that weren't your own but washed over you just the same. You discarded the threads pulsing with safe-warm-happy of the peacefully sleeping along with the discomfort-cold-wet-fear of the shadows from children and pulse-pounding throb of lust-want-love from couples having sex until you found what you were searching for. A bundle of threads that radiated that mixture of concentration and impatience-to-be-done that you associated with someone working. The bundle contained an unusual amount of green threads that spread across the neighborhood like a spider’s web. The only people you had ever met with so many green threads had been paramedics or firemen. Someone who saved people’s lives. Whoever this person, they had done something to forge connections with so many people in this place, creating threads that ranged from soft mint to deep emerald green. So many that they nearly hide the other threads. The most prominent was a white, thick and heavy as rope that seemed to sink into the ground but there was healthy scattering of blues that trailed into the apartment building to your right along with a couple of pale yellows and fiery oranges that headed elsewhere. Buried in the middle, so deep that you almost missed, a single scarlet red thread.

You pushed down your envy with the ease of long practice. There was no point in getting jealous. It wasn't this person's vault that they had something you could never have. Because as much as you longed for someone to love you that fiercely…having that kind of bond with someone was too dangerous. Both for you and whatever poor soul you'd inflict yourself on. The things that He would do….You couldn't do that to someone. You weren't that much of a monster.

You shook your head and focused on the task at hand. Namely selecting one of these pretty blue threads to slip into and see if the resident of that apartment really was near the Hudson River like it appeared they were. A yellow or orange thread would be easier but all of them were headed away from the main bundle, not toward it. Which meant whoever those threads were connected to, they weren't with this person right now but if you were being honest, you preferred using blue threads. It was harder but it was far less intimate. Blue threads contained far less emotions and memories than the others.

You grabbed the thread that had the truest, most vibrant blue. The emotions seeping out of it tasted bittersweet, love and grief in equal measure. Reaching into the thread would have been easier with the object in question but not impossible. You don't know how long you sat there, the thread in your hands before it happened.

What happened exactly was just as difficult to describe as opening your third eye. Physically you remained seated on the roof, the thread gripped firmly in your right hand. But mentally….it felt like you had pressed against a door. One that had been stuck fast but after some pushing and shoving, the door gave way and you stumbled out onto a street.

Or least you thought it was a street. This inside-the-thread space usually appeared as a street to you. And while you could feel pavement under your feet and heard cars speeding past you, it was so dark. The only source of light was a flicker of flames all around that seemed to take the shape of…buildings? And, you squinted, the cars? The fire didn't illuminate the darkness so much as it highlighted it. It didn't help that the flames kept fluctuating. Every sound or shift in the air caused the flames to either grew dimmer or become more intense. The later gave you brief glimpses of finer details on the buildings. The former left you standing in pitch blackness unable to see your hand in front of your face.

You inched toward the nearest building, a squat thing that hugged the ground. It didn't get any clearer as you approached. Well, not in the visual sense. Far more prominent was the smell — the pungent odor of sweat, leather, the sharp astringency of iodine and muscle balm, the sweet cooper of blood, the vaguely minty scent of Irish Spring soap along the faint elements of a man's cologne. Just as strong were the sounds - the rhythmic thump of fists striking a punching bag, grunts and the murmur of a man's voice. It was too low for you to make out the words over a steady beating drum.

You didn't go inside. It wasn't necessary. You just needed to confirm this person's location, not snoop on their memories related to the connected object sheltered in that low building. And all you needed to do to accomplish that particular goal was simply walk down the street.

Which, admittedly, was easier said than done. The flames helped but this darkness was incredibly disorienting. Eventually, you got yourself turned in what was (hopefully) the right direction and started walking. Albeit, far more slowly than your usual ground-eating stride. This street might not be 'real' in the strictest sense of the word but it felt real. Real enough to make you worry about tripping. Real enough to trigger old anxieties about who or what was in the shadows, waiting and watching…always watching…

You firmly shoved those memories back into the tightly locked box where they belonged. You were not going to think about that, not going to remember it. You didn't need to remember it. That part of your life is over.

The street never got any brighter. You suspected that it never would. Whoever this person is, their world was made of fire and shadows. Part of you wanted to know why but you set aside your curiosity for the same reason you stayed outside of the buildings. You didn't need to know. It was none of your business. You were violating enough of this person's privacy just being here. A trespass that you were intending to compound by entering their home without their knowledge or permission. The least you could do was not poke around their mind anymore than necessary.

Marking the passage of time inside a thread was all but impossible. But eventually, you felt things shift. It remained just as dark as before but everything else intensified. You could smell water…old rotting wood…cigarette smoke and gun oil…something sharp that you couldn't identify…so many things that you had no idea what they were…could hear male voices filled with contempt…a cacophony of drums…felt the neverending heat, the sweat rolling down your back, the familiar but still irritating scratchiness of cotton blend…and the simmering rage, the pure unaltered fury at those who dared to harm his people…

You stumbled back and found yourself back in your own body, shaking and dizzy. What the fuck was that? Why was everything in his mind so damn loud? You had encountered people with sensory issues before but never with that level of intensity. And the overwhelming force of his emotions…Who is this guy?!

It was enough to make you briefly reconsider picking this particular apartment for your shower. But you were tired. Your nose was dripping blood. The pressure at your temples warned of an oncoming migraine. You still felt gross. And you still had to find somewhere to sleep tonight…

He's clearly busy, you told yourself. Doing what, you had no idea. And in all honesty, weren't sure that you wanted to know. But it seemed like something that would keep him occupied. Certainly occupied long enough for you to pop in, take a quick shower, and bounce.

Sweetening the temptation was that apparently whoever had last used the roof access door hadn't closed it properly. The lighting up here wasn't great but that obnoxious billboard on the far side of the other building was more than bright enough to make the open door. If you get onto that roof, you could bypass the buzzer on the front door. Okay, you weren't certain that there was a buzzer intercom at that door. But given how common that feature was in this city, it seemed a fair assumption to make.

The gap between this building and the one you needed to get to didn't look too far…that you'd fall six stories to your death (if you were lucky) if you were wrong did give you a moment's pause but you'd still be There if you weren't willing to take some risks to get what you want.

It was probably a sign of how messed up your brain was that running full speed toward that gap, then jumping had you grinning like a loon. Even after you landed on the other roof with all the grace of a drunk cat, earning yourself bruises that you were going to be feeling in the morning, you couldn't stop grinning.

That was kinda fun, you thought. Scary but fun. It might just be adrenaline speaking but maybe you should add parkour to your to-learn list. Wouldn't that be a nasty surprise for the people hunting you?

Despite your growing headache, you needed to open your third eye again. Fortunately making sure you went to the right apartment wouldn't require actually diving in this time. You just needed to follow the thread itself. The initial brightness made pain stab through your brain like a knife but you gritted your teeth and waited for both to subside. Which they did and soon you were following the azure thread through the open door.

You had expected the door to take you to a hallway. Instead you found yourself in a loft, looking down at what was clearly someone's living room. Luck was with you in that it was the right living room as the azure thread in your hand disappeared into a closet under the stairs that bridged said living room and the loft. Good, you thought as you closed your third eye. If you had to break into someone's house, you preferred to do it when they weren't home. Especially when it was this late at night. You preferred not to get shot. Getting shot sucked.

You didn't look for the light switch. First, since you weren't wearing gloves, you needed to avoid touching anything that you didn't have to. Getting the police to dust for prints would be extreme to find someone who hadn't actually stolen anything from you but some people were just that petty. You had no doubt that He had your prints flagged in every database in the country. Second, you didn't need it. There was more than enough light coming in from outside. Weird thread or not, you hoped this guy had good blackout curtains for his bedroom because cheese and crackers is that billboard bright.

It didn't take long to find the bathroom. There you did need to turn on the lights. The bathroom was a little plain but the shower was huge, easily big enough for two or more people. The towels were plain white, like the ones in hotels, except these looked much softer. It was shockingly neat for what was, as far as you could tell, the home of a single man. There wasn't a single item out of place.

You gave silent thanks that your mystery man was a neat freak. His tidiness was saving you a significant amount of time that you might have otherwise wasted searching for a towel, washcloths, and soap. You sat your bag on the counter. You'd fish out your cleanest clothes afterward. Which weren't very clean, you admitted to yourself with a grimace. But there wasn't anything you could do about that. You hadn't been able to do laundry. Your rushed exit from Tampa meant the only clothing you had was what's in the bag and what you had been wearing that day. Which didn't leave you with a lot of clothing options.

You turned on the shower, then peeled off your sweat-soaked clothing and dropped them into a single pile. Words could not describe how good it felt to take all that off, especially the bra. Stepping under the spray felt just as good in a different way. Mystery Man favored unscented soap but beggars could hardly be choosers. Plain soap at least smelled good. It was more than you could say for the beauty products your last identity used, which smelled entirely too much like Vick's Vapor Rub. And not just to you - more than one person had asked if you were feeling well during the ten months you had lived in Tampa.

The shampoo was also unscented. You hadn't known there was such a thing as unscented shampoo. Soap, yes, but shampoo and conditioner always seem to have some kind of smell added to it. Plain or not, it lathered up well and did a beautiful job washing out a couple weeks worth of grime out of your hair. And it all felt so good that you had to just stand underneath the spray for a moment, close your eyes and let yourself relax. Just for a moment…

Until there was a loud knock on the door and an unfamiliar male voice, hard and uncompromising, said, "When you're done showering, you're going to tell me why you are in my home."

You were frozen, finding yourself unable to move and unable to make a sound. Even when the man opened the bathroom door, you still couldn't get yourself to move. Not even to attempt to cover yourself. Your heart only beat faster when you see the man's reflection in the mirror. Lean, hard muscle poured into an entirely black outfit - shirt, pants, boots, gloves, and....a mask. You bite down hard on your bottom lip to stifle a whimper.

"Here are some sweats for when you are finished," the man continued, setting down the bundle of clothing that you only just realized was in one hand. That same hand darted out and grabbed your bag. Then without another word, he went back out the door and closed it.

The Man in the Black…fuck, fuck! And he had said that this is his home? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Of all the apartments in Hell's Kitchen, you had to pick the one that belonged to the vigilante? Fuck!

How had he snuck up on you? The shower drowned out a lot of sound but that bottom step creaked loud enough to wake the dead! So did several of the floorboards. And why had he, apparently, run back home? He had felt so busy...

Your mind raced, looking for an escape but there wasn't one. The door was the only way out of this bathroom. And he had your bag. Your go-bag with all the supplies you needed. Without it, you weren't just trapped in this bathroom. You were trapped in this city, unable to run until you made a new one….What if He found you before then? This time you couldn't stop the thin, terrified whine from escaping your mouth.

You did your best to swallow that fear and took a deep breath. Then another and another until you no longer felt like the walls collapsing in on you. You could breathe. You could do this. You could convince the Man in Black to let you go. You could convince him to give you back your go-bag.

Your hands shook as you turned off the shower. And keep shaking while you dried yourself off, distantly aware that the towels were even softer and fluffier than they looked. And they looked pretty fluffy. Now you just had to get dressed and your choices were your own clothes or the ones supplied by the Man in Black.

Pro for your own clothes — they were yours so no potential complications that might come from 'borrowing' the Man in Black's sweats. Con - they reeked. Pro for MIB's sweats — they were clean. Con - MIB will probably expect you to return them. Or would expect you to do certain things in exchange for the 'favor.'

Well he can expect anything he wants, doesn't mean he's gonna get it, you thought, your temper flaring. You welcomed the anger. Anger was an old, familiar friend. Anger had been there for you as long as you could remember, the fire that kept you moving when all you wanted to do was cry.

And if MIB tries to pull that crap…, you thought. Well, it wouldn't be the first time I've taught someone that no means no.

You grabbed the sweats, your hands steady once again as you pulled them on. Wearing your own clothes, smelly and still uncomfortably damp, might distract you. That was unacceptable. The sweats were clean. And comically oversized but you pulled the drawstring on the pants tight to keep them up. There wasn't much you could do about the shirt but it was sleeveless so at least you didn't need to worry about rolling up the sleeves to keep your hands free.

You faced the door and took one more deep breath. Then you walked out of the bathroom with your head held high. I might be down but I'm not out.

MIB was waiting for you in the living room, positioned to easily intercept any attempt on your part to reach the front door or the roof access door. Which was a little disappointing. It's always so much easier when your opponents were dumb. Your bag was sitting on a coffee table, unzipped but otherwise untouched. You hadn't remained in the bathroom long enough for him to have looked through the entire bag but enough for him to have seen something suspicious.

"Have a seat," MIB ordered.

You stuck out your chin, jaw tight. "I'd rather stand."

"Suit yourself," MIB said with a shrug. "I have a few questions. I expect honest answers. And fair warning, I will know if you are lying to me."

I'm sure, you mentally scoffed. You had played this game before.

He took your silence as agreement. "What's your name?"

"Mary Smith," you said, giving the name you had chosen to go by. Technically you had used it before but it was so common, so generic that finding you among all of the real Mary Smiths was all but impossible.

MIB scowled. "Lie. What's your name?"

"Mary Smith," you repeated.

MIB growled, then stomped over to you. He loomed over you, making you viscerally aware that he was a powerfully built man. One with a growing reputation for inflicting incredible violence. His lips pulled back into a snarl, then he said, voice low but full of barely restrained fury. "Do not lie to me. What is your name?"

You weren't going to lie to yourself that he wasn't frightening you. He was. Your heart is pounding and you could feel a cold sweat breaking out. But you stood your ground. He was hardly the first man to threat you. "Mary Smith is the only name you are getting from me. Take it or leave it."

Another growl but apparently he wasn't willing to hit you over what name you were using. "So 'Mary', why did you break into my apartment?"

"To take a shower," you said.

"Nothing else? Weren't gonna steal my laptop?"

"No," you said.

This seemed to throw him a little. His head tilted to one side. "Something else?"

"Maybe a banana?" you said. It had been hours since that muffin at the coffee place. And using your abilities was hungry work.

"That's it? A shower and some food is all you were after?"

"Yep."

"No one sent you? You aren't working for anyone?"

"No."

This really seemed to throw him. He frowned then stepped back, giving you more space even as he stared at you with an intensity you had never experienced. It felt like he could see right through you. "You weren't trying to figure out who I am?" "No," you said. "Didn't even know that you existed until a few hours ago. I just got here."

He nodded, his body language turning more…relaxed wasn't the right word. There was still too much predatory energy for relaxed. Less hostile, perhaps? He was certainly radiating far less menace than he had been a minute ago.

"But you are running from someone."

"What makes you say that?"

MIB gestured toward the coffee table. "IDs, cash, clothes, hair dye, knife, medical supplies —it's a go bag. All of your things reek of stress and fear. Who are you running from?"

"Doesn't matter," you said, though part of your mind noted the peculiar wording.

"Tell me," MIB said. In a sharp contrast to moments before, his voice was now gentle and kind. "I can help you."

You couldn't help it. You laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. It was bitter, hopeless. "No one can help me."

"I can." MIB said, confident and sure of himself. Probably because he had no idea what he was up against. And proved it with his next question. "Who is after you? The police? Drug cartel? Ex husband?

You shook your head. "Doesn't matter."

"It does. Tell me so I can help you," he said, almost pleading. "I promise I'll protect you."

Even with half his face covered, he looked so earnest. And you couldn't help but feel touched by his offer. He didn't know you. Didn't know what he was promising. Couldn't know who he was pitting himself against. It was something that only one other person had ever done for you.

"No, you can't," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. If the Ferryman wasn't powerful enough….

"Mary —"

"I can't tell you." Your mind unwillingly conjures the knowledge of what would happen to anyone who tried to help you. "I can't."

MIB sighed, a deeply frustrated sound, but he let it go. "Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?"

"No?" You said.

"Well, you do now. My bed is through that door." He pointed behind you.

You shifted, uneasy. "I don-"

"Don't be afraid," he said. "I'll be sleeping on the couch."

"But-"

"Please," he said. "If you wouldn't let me help you, at least let me give you somewhere safe to sleep tonight."

You considered it, torn. You didn't know this man, didn't really trust him, but you were tired. Beyond tired. You haven't had a good night's sleep since you left Tampa. You didn't really want to look somewhere else or sleep outside again. "Okay."

#fan fiction #fan fic #daredevil #netflix daredevil #mcu daredevil #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #into the red thread verse #the phantom series #chapter 1

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pastafossa · 5 months ago

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"Love Leaves A Mark" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic, Pure Fluff)

I've been working on this for a bit to celebrate the release of our older Born Again!Era Matt, and happily I can say this one's now done, which means I can finish up another little oneshot I have and then get back around to The Red Thread's next chapter. This is written with TRT!Reader in mind, but I also tried to write it vaguely so it's easy enough to enjoy even if you haven't read that massive saga. Also if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications!

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Warnings for this fic: None that I know of, they're just being cute and in love as they grow old together. There ARE some vague physical changes described that are standard in aging but that feels pretty normal.

Fic Summary: You and Matt are growing older together, and you're both loving every second of it, including the physical changes that come with it.

“Did you get more toothpaste today?” you called sleepily, lifting one leg to idly scratch at your calf with your foot. You worked your toothbrush over to the other side of your mouth, wrinkling your nose at the taste. Nine years you’d been using your husband’s toothpaste and you’d never gotten used to the flavor, or lack thereof. You’d be damned if you didn’t use it regardless, though. “And Mini’s food?”

“Picked up both.” The low rumble of his voice was sleepy and distracted as it drifted out of the bedroom. Outside the little brownstone you both now called home, the snow continued to fall in thick, heavy flakes, muffling the roar of the wind and the few cars still out on the street despite the late hour and travel ban. You were grateful for that storm. In all the time you’d been with him you’d never had a problem with the Devil’s nightly rounds. Loving Matt meant loving Daredevil, too. But you still treasured evenings like these when he was able to stay in with you, your purring, cuddly husband happily playing the role of your favorite blanket. “I may have also stopped at the bookstore and gotten you something on the way home.”

You paused, shifting your gaze meaningfully toward the open bathroom doorway. You probed curiously at the psychic connection between you, a subtle attempt to discern what it was he’d picked up for you. All you got was a playful nudge back. He didn’t even have to try all that hard anymore, smoothly deflecting you with all the ease of swatting away a pillow.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” His voice was an amused whisper in your mind. “You’ll have to figure it out the old-fashioned way.”

You scrubbed faster at your teeth, grinning at his laugh in the other room.

“I don’t know how you have any gums left considering how often you do that,” he mused as you leaned down to rinse your mouth out. You quickly shoved your toothbrush back into the penguin-shaped toothbrush holder before flipping off the light and padding out of the bathroom.

“The benefits of genetic tampering,” you said dryly, joining him in the bedroom. He was already settled into bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard, a well-worn book beneath his hand. Down atop his blanket-covered feet, a large, round black void of fur had arranged itself into a perfect circle, no head or tail to be seen. Matt tipped his head as he tracked your eager circling of the room, the barest little smirk quirking his lips. You scanned around for anything new, hunting along the walls and the bookshelves that had managed to migrate their way into the bedroom once your shared office slash library had gotten too full. Books had a tendency to breed like rabbits between you and Matt. “Where?” “Your nightstand. I figured you’d probably want to dive in.”

You darted over towards your nightstand.

“No way,” you breathed, sitting down on your side of the bed and snatching up the first of the three new hardbacks he’d placed on your nightstand. “This one—I thought it was going to take another week at least before they released it. How did you…?” “I kept checking with Hanna every time I passed by her bookstore.” He cleared his throat as you flipped open your new copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy to a random page, the much-loved scent of new paper and ink filling your nose. “Eventually she took pity on me and finally let me buy this one early with cash. Although she wasn’t sure why you wanted this one when you have so many other translations already.”

“It’s Palma’s new translation,” you murmured distractedly, dragging your finger down the flowing lines of poetry, your eyes skimming rapidly over the page. You could already spot some of the changes. “I have the first translation he did of the Inferno, but this is the first time he’s done the entirety of the Divine Comedy, and he’s tweaked his previous translation. It’s supposed to mimic the rhyming scheme Dante created more closely. Not easy when you’re shifting it from Italian to English. Dad’s going to have kittens when he hears the Devil got me my copy before he got his.”

Even without looking at him, you could feel Matt’s smug satisfaction. “You should call him so I can hear him swear.” “Call him yourself if you want to rub it in.” You snorted in amusement at Matt’s neverending desire to goad your adoptive father Ciro, who admittedly had a habit of goading back. At the very least their jabs had become less hostile over the years, the two of them now closer to sparring partners than actual enemies. You leaned over to look at the other two books Matt had gotten you, your brows shooting up. “And you got me Emily Wilson’s translations of the Illiad and the Odyssey? You’re spoiling me, husband dearest.” “You said last month you were thinking about picking them both up. I figured I’d check if they were there.” There was a rustle of blankets behind you, and a slightly irritated, ‘mrrp?’, presumably as Matt adjusted his feet beneath the fuzzy black hole curled up atop them. “Consider it an early anniversary gift.” “Not that I’m not grateful, but you and I both know it’s January, dear.” You set Dante back down atop the stack of books before swiveling on the bed to face Matt. You started crawling across the mountain of blankets and silk sheets toward his grinning form. “Our anniversary is months away.” “The anniversary of our first kiss, then.” His smile only grew wider when you reached him and threw your leg over him to sit astride his waist. It was something he welcomed as he always did, his hands setting aside his book immediately in favor of you. He slid his palms warmly up and down the fleece covering your thighs, pausing here and there to knead at the muscle just because he could. It never seemed to matter that he’d touched you a thousand times before. He treated every moment like this as if it were the first. “A few hardbacks are the least you deserve.” “Lines like that make me want to marry you.” You sighed, draping your arms comfortably over his broad shoulders, lifting one hand to idly card your fingers through his dark hair. He hummed beneath your touch, tilting his head openly into the fond drag of your fingers like a big cat. “Buying a woman hardbacks? In this economy? Put a ring on me, Mr. Murdock.”

“Now Mrs. Murdock, how would your husband feel about you saying things like that?” His voice was a playful purr, words thick and glutted thanks to the drag of your nails. You were pretty sure his eyes had rolled back behind his closed eyes. “He’d, mmm, hunt me down until his dying breath if I laid so much as a finger on you. As for me, my wife is… not inclined to let me go gently.”

“You’re goddamn right I’m not.” You sprawled out against his chest, dipping your head. He met you halfway, touching his lips to yours. You gave him a warm, lazy kiss, faint traces of copper and cinnamon passed from his smiling mouth to yours. The familiar taste of him, the softness of his skin, the sweet warmth of his breath in your mouth soothed you in a way little else could, and you drew him deep into you on a slow inhale, humming against his lips. His chest rumbled contentedly beneath you in response, his hands sliding up from your thighs to squeeze and rub affectionately your hips. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

“Never,” he murmured against your mouth, chasing after you to steal another kiss when you tried to lift your head. You ran your fingers through his hair again, sighing at the soft, playful brush of his tongue against your lips, giving it a mischievous nip of your own that made him rumble another pleased noise beneath you. His voice dropped further, all lazy warmth and possessive hunger, shades of the Devil coloring the edges like a painter’s brush. “Mm, my wife, all mine.” “Your wife,” you agreed fondly. “One who’s cut people before and will happily do it again if it keeps you safe.”

“Your services are very much appreciated.”

“They should be since I fully intend to sit in a pair of rocking chairs with you one day in our old age.” You brought your hand around to scratch your fingers lightly through the coarseness of his beard, making him groan breathlessly in delight, his back arching just a little beneath you. He’d been letting his beard grow in for the past week or so. You were unsure if it was by choice or if it was simply that he’d felt too busy to take the time to shave. It had been a while since you’d last seen him with a full beard, though, a few years at least. And to your pleasant surprise, there were a few changes. Your fingers petted curiously over the small patches of silver scattered around. “I’ve even kept you alive long enough that you’ve got grey here in your beard now. That’s new.” His brows rose in surprise, his eyes fluttering open where they’d fallen closed. “Really?”

“Yup. It’s very handsome.” You stroked at the prickly grey strands before your hands slid back and up to his temples, tracing the few strands of grey there just as affectionately. His cheeks had even turned the tiniest bit pink at your praise. “Some here, too. Just a little at your temples. You gonna be my silver fox, Matt?” “I guess so. That’s what I get for letting you pet all the color out over nine years.” He heaved a great sigh beneath you as if his care sheet instructions didn’t specify he get at least ten minutes of petting each day, without which he would wilt away. “You made me look old.” “Oh please. You don’t look old. You look human.” Your fingers left his hair so you could poke him pointedly in the chest. He threw you a wounded look, all furrowed brow and big sad eyes that you weren’t falling for even a little. “Also, you gave yourself those grey hairs, thank you very much. You’re the most stressed man I’ve ever met. Half of what you put yourself through would have turned anyone else’s hair white by now.”

“Fine. I’ll admit that I may have done… a few things that were somewhat stress—” “Got a building dropped on you. Fought Nobu in tissue paper. Got shot in the head. Used a neti pot to snort some fucking rusty tap water full of amoebas and tiny shrimp—”

“That last one still really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea. One day I’m going to kiss you and taste brain shrimp, I just know it.”

He snorted. “You say that like I don’t have my own list of all the things you’ve done that have almost given me a heart attack.”

“Alright, so my list is also… a bit long.” You tilted your head, watching his eyes shift absently around. After so many years with you, he was no longer self-conscious about letting you watch his eyes this closely, much to your delight. In the low light of the bedroom, his eyes were a soft, dark brown rather than the green or grey they could shift to during the day. Beautiful as always, especially with the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lines that now seemed permanent even when he wasn’t smiling. You brushed your thumb over a few of those lines, your playful tone falling away into something more serious. “What if I like it, though? These parts of you that are getting older? Like these laugh lines.”

He furrowed his brow pitifully. “Now you’re telling me I’m wrinkly, too?”

“Oh, fuck you!” you huffed, his body shaking beneath you as he laughed. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop deflecting, I’m serious.”

“I’m know you are, even if you’re telling me I’m a grey, grizzled, wrinkled husk.” He groaned theatrically, rolling his head back. “You should just bury me if I’m that old.”

“Not a chance. Not when I love everything I’m seeing. Like these…”

You leaned in and planted a kiss on the laugh lines in question, feeling them grow deeper under your lips as he smiled.

“And these…”

Another kiss, this time against one of the grey patches in his beard, making him sigh.

“...and goddamn do I love all this, too,” you murmured, sitting back so you could drag your hands hungrily down the front of him. There was no part of him you didn’t love, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a little obsessed with the dark hair now edging up past his shirt collar—so much of it now that he’d finally given up on shaving his chest and let it all grow back—and the slightly thicker lines of his abdomen and hips, both of them a touch softer than they had been almost a decade ago when you’d first met him. You’d know; you’d been laying on him almost every night for most of that decade, barring a few rough patches and business trips.

“Mrs. Murdock,” he breathed in feigned shock, as if he wasn’t aware of exactly how much you enjoyed both his chest hair and the whole of his body from top to bottom, “are you insinuating something about me?” “You mean like insinuating I’m the reason you now eat regularly and aren’t so dehydrated that I can practically draw a map of your veins by sight?” You squeezed at the meat of his abdomen and hips greedily, your voice growing smug as you kneaded at him. Your touch made him chuckle and squirm beneath you, only drawing more protests from the cat trying to sleep on top of his feet. “Yes. Yes, I am. You’re welcome for the health, by the way. You’re aging like a fine wine, husband dearest. And it makes me happy.”

His face softened at that, one hand leaving your hips to lay against your sternum. “If your heart wasn’t beating so steadily, I’d say you were just trying to flatter me,” he mused. “But… me getting older really is making you happy, isn’t it?”

“It is. I…”

You paused for a moment, struggling to put into words what you were feeling. His hand at your hip edged up under your shirt until he could rub his thumb soothingly at your skin, content to wait while you figured out how to say what you wanted to say.

“I think it’s that… there was a time when I wasn’t sure if you’d live long enough for me to see you grow old with me.” You cupped his face in your hands, treasuring the way his eyes fell slowly closed and he leaned into your touch so openly, so easily. It had taken so much work to get him here, where he felt comfortable accepting your love and your affection, but it had been worth every ounce of effort. You traced over his laugh lines again with your thumbs before skipping down to the faint smile lines at the corners of his mouth, a mouth that pursed to kiss your thumb when you swept one over his lips. “But you did. I’m getting to see it. That’s special to me. I want to see that… that you’re still alive, that you’re living long enough for these things to happen. I want to see all these little grey hairs, and wrinkles, and the way your body has gotten a bit softer, because every little piece of you that gets older represents a moment I didn’t know if I’d get with you.”

He drew in a shaky breath before his eyes fluttered slowly open again. And in the dark of his eyes there was such a reverent joy, such a bone-deep love filling their depths that it almost took your breath away. You’d never tire of seeing it, even if you both lived for another fifty, another hundred, another thousand years, joined in this lifetime and in whatever came next. Religion had nothing on being loved fully, wholly by Matt.

“I could say the same thing about you,” he breathed, his hand at your sternum sliding up to cradle your neck, thumb sweeping gently over the thin skin above your pulse. He pressed just a little, just enough to tug your skin back and forth. A moment later, he tugged you in until he could feather a kiss against your pulse where his thumb had been, lingering there as you nuzzled into his dark hair. “And spots like right here.”

“What’s changed there?”

“The texture of your skin. How much it moves when I touch it. I like to think,” he whispered against your throat, “that your skin’s a little looser here now, more worn in, because I’ve stroked at it so much that I’ve changed you permanently. It’s a sign of just how much I’ve touched you, how many times you’ve trusted me and let me put my hands here. It’s never mattered to you how scarred those hands were, how covered in blood. You let my love leave a mark.”

He tightened his other hand against your hip next, taking hold of the curves that had changed as you’d journeyed through the years with him. “And you’re softer now, too, just like me.” From there he smoothed his hand affectionately upwards over your ribs and up past your breasts, mapping over all of the places your body had begun to show your age like his: stretchmarks and small wrinkles where once skin had been smooth and tight, scars from old battles now faded and ragged with time. The journey his hand took was made with reverence, tender and heavy with intent, his smile so very soft and almost… wondrous. “I may not be able to see you, but I can feel you growing old with me, too, sweetheart. More curves, a few wrinkles. It’s like I can feel your body sinking deeper and deeper into a life with me.”

“That’s what happens when love winds up being your gravity.” You leaned in to kiss his forehead lines. “A decade of being drawn in by you.”

“Mhm. And up here.” He shifted his hand at your throat to cup your face like you had his, his thumb tracing the corners of your eyes. “Laugh lines. Because our life’s made you laugh so much that it changed you. They weren’t there the first time I put my hands here. But they are now. Signs of how happy you are with me. And there are more every year, because you… love me enough to stay.”

“Hey, my Devil-Man,” you whispered, tilting his head up until your forehead could meet yours. He didn’t bother to hide the vulnerability in his eyes, this old wound of his. It was mostly mended now, when it came to you, but sometimes that furrowed scar inside his heart still made him ache. “Do you need me to remind you again? I’m not going anywhere, husband of mine. There’s nowhere you’ll go that I won’t follow.”

“I know.” His eyes fluttered as you stroked at his skin. His arms left your face until he could wind them tighter around you, pulling you in tight against him until his every breath became yours. That seemed to settle him some, the weight of you against his chest, especially when you dropped your head to his shoulder, nuzzling in against his neck. “That’s… that’s just it. With me, you see… moments you didn’t think you’d have because you didn’t think I’d make it. And I didn’t think I’d have this with you, either. A home, wrinkles, greying hair. Not because I didn’t think you’d live long enough, but… but because I never thought I’d find someone who could love me enough to stay this long. To love me this long. Long enough that I could feel you grow old with me.”

“Loving you has never been a chore, Matt.” You breathed in the scent of his skin, soap and the faint copper of blood, traces of cinnamon and just him. It was a scent you knew better than your own. You lifted your hand to run your knuckles down his cheek, tracking your way through his greying beard, hoping that your touch would help your words sink in. He slid his hands up under the back of your shirt to drag his palms smoothly down your back, comforting himself with the feel of your skin as he tilted his head, listening to your heartbeat. It wasn’t because he thought you were lying, that much you knew. But he’d told you once he found the truth soothing when hearing something that might make him feel otherwise vulnerable. Something like this, this old wound of his, absolutely qualified. “And it never will be, no matter what comes at us. If you need me to remind you of that every day, I will. I’ll tell you that over and over again, until the day we die and get buried in matching coffins.”

“The same coffin,” he said quietly, tipping his head to nuzzle at your temple. “There’s a reason we took ‘Till death do we part’ out of our vows. No parting, even in death.”

“Do they even sell double coffins? If so, I’m down.” “Even if they don’t, I’ll tell Foggy to make sure I end up in yours with you.” “I think I should end up in yours.” “Why?” “Because everyone will just assume your coffin’s extra heavy due to your goddamn audacity.” He burst out laughing beneath you, his body shaking and almost throwing you off him entirely. “I’m just saying,” you continued, trying not to grin as he choked out more laughter, “you live your life in a very particular way, man without fear. ‘Christ, why is his coffin so heavy?’ And our friends can just say, ‘well, you know, it’s Matt Murdock’ and it’ll explain everything. No one will notice me shoved in underneath you so you can lay on top of me forever.”

“It’s a date,” he said, still huffing in amusement. A pointed paw tapped at your back before starting a walk up your spine. “Speaking of which, looks like someone’s eager to get in on the cuddling.” “Behold, offer to cuddle and both Matts will appear,” you snorted as roughly twenty pounds of scarred black cat trod his way stubbornly up and onto your shoulder, rasping out an indignant meow that sounded like he’d been smoking a pack a day for the past seven years, because how dare the two of you do this without inviting him. “I’m about to be sandwiched, I think. Hello, Mini-Matt.”

Sure enough, Matt’s smaller clone enthusiastically rammed his head against your temple, making you grunt, before doing the same to Matt’s chin. He was already purring like an old motorcycle engine in a request to get in on what seemed like a nice, cozy cuddle pile, as if Matt would ever turn the cat down. Sure enough, Matt leaned in, planting a kiss to Mini’s big fuzzy forehead before turning and laying a much gentler kiss on yours as Mini draped himself over your shoulder, stretching one paw out to pat Matt's face. “Something tells me you don’t mind, though.”

“Not even a little.”

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