Falling
ᰋ﹒◜ pairing ⸝⸝ Distant Allies, unwillingly Forced to know about each other's vulnerabilities, Daredevil & Asgardian!reader ◟ cw ! ୧ fluff ! victim Blaming? ࣪
a/n: Angel Reader?. Inspo is definitely my girl Angela/planning to make her reader's sibling alongside loki and thor, MR is getting her the attention she deserves; English is my second Language, i have no idea what I'm doing.
The rain in Hell’s Kitchen didn’t wash away the sins; it just made the garbage smell wet. Tonight, however, the usual bouquet of rotting takeout and stale beer was overpowered by something sharper.
Ozone. Sulfur. The metallic tang of blood that wasn’t entirely human.
Matt stood on a rooftop ledge, the water slicking his red suit, listening to the heartbeat of the being standing next to him. It was a slow, rhythmic thrum, like a war drum beaten underwater.
Powerful. Ancient. And incredibly annoying.
"You're brooding," the voice said. It wasn't the booming, Shakespearean thunder of Thor, nor the silken, venomous whisper of Loki. It was modern, clipped, and dry.
"I'm thinking," Matt corrected, turning his head slightly. His radar sense painted the world in wireframe echoes.
Next to him stood the Asgardian. One of The siblings. The "Angel."
He remembered the War of the Realms. He remembered the weight of Heimdall’s sword in his hands, the golden fire that had temporarily replaced his radar, turning him into the God Without Fear.
He had sensed this entity then, a blur of motion on the periphery of the Bifrost, cutting down Frost Giants while Matt was busy helping the others, and helped fix the Bifrost Bridge .
They were background noise to each other then. Now, they were unfortunately front and center.
"We need to move. The trail is getting cold," the Asgardian said.
"The Devil doesn't bow to the schedule of false angels," Matt muttered, adjusting his billy clubs. It was a knee-jerk Catholic reaction.
He couldn't help it. The idea of these aliens co-opting divine terminology always made his teeth itch.
The Asgardian scoffed, a sound like tearing parchment. "And I don't bow to false devils. You wear the horns, Murdock, but you bleed like a mortal. You preach like a nun."
Matt bristled. If it were anyone else—Spider-Man/Peter, Frank, even Logan—he would have let it slide. But this celestial arrogance required a check.
"I know the difference between a costume and the real thing," Matt said, his voice dropping an octave, rough with the memory of shadow.
"I was possessed once. By the Beast. A real demon. I didn't just wear the horns; I was the pit. I murdered Bullseye. I turned this city into a temple of blood." He tilted his head, challenging them. "So don't talk to me about false devils until you've had to claw your own soul back from Hell."
He expected shock. Maybe anger or even fear.
Instead, the Asgardian just hummed, a vibration Matt felt in the soles of his boots. "So that explains it," they said, sounding bored. "I was wondering why there was such a disgusting stain on your soul. It looks like grease on a white tablecloth."
Matt paused. He felt a complicated mix of indignation and dark amusement. "You're charming."
"I'm honest. Come on."
They dropped into the alleyway.
The mission was simple: Soul collectors. Low-level demons trying to franchise out into Hell’s Kitchen. Matt could smell them—rancid meat and burning hair.
They found the first sign a block away. A little boy, standing perfectly still in the middle of a puddle. His heartbeat was wrong—too fast, fluttering like a trapped moth, overlaid with a second, slower, sludgy rhythm.
Matt stopped. He could sense the boy's shape, the smallness of him, but the radar couldn't pick up the magical nuances.
He hated being blind in these moments. Not because he wanted to see, but because he hated missing the intel.
"He's possessed," the Asgardian said quietly, stepping up beside Daredevil. Their voice lost the snark, replaced by a clinical, soldier-like precision. "Black eyes. Veins pulsing black around the temples. He’s pointing... North. Toward the abandoned textile factory."
"Thank you," Matt whispered. It was a genuine admission of necessity.
"Don't mention it."
The Asgardian raised a hand. Matt heard the air displace, a sudden vacuum of pressure, followed by a sharp *crack* of energy. The boy gasped, collapsing as the sludge-heartbeat vanished, leaving only the terrified fluttering of a human child.
"Go home, smábarn," the Asgardian ordered. The boy briefly gaped at the the two, before scrambling away, splashing through the puddles.
They moved toward the factory. As they walked, Matt focused on the Asgardian’s gait. There was a heaviness to their movement, a displacement of air behind them that suggested wings.
Two of them. Matt’s radar picked up the faint, ghostly outline of feathers shifting in the wind, though he knew the Asgardian used some sort of glamour to blend in.
Inside the factory, the demons were waiting.
They weren't physical brawlers; they were whispers. As soon as Matt and the Asgardian stepped into the gloom, the voices started.
"Everyone leaves you, Matthew," a voice hissed from the rafters. "Elektra. Stick. Foggy. Your mother......Even God left you in that chemical"
Matt didn't even break stride. He swung his billy club, ricocheting it off a steel beam to strike a shadowy figure lurking in the corner. "Get new material," he deadpanned. "I hear worse than that in the confessional."
But the demons shifted tactics, sensing a fresher, more open wound in his companion.
"Look at the broken bird," the voices sneered, circling the Asgardian. "Look at the pathetic glamour. Hiding the stump? Hiding the failure? You lost a wing to a lesser foe, and now you pretend to be whole. You're lopsided. Broken. Flightless."
Matt sensed the Asgardian stiffen. The air pressure in the room shifted violently.
"You flap that fake wing of light hoping no one notices," the demon cackled. "But we see it. We see the scar."
The glamour shattered.
To a seeing person, it would have been a flash of light. To Matt, it was a sonic boom of displacement.
The illusion of the second wing vanished, leaving a void in the air currents. Now, there was only one massive, heavy appendage on the Asgardian's left side.
The Asgardian didn't scream. They moved.
A sword was drawn—the sound of celestial metal singing through the air. With a single, brutal arc, the Asgardian cleaved through the darkness. Two demons shrieked as their physical forms were severed, dissolving into ash that tasted like burnt sugar on Matt's tongue.
"Doesn't everyone know that about me by now?" the Asgardian said, their voice tight, breathless. "You're not as clever as you think you are."
Silence fell over the factory. The threat was gone...?
Matt straightened up, holstering his clubs. The room felt heavier now. He turned his head toward the Asgardian.
His radar sense was painting a new picture. Without the magic masking it, the single wing was enormous. It dragged slightly on the floor, heavy and dense.
He found himself wondering about the texture. Was it feathers? Or something harder? And the imbalance...
Matt knew about navigating a world that had taken something from you. He knew the phantom sensation of a sense that was no longer there.
Whatever it's made of, Matt thought, listening to the appendage shift as the Asgardian sheathed their sword, it sounds heavy. And loud.
It made a *whump-drag* sound against the concrete. His exhausted, sleep-deprived brain supplied a ridiculous comparison: it sounded like a swinging dick in a bad adult cartoon. Just a heavy, cumbersome object dragging behind them.
He shook his head to clear the thought.
"Are you going to thank me for the assist?" the Asgardian asked. The snark was back, but it was brittle. Thin.
"Thank you," Matt said, turning to face them fully. "You handled them well."
"I did."
The Asgardian stepped closer. Matt didn't flinch. He could smell the ozone radiating off them, hotter now.
"You're curious," the Asgardian stated. It wasn't a question. "Your heart rate picked up. You're wondering what it feels like. You're wondering about the... mechanics of it."
Matt opened his mouth to deny it, to offer some polite Catholic deflection, but he was cut off.
*Whack.*
The Asgardian spun, and the flat of the massive wing slammed into Matt’s back. It wasn't an attack—it was a shove, playful but with enough force to knock the wind out of him.
"Oof—" Matt stumbled forward, catching his balance.
"How does that feel?" the Asgardian asked, a dry laugh in their tone.
Before Matt could retort, the sensation changed... The wing curled. It wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in slightly.
It was overwhelming.
It didn't feel like a bird's wing. It felt like touching a live wire wrapped in velvet. There was a static charge to it, a humming energy that made the hairs on Matt's arms stand up. But beneath the power, there was incredible warmth. And weight. It was heavy, grounding.
Matt realized, with a sudden pang of empathy, that this was a limb. A limb that was currently overcompensating for its missing partner. It was sensitive.
"It's..." Matt faltered. The sensory input was intoxicating. He breathed out, a reflex, and found himself muttering a fragment of a prayer in Latin under his breath. *Sanctus, Sanctus...*
It was an involuntary reaction to touching something that felt undeniably divine, regardless of his theological arguments earlier.
The Asgardian didn't pull away. They let the wing rest there for a moment longer, sharing the silence.
"I suppose you have a nice voice," the Asgardian said softly. "For a human."
It was a peace offering. A compliment returned for the prayer he hadn't meant them to hear.
"I have," the Asgardian said, the wing folding back against their spine with a rustle of heavy, celestial plumage. "Someone has to keep an eye on this place. The mead halls of Asgard get boring. And the company here..." They looked at Matt, their single wing twitching. "...is occasionally tolerable."
Matt smiled, a genuine, tired smirk. "And you speak surprisingly well," he countered, leaning slightly into the weight of the wing before they pulled it back. "Less... 'thee' and 'thou' than your brother. You sound like you've actually spent time on Earth."
"High praise," Matt said, holding back a smirk.
"Don't let it go to your head, Devil. Come on. I'm buying the drinks. You look like you need to wash that 'stain' off your soul-"
To be continued?
