#demon foggy is just here for a good time and matt is trying so hard all the time to do what's right and they're good for each other

[returnsandreturns]

i'm still thinking about THEM

“Mr. Murdock, what are your plans to combat the ungodly impact of jazz on impressionable New Yorkers?” Foggy says, in his best newsman impression, catching up to Matt on the sidewalk. “Our readers want to know.”

Foggy has spent part of today lightly stalking him. It’s very demonic of him, even if all Matt did was the equivalent of helping old ladies cross the street and getting a cup of coffee, things that would have been uninteresting to him if it wasn’t Matt doing them.

“Jazz isn’t exactly the worst influence in New York right now,” Matt says, mouth twitching in the slightest smile. 

“That’s what your people think, though, isn’t it?” Foggy asks, speeding up to keep up with him. “It’s usually roughly the opposite of mine and I’m supposed to be spreading the good news of Count Basie to the common folk. How are you gonna stop me, buddy?”

“I’m not,” Matt says, laughing. “Have a great time. If anybody asks, I valiantly tried to stop the city’s youth from enjoying themselves after spending their formative years in economic turmoil.” 

“Well, what are you actually planning on doing tonight?” Foggy asks, catching his arm to get him to stop and pulling him gently aside. 

“. . .using miracles to give as many people functional radiators as possible before I get a stern memo from upstairs,” Matt says, sighing. “It’s freezing and it’s going to get worse and there’s not enough being done.” 

“Can I help?” Foggy asks. He loves when Matt ignores Heaven and does his own thing.

“You?” Matt asks. 

“You?” Foggy echoes, mockingly. “Yes, me. If you promise to come out with me later, you’ll get twice the miracles.”

“How will you explain that to them?” Matt asks, gesturing toward the ground. “That’s a lot of good for a demon to do. Even a–confusing one, like you.” 

“I. . .used the miracles to make it seem like my angelic opponent was influencing me toward the light,” Foggy says, slowly, “and then. . .led him closer to the a life of debauchery and eventual hellfire by taking him out to dance at a seedy jazz club. How’s that?” 

“There aren’t a lot of clubs that two people looking like us can dance in without causing trouble,” Matt says, eventually, after pondering it with his distracting bottom lip between his teeth. “Cut that part and I’m in.” 

“Oh, no, the dancing is essential to seem like I’m leading you astray,” Foggy says, “and I know where those clubs are but there’s another option. I mean, I’ve only seen it once or twice, but you make a gorgeous woman, Murdock.”

“When have you seen me as a woman?” Matt asks, frowning at him. 

“You did some kinda spy thing in the last war,” Foggy says. “I happened to be in the right place at the right time to see you in a neat little suit and red lipstick. And the pantyhose. I’ll be a polite demon and not say what those made me want to do to you.” 

Matt’s face was pink from the cold but it’s bright red now. 

“Oh,” he says, softly, making his very distinct pretending like he’s resisting temptation he is absolutely not going to resist face. One of his best. “Well, if that’s all I have to do to help so many people. . .” 

“Can I add red lipstick specifically into the agreement?” Foggy asks, grinning when Matt sighs. 

“Fine,” he says, reaching out a hand for him to shake.

[thefanficmonster]

Kick Some Ghost Ass

”Until Dawn Gang x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Swearing, Sex jokes (excuse my bad humor)

Genre: CRACK, Humor

Summary: It’s one thing when trouble finds this gang, but why don’t we take a look at what happens when they go actively looking for trouble. Needless to say, chaos ensues and no one is spared. Some are more affected than others, and some are dead-ass traumatized, but isn’t that just how life is in general?

Requested by my dearest ever - Until Dawn Anon. Hi lovely! I’ve missed writing your requests and I’m really happy to be back, creating another chaotic fic! I’m sorry it has taken me so long to post it but here it finally is - crazy as ever! I hope you enjoy it! Love you to Blackwood Pines and back baby ❤❤❤

I don’t know how I’ve found myself in this situation but I’m not complaining. If I get to do dumb crazy shenanigans with my crew, I’m ready for just about anything. Not to mention I’m no stranger to ghost hunting. I’m that kid that made DIY Ouija boards and took them to cemeteries with their terrified friends. You should’ve seen us leaving after capturing no ghostly activity - my friends relieved as fuck, and me pissed as fuck.

But today, I’m not expecting nor will I be accepting any disappointment. Especially not with Jess swearing on her Chanel purse that she wasn’t making things up when she said she had a haunted house she wanted us to visit. I must say, I appreciate this group’s enthusiasm when it comes to the paranormal. Never have I had someone who catches my vibe on the subject so well, let alone an entire gang all sharing the same opinion as me - that ghosts, demons and poltergeists are so fucking cool. Sure, Emily took a bit of convincing and Jess is not one to give a shit about the other world creatures invisible to the human eye, but something allegedly happened that changed her mind.

Her a-hundred-and-something-year-old great-grandmother passed away recently and though the death itself didn’t shake Jess up as much as it probably should’ve, the events that followed led to this moment right now - the eleven of us pooling out of two minivans that have pulled up to a terrifying looking house in a wooded are of the suburbs. Jess literally gathered us all on an ‘emergency meeting’ in the courtyard of our college just so she could explain the situation in detail - she doesn’t do well with explaining things in general, let alone when she’s hysterical - so we only understood what she was trying to say when she mentioned the word ‘ghost’. That’s when we all started listening more closely, with the exception of Emily, Beth and Sam but the latter two were intrigued despite trying yo hide it. You can only imagine how excited Josh, Chris and I were, Mike and Matt following a close second behind. Ash was a tiny bit more hesitant but Chris convinced her to give in. And just like that, a week later, here we are.

“I gotta ask, did your great-gran own a VHS player? Or a chest in the attic? Bonus points if there’s a creepy, child-sized doll in there.“ Josh asks as he yanks all the equipment he insisted we bring out of the trunk of the minivan.

“Quit fucking around, Josh! This is serious!“ Jess complains from the spot she’s standing in, shivering in the cold autumn breeze.

“Yeah, Josh! VHS players, creepy dolls, that’s all child’s play.“ I scold him as I pull on my jacket, wrapping it around me more tightly, “Shit gets serious when there’s a secret basement.“

“Y/N!“ Jess shrieks in exasperation. Honesty, how am I supposed to NOT bother her when doing the opposite is so much easier and brings more amusement? “You’re not helping!“

“Wasn’t trying to.“ I wink at her, driving her into a new level of fury that almost leads her to chuck her phone at me. If it weren’t such a prized possession of hers, I’m pretty sure she would’ve chucked it with the intention of knocking me dead. I’m lucky she has the aim of a drunk toddler that spun around fifteen times.

“Hey, quit pissing my girlfriend off, will ya?!“ Mike, who is basically halfway inside the trunk of the other van calls out to us.

I roll my eyes but choose to let it slide. However, someone else doesn’t. Emily does a dramatic turn on her heel, turning to face Mike, or at least the only part of him which is visible. You can imagine how hard it is arguing with an ass like THAT. I don’t know how Emily does it but oh well, I guess I do it too, in a way.

“So it’s girlfriend now, huh? No space between the words?“ Oh that smile she’s flashing him, it could make the Devil himself shiver. I find it kinda hot though - it means shit’s about to go down or hit the fan, either way, the rest of us will be entertained.

Mikey boy straightens up, gracing the rest of us by-standers with his dazzling features. Nah, I’m capping. I honestly think Mike is as attractive as I am patient - very little, almost not at all. It’s surprising how him and Jess are now apparently together since I always pegged her to be the superficial type.

“Got a problem with that, Em?“ He asks, eyebrow raising, head tilting to the side. Oh yeah, it’s on now. But, as someone who’s been quite excited to do some ghost hunting, and also as a representative of the peanut gallery formed of the rest of us who find it amusing and annoying, I feel the need to cut it short before it goes where it shouldn’t. I came to see some exorcist shit, not Keeping Up With The Bitter Exs.

“Jess, I sure hope your grandma is a blood-thirsty ghost cause I can think of at least two people I’d serve to her on a silver platter.“ I snatch the keys the blond has been jingling nervously between her fingers and jog up the stairs to the front door.

Ok I maybe overexaggerated the eeriness of the house. It sure wouldn’t sit right with you if you saw it around sunset or at night, especially not if it’s foggy, but a horror movie house it is most certainly isn’t. It’s pristine and well kept, not a single crack in the walls, the only reason it’s unsettling is because: 1) We’ve all seen a few too many horror movies; 2) There’s been reports of ‘ghostly activity’ - as far as Jess is to be trusted.

While I’m surfing through all the keys, checking each and every single one of them on the door because the real key is unmarked, I can’t help but overhear the conversation going on behind me on the porch.

“Can you believe we got all this in a single day and for a discount on top of all?! Whoever says Craigslist sucks isn’t doing it right.“ Chris’ enthusiasm over the deal him and Josh got on the ghost hunting equipment has been what’s keeping a wide grin on his face this whole time. Though I’m proud of my boys for not getting murdered by the Craigslist seller, I must say I hate that I lost the bet we had - I had to pay them each ten bucks if they didn’t get scammed/kidnapped/murdered and I’m now twenty bucks poorer. I’m not saying I value those twenty bucks more than my friends, though my broke ass needs all the bucks it has and all the dollar bills it could get, but Lord knows I hate losing.

“Yeah, and the guy was only mildly sketchy.“ Josh adds just as excitedly and proudly, “To be honest, Cochise and I were probably the scary looking ones in that parking lot.“

A look over my shoulder shows the twins, Sam, Matt and Ash giving the duo skeptical and somewhat disappointing looks and shakes of their heads. I’ll admit, the equipment is in very good condition and it’s the complete set for ghost-hunting, according to BuzzFeed at least. I’m impressed with the purchase - probably had something to do with how scary Chris and Josh actually look. The all-nighters we’ve all been pulling lately have taken a toll on them worst with the dark circles and bags under their hollow eyes, pale faces and brains turned to mush. I know I’d give them a discount to avoid them pulling out meat cleavers on me.

“That’s all fine and dandy guys, but do you know how to work any of this?“ Sam asks, hesitantly lifting the EMF reader and turning it in her hand, analyzing it with a curious gaze. 

Josh and Chris exchange a look before the former replies, “Just the cameras and voice recorder, the rest falls on them.” He points a finger at me and laughs, “Though they aren’t able to work something as simple as keys, they are more than qualified to be a ghostbuster.”

“You know, Josh, jokes on you, I can work keys! Jess, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be able to work well with organizing things, hence my problem with these keys.“ I hurl the bunch of keys connected my a scarlet keychain at Josh, “Lemme demonstrate my true skills.“ I hop down the flight of stone stairs and approach the pile of equipment the guys have created smack-dab in the middle of the house’s driveway. 

“Oh, I gotta see this!” Mr. Ex-Class-President all but runs over, frowning when we all turn to look at him just as I pick up the spirit box to show off how it works, “Oh that’s what you meant. So you aren’t taking your clothes off?“

Jess and I are alike in one thing - the need we feel to chuck objects at people who piss us off. “You’re girlfriend is, like, right behind you, Munroe. Have some decency!”

“I was gonna enjoy a show as well, but I’m guessing we won’t be getting one.“ The girlfriend in question replies, looking at me quizzically as though that’s gonna convince me into discarding my outfit.

“No, unless you’re a ghost.“ I point the device I’m holding at Mike, “But if your boyfriend here keeps acting up I might turn him into one.“

“That sounds kinda kinky.“ Beth’s comment surprises me. The wink she sends me even more so. “And I kinda like it.“

Ok, ok, ok, hold on. 

Flirting with Munroe is one thing, but Beth is a completely different story. I can be threatening Mike with a knife one moment and cracking sex jokes with him over cold beer the next. While Beth actually has the ability to get me flustered and blushing, and my close relationship with her brother doesn’t help. Mother fucker can just whack me upside the head every time he catches me fussing over my silly crush on his sister.

“Ew, you too! Keep it in your pants or at least get a room.“ Emily doesn’t miss a beat when it comes to being herself. She’s truly a garbage bin full of treasure.

“We’d do the latter if SOMEONE could get the door open.” I glare daggers at Josh who is making hopeless attempts at what I was doing earlier - unlocking that damn door.

“I’d be more than happy to come through for you ladies.“ Mike says, getting in a stance of a runner before a race, his body directly opposite the door.

Oh I can’t wait to see where this is going. I SHOULD RECORD IT.

“Mike, it’s still breaking and entering and it’s still against the law even if the person’s dead.“ Sam points out, entering her mother-like mode, ruining the fun and causing me to pout at her. She gives me a look of disappointment - one worse than I’ve ever seen on my parents - so I just shut my trap before she can also express said disappointment through words and have me feeling guilty for the rest of the day.

A loud crash suddenly echoes causing us to turn our heads to look for the source of the terrifyingly startling sound. One glance is all it takes to put our minds at ease and a second one is enough to provoke different reactions in all of us - the broken window telling the story of where Josh has disappeared.

“What did I just say about breaking and entering?!“ Sam shouts after him while the vast majority of us are cracking up like hyaenas. Jess is just gaping at the broken window next to the front door in disbelief. She obviously can’t decide whether to join in on the fun or serve as back-up to Sam. Josh did technically damage private property that’s partially hers, but if you ask me it serves her right for not marking her keys.

“Sorry, I was too busy breaking the window to hear that part of the conversation!“ Josh’s apologetic smile appears on the other side of glassless frame. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely sorry or holding back laughter but either way, he looks innocent enough for Sam to let him off the hook as long as he doesn’t cause any more trouble - in which case: tough luck. Chris, Josh and I are nothing if not troublemakers, especially when we’re together. Chris tones it down when Ash’s around, and the same goes for Josh with Sam while I’m simply problematic regardless of who’s watching. My chaos is untamable, it’s a blessing and a curse and I love it, even though it’s landed me in hot water more than once. It’s nice to be around people on the same wavelength - chaos resides within this group and not a single one of us can hide it.

“At least we have a way in now.“ Ash offers Josh a helping hand in this argument after she recovers from the overwhelming fit of laughter. “I hope the broken window doesn’t anger your gran, Jess.“

The blond snaps out of her trance briefly, “No, she was a very sweet lady, but damn is Josh creative!” She hurries to correct herself, “Destructively creative.”

I hurry to correct her once again, “Chaotically creative.”

“Guys, do you mind coming in? It’s very creepy standing here alone!“ Josh calls out to us, looking over his shoulder at the interior of the house, “I’m expecting to be snatched and dragged to that secret basement we mentioned.“

“Mention it one more time and I swear to God-!“ Jess screams, fists tightened.

Before her angry wrath could crash atop us, we all make our way into the house through the broken window, carefully avoiding the shards of glass strewn about. One step inside and we’re met with the upmost of horror clichés - a drop in temperature. We’re all wearing thick hoodies because the weather outside is chilly in and of itself, but said hoodies aren’t as efficient at holding the house’s cold at bay and away from out skin.

Chris and Matt make their way in last, carrying the equipment consisting of three cameras, flashlights for everyone, an EMF reader, a spirit voice box, a voice recorder and a motion detector. I help them hand a light to each group member as well as a ghost-hunting device before we venture onward.

“If I were your grandma’s ghost, I’d be ten times more pissed about that window. It looks to me like that lady payed a lot of attention to keeping things in order.“ Matt comments while he examines the expensive looking painting hanging in the hallway.

I hear Emily scoff, “Unlike some.” but the remark is said so quickly and quietly I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who heard it.

Jess laughs, “She did like things in order, but she was never as strict as you might think. As I said, she was very sweet.“

“So do you just not take after her at all or were you adopted?“ Emily’s remarks are no longer a mumbled jumble of words, “No, nevermind, of course you’re not adopted. Your parents are smart people, they wouldn’t have chosen you if they had the chance.“

Jess laughs again, much more menacingly this time, causing me to exchange a look with Hannah who’s walking beside me. “Twenty bucks says one of them isn’t making it out of here.” It’s just a matter of time, to be honest. If not the lodge, or any party we’ve ever attended as a group, this haunted house is the perfect opportunity for a murder. We could even argue it was a ghost.

Luckily, the two cats clawing at each other’s throats don’t overhear, “No, my parents aren’t stupid, but your boyfriend clearly is. He chooses to date you! Or are you holding him captive or something.“

Ok that’s enough. I can tolerate a lot of things, but people calling one of my best friends stupid is not something I’m about to put up with, “How dare you call one of my hoes stupid?” I sneer at Jess, eyes narrowing.

“I thought I was your hoe too!“ She fights back, looking almost offended.

“Even more reason you shouldn’t have called him that! I don’t tolerate my hoes not respecting each other.“ 

I don’t get to see where this argument goes because Ashley’s shriek echoes throughout the hallway, stealing mine as well as the attention of everyone else. 

“There’s a ghost in here!“ Making it to the doorway of the room she’s in first, I peak my head inside and see the EMF reader she’s holding going nuts as if it’s detected something.

“Don’t worry, Ash, there’s a dead cactus here. That’s not the ghost we’re looking for, is it?“ Chris, my amazingly bright friend says, quirking an eyebrow suggesting that remark was nothing short of dead-ass serious.

“Chris, darling, that’s not how it works. Cactuses are plants.“ I point out as sweetly as I can as to mask my laughter.

“Don’t the same ghostly rules apply?“ The genuine look of confusion he gives me almost makes me lose it.

“Ok children, leave the room, we need to set up a motion detector to be sure.“ Beth says with a tone that suggests she’s more than over our insanity. Jeez, count on her and Sam to start parenting us through our chaos. They are of high authority, must admit - one genuinely feels bad if they don’t comply to whatever these two girls demand.

We all pile out in the hallway while the twins set up this interesting motion detector with green dots. I don’t know what Jess’ granny looked like, but I bet that even the most unattractive of people would look hella good with this lighting. Thankfully the room is dark enough with the shutters closed and the curtains drawn, allowing the dots to be perfectly visible.

We stare at the minimalistic room littered with fluorescent green dots on every surface for maybe a minute or two but not much happens to the disappointment to some and relief to others. However, as if not wanting to let us down, the ghost makes a shy appearance if the shift of the green dots is anything to go by.

“Oh shit, is that a ghost?“ Chris whispers, sounding as amazed as I feel in this moment.

“It better be.“ I mutter in response, refusing to blink and risk missing anything important.

The sudden presence of the obnoxious noise of the spirit voice box makes us all jump. As I turn my head to glare at whoever’s using it, Josh speaks up. “Are you an attractive ghost?”

“Josh, that’s my great-grandmother, you ass!“ Jess barks with disgust in her voice.

In the meantime, I catch glimpse of Mike rolling up his sleeves. Oh shit, this ain’t good.

“I’ve been waiting for this!“ He shouts victoriously, cracking his knuckles.

Knowing this won’t end well, the first thing I do is snatch the camera from Chris’ hands and turn it on.

“Um, Mike, what do you mean?“ Sam’s back to being concerned, turning to the rest of us when Mike doesn’t give her a response, “What’s he gonna do?“

“Fight it.“ I answer as though it’s the most normal thing to ever have been done, “Or, ash he calls it - kick some ghost ass.“

“A freaking ghost?! He’s gonna try to tussle with something he can’t see?“ I can’t tell if Matt’s tone is disbelief, amusement or disappointment, but I believe he isn’t about to try and stop or dear ex-president in his pursuit and that’s all that matters. I ain’t about to let someone stop whatever’s about to go down from going down.

“That’s still my great-grandmother, you dumbass!“ Jess shrieks with something alike terror.

“Don’t worry Jess, I’m sure she’ll go easy on him.“ I say in an attempt to reassure her but I can’t even be bothered really, I’m too laser-focused on the circus that’s about to take place in front of me.

Mike, as if encouraged by my words, charges into the room. Much to his dismay, before he could even reach the ghost, he’s met with a much more vigorous enemy - the carpet. The rascal trips him up and Mr. Munroe falls flat on his face.

The group stays silent, looking at the glorious aftermath of the glorious fall. Told ya these lights could make everything fabulous. Must say, it’s truly an honor for me to have been able to catch all that on tape.

“10/10, would ghost-hunt with Mikey Munroe again.“

[theunvanquishedzims]

Where is my fic of Steve Rogers, Matt Murdoch, and Kurt Wagner bonding over being bi Catholic superhero drama queens. Where do they talk about their personal struggles with sexuality and faith growing up in the 1940s, a Catholic orphanage, and a German circus run by witches. (Were they witches? I remember magic and a giant demon lady and it turned out to be his adopted mother and sister, who he was also dating because they weren’t THAT kind of brother and sister.)

I want Steve to run into Matt shortly after being defrosted, maybe at the gym Matt boxes at. Boxing was a national pastime and now it’s fallen by the wayside in favor of more glamorous fighting styles. It’s nice to just get in a ring and punch someone, and they’re surprisingly compatible fighters, both slightly too fast and hitting too hard, coming out the other side grinning bloody teeth at each other. Matt smoothly lying (telling the truth) about his blindness forcing him to focus on his opponent until he can almost predict their movements. Steve fumbling with the cover story SHIELD gave him about being a soldier recently returned from war, being slightly too honest about feeling out of touch and like he wouldn’t fit in normal life with everything he’s seen and done in the war.

I want Matt to show up at SHIELD next Sunday morning to pick Steve up for church completely unasked, Steve fumbling into the nicest clothes he owns that isn’t a dress uniform, Matt loaning him a tie and whisking him across the city to Hell’s Kitchen. Matt whispering cues through the service, remembering John Mulaney at the last minute and hissing the correct words so Steve doesn’t say AND ALSO WITH YOU. Pointing out the priest he confesses to that can handle the mention of beating up bad guys without running screaming. Going out to lunch and discussing how Matt’s church is different from Steve’s old one, going back to Foggy’s to watch that John Mulaney show because he’s the only one they know with a tv, Foggy groaning over there being TWO of them.

Months or years later, running into Kurt at the Tower because Tony’s the one who developed the image inducer technology. Steve’s heightened vision being able to pick out the micro nuances where the hologram doesn’t quite keep up, most people would be able to shrug it off with a vague sense of unease, but they stand out to him like glowing red flags. Matt just feeling the buzzing and prickle of electricity all over his--skin? Fur? This man is very hairy and also has a tail. Why is no one saying anything about the tail. Steve almost citizen/Avenger-arrests him but Tony comes to vouch for him and they have their little Mutants Among Us revelation in the private upper floors. Steve apologizes very sincerely and they chat about Germany and circuses, another nearly-bygone relic that Steve misses. Matt is feeling left out, but jumps in when Kurt mentions being Catholic.

After that they’ve got weekly mass and lunches, and hey friendship is weird but wonderful. They give each other fashion tips! Kurt is European and flamboyant, Steve is solidly insisting that the only improvement on slacks and a button-up is a leather jacket, and Matt is literally blind. They get by. Matt introduces them to his tailor, after some private talks Kurt brings all his pants in and gets proper tail holes incorporated. Steve gets sticker shock every time he goes to a department store, but being able to buy at thrift stores and get them fitted is much more in line with his upbringing. Matt’s wardrobe gets some splashes of color that Kurt meticulously coordinates and bans him from freestyling with.

Weirdly enough it takes a really long time for the superhero thing to come up. Like a reeeeaaaaaally long time. Like shading into identity porn amounts of time. Not on purpose. Steve Rogers is a popular name in the US and doubly so in military families, nobody connects Steve the Army vet with Captain America unless they’re majorly into WWII military history, and the kind of guy who’s majorly into WWII military history is the kind of guy Steve tends to avoid outside of bar fights and university lectures. Everyone thinks the new Captain America guy is an Army recruitment stunt anyway.

Matt is blind, has had several high-profile cases against mob families, and lives in a dangerous part of town, nobody is surprised when he shows up places looking a little roughed up and growling about the darkness in mankind’s souls. Concerned, yes, ready to take on the mob, yes, surprised, no. He likes punching things though, so they leave it when he says he’s got it handled. A lot of debate stems from Matt’s growling, they all have strong opinions about morality and crime and institutional oppression. They have varying degrees of optimism/pessimism about God’s judgement and forgiveness, and wildly different ideas about the criminal justice system. (Again: 1940s soldier, US lawyer, and minority immigrant whose typical response to legal authorities is: *smashes a 40 on the ground* SCATTER!)

Tony introduced Kurt and told them he was engineering him the image inducer, but neglected to mention that it was part of his deal with the X-Men to field test his tech*. Nobody knows what he does for a living. Performer? Translator? Model? Escort? He knows a lot of rich people, like the Starks and Worthingtons and Frosts. He travels pretty frequently and brings them back souvenirs. Foggy is just happy that there is someone cheerful and level-headed in Matt and Steve’s Fight Club of a friendship, until Kurt backflips into the boxing ring with a fencing sword and shouts HAVE AT THEE, and oh no there’s THREE of them now.

(Tony is one of the silent investors in the X-Men. It started as just donating an old mansion the Stark family had to house at-risk “genetic minority” youth, then he wanted to help with the renovations to make it suitable for young mutants to practice controlling their powers, and then everyone got a little carried away and suddenly there were some extra basement floors. A few super computers. Something called a Danger Room, which is a misnomer because it’s totally safe, Tony promises. Possibly a donated jet or two, though they shot down his idea of painting it school bus yellow and claiming it as a school fleet vehicle on their taxes. He thinks the whole “X-MEN” thing the media came up with is hilarious, they’re just a bunch of persecuted minorities trying to rescue and educate kids, occasionally scuffling with another group doing the same thing on the other side of the moral line. He stays in his lane and looks forward to their tech challenges as a fun side project. “Full-body hologram” was a winner, even if it took a few tries to get the tail right.)

Just. More interaction between people who can conceivably interact on the regular, not just meet once in a big showdown based on mistaken identity, realizing We’re All Good Guys Here, shaking hands and then never seeing each other until the big world-ending team-up episode. Give me that sweet sweet bonding. We’re fanficcers, we don’t have to worry about coordinating between movies and shows and who’s going to space in their comic this week. We can just say “hey these guys have a lot in common, how about they get lunch sometime.”

[jkrockin]

2020 (Fanfiction) in Review

Pretending to have been tagged by @dancinbutterfly! It’s just going to be all fic writing stuff today, sorry.

Fics written this year: depressingly, 2020 has been my most productive year ever, ficwise!

wanna see if it's true (The Umbrella Academy, Five/Diego, Five in a skirt, skirt game part 2)

dressed in white noise (The Umbrella Academy, Klaus/OC, noncon electrotorture)

severe but so altruistic (The Umbrella Academy, Grace/Handler, Five/Diego, boarding school spanking part 3)

no way of turning the tide (Phantom of the Opera, Erik/Raoul, noncon gunplay)

say he'll fall and fall he will (Phantom of the Opera, Raoul/Christine, weird horny post-noncon recovery)

him which smote great kings (Daredevil, Matt/Foggy, the fic I was stalled on for three literal years and fiiiiiiiinally finished this year, thank whatever’s passing for a god these days)

get you right where you like it (The Umbrella Academy, Diego/Luther, skirt game part 3)

entwined here undiscovered (The Terror, Crozier/Fitzjames, forced handholding)

sooner shall the grass leave growing (The Terror, Jopson/Little, secret wedding)

a light and cautious tread (The Terror, Crozier/Jopson, soft service kink)

cast their hand to the fates (The Terror, gen, James stabs Hickey)

document the world inside your skin (The Terror, Crozier/Fitzjames/Jopson, post-rescue threesome)

watch til a star breaks through (The Terror, Crozier/Fitzjames, post-rescue, very resolved sexual tension)

pink like the lid of your eye (The Terror, Crozier/Fitzjames, nude watercolours)

try and hear no good news (The Terror, Crozier/Fitzjames, eavesdropping)

miles high off in the distance (The Terror, Crozier/Jopson, soft sleepy almost-facetouching)

Plus a big stack of WIPs.

Takeaways from reflecting on your kick-ass writing, or kick-ass lack of writing, during a year more focused on survival than perhaps any other: words are so hard, y’all. I would love to know what the secret is to unlocking brainword energy on a regular basis. Seven of the Terror works I turned out this year were written in the space of a fortnight, and the rest have come like pulling teeth, which is my usual writing speed. I think a lot of it has to do with divesting myself of shame? I can’t write well or with any kind of speed when I’m second-guessing myself and worrying about what the reader will think of my work, and, by extension, of me. Trying to put that aside is what I’m working on, a little bit, every time I sit down to write.

Most surprising fic you wrote this year: the Daredevil demon fic, because I actually finished it probably my weird dark Phantom fic, which is… not my usual metier.

How you grew as a writer this year: moved all my problematic content off my shame sock and onto my main, as part of my ongoing effort to put aside shame. Wrote more in a year than I ever have before- I know 65k is nothing compared to what some people are turning out, but for me it’s an achievement.

What’s coming in 2021: more self-indulgent AUs. More finishing things. More talking openly about my work.

Tagging @r0b0tb0y, @neurofancier, @veganthranduil, @thegreenmeridian, @catcorsair, @electra-xt, and anybody else who feels like doing it!

[pluckyredhead]

Daredevil 101: Cruel & Unusual

Hello, friends! I am back to fill up 10 minutes of your pandemic self-isolation downtime. Today we’re covering the storyline “Cruel & Unusual,” which ran through Daredevil v2 #107-110. Greg Rucka joins our usual team of Ed Brubaker and Michael Lark as a co-writer, which means a hardboiled dame investigating corruption, because Rucka has a #brand.

Content Warning: Severe violence against children is described but not shown; attempted suicide.

In the aftermath of what happened to Milla, Matt has sunk into depression. His friends are understandably concerned:

While Foggy pleads with him, Luke has a more assertive approach: yelling. Matt doesn’t take it well:

Yes, Matt breaks his hand. Yes, I laughed.

Anyway, Luke wants Matt to help him on a case, but Matt’s not hearing it, so Luke goes to the rest of Nelson, Blake, and Murdock:

MCU viewers will remember Big Ben Donovan from Luke Cage and Daredevil. They didn’t change much for the show, except that in the comics he sometimes beats people up in addition to being a super sketchy lawyer.

Anyway, he is currently on death row for decapitating three children - siblings, specifically. Not only that, he confessed to it. But Luke doesn’t think it fits his MO, and is hoping Matt - or barring that, Foggy, Becky, and Dakota - can do something to save Ben’s life. As they all agree, Ben sucks, but he doesn’t deserve to die for a crime he didn’t commit.

They try to get Matt on the case but he’s not interested. Dakota talks to a cop friend of hers, Detective Kurtz, and finds a few weird loose ends:

She then goes to see Ben in prison:

With Ben’s permission, she records his confession. On her way home from (I’m assuming) Sing Sing, she stops at a diner - and is attacked in the parking lot by a stranger, who beats her up and tells her to stay away from the Donovan case.

Furious, she goes straight to Matt and tells him to get his head out of his ass:

She wants Matt to listen to Ben’s confession and see if he hears anything off - that is, if he’s not too busy sitting around feeling sorry for himself. I know she’s coming off really aggressive here but the implication in the comic is that Matt has basically shut out the world for a worryingly long time by this point.

Anyway, Dakota storms out and Matt decides to listen to the recording - and realizes that Ben is definitely lying about killing those kids. So he finally pus on outside pants and heads out to do something about it:

Ben tells Matt the same thing he told Dakota - he did it, he has accepted his punishment, leave him alone. But Matt knows he’s lying, so he sees if the other Ben has any information for him:

That missing dad is still the loose end. Is he alive and thus probably the killer? Or if he’s dead, why won’t Ben (Donovan) confess to killing him too? Matt asks if Ben knows anything else about the dad, and Ben says he worked on the docks.

Meanwhile, Dakota continues to poke around and get in trouble, because that’s who she is as a person (I love Dakota so much). The same dude who beat her up before attacks her again, but this time she’s ready:

Also, surprise! He’s with the FBI. Which a) means there’s a cover-up happening, and b) freaks everyone out a bit because Matt and the FBI don’t have the greatest history with each other.

Matt, meanwhile, keeps digging and discovers that the missing dad didn’t just work “on the docks.” He worked specifically for this dude: 

Eric Slaughter, one of Fisk’s early rivals! We haven’t seen him in a while but he was a regular foe in the early Miller years - here he is in the Guts Nelson issue. Anything, this can’t be good.

Meanwhile in prison, Ben attempts to kill himself and is stopped just in time:

(Please note if you read the comic that the attempt and method are shown on the page.)

This man is on death row, so why would he try to kill himself? He’s clearly terrified of the consequences of Matt and Dakota digging into this case, but why?

Meanwhile, Dakota’s father, a CIA agent, also shows up to warn Dakota off:

Dakota’s like, uh, how did covering up the decapitation of three children become about national security, and also why are the CIA and the FBI working on the same case? This is extremely stinky.

Meanwhile, Matt and Foggy go to see Ben, who is even more insistent that Matt drop the case, this time practically to the point of hysteria. It does a number on Matt:

Foggy is such a good friend! Matt is so sad! That is a very specific photo reference!

Back at the office, Becky gives Dakota some very good advice:

As I said, I love Dakota, but she is a liar liar pants on fire. LISTEN TO BECKY!!! She had a crush on Matt and got over it! She has survived for three decades (now four)! She knows whereof she speaks!

Dakota and her flaming pants head out on the trail of another lead Becky has dug up, this time up at Columbia:

Yeah. Big Ben Donovan has a son, and if he doesn’t take the rap for the triple homicide, whoever is actually behind it will kill his son.

As Dakota leaves the building, she is shot by a sniper. Meanwhile, Matt attempts to confront Slaughter and finds himself in a trap:

In an extremely Murdocky move, Matt escapes by leaping out the window and through the sniper helicopter outside.

Meanwhile, Dakota is taken to the hospital. Matt blames himself. Becky, who has witnessed five fridgings by this point, is officially Done With His Shit:

You tell ‘im, Becks! No but seriously, she’s completely right, because this is a Greg Rucka storyline: Dakota got shot because she’s a hard-nosed investigator whose personal demons won’t let her leave a case alone even when it puts her in danger. It actually has nothing to do with Matt except that he’s also working on the same case, and blaming himself won’t help her.

Instead, Matt tracks down the FBI agent who attacked Dakota, leans on him, and learns the truth: the children and their father were actually killed by Eric Slaughter’s right-hand man. Slaughter had ordered the father killed for stealing from him, and his killer went rogue and murdered the kids as well. But the feds are in bed with Slaughter, because they’re using his smuggling operations on the docks to track terrorist activity:

If Slaughter’s man got arrested for the quadruple homicide, Slaughter would stop cooperating with the feds. So they gave him a fall guy, figuring Ben was a shitty person anyway and an acceptable loss in the ~War Against Terror~. It’s pretty disgusting all around and depressingly plausible.

Matt’s like “Well, arrest the real killer and let Ben go or this ends up on the news.” And he brings Ben a visitor:

Little Ben is, unsurprisingly, rather touched to hear what his father was willing to sacrifice for his safety!

Agent North tells Slaughter that his free pass has expired:

With all the loose ends wrapped up, Matt goes to see Dakota:

Aw that’s nice. And hoo BOY that last panel is a Charlie Coxish expression if I’ve ever seen one. Can Michael Lark see the future???

Next Up: Greg Rucka leaves and the book gets lackluster again. But, um, there’s a lot of ninjas and more Milla-related ableism? Yay? Hold on to your butts, kids, it’s almost Shadowland time!

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Coffee and a Wedding (Chapter 12- The End)

Here we are Loves, we've reached the end. I'd like to just take a moment to say Thank You to everyone. Thank You to the long time readers who have jumped with be between characters. Thank You to the new readers who I've watched discover my older works while waiting on updates. Thank You to the new readers whom I may never see again.

This series has been a adventure and I want to thank everyone for going on it with me. It was a adventure in playing with a new writing style, playing with a new type of story. And to think, it all started with the idea of a trope filled on shot for two friends’ birthdays.

There is always something bitter sweet to me about a series ending and with the end of the year near, I find myself looking back at how far I've come. I've finished Silent Song this year. I started and finished Clover and Lace. I finished The Things You Find (In The Rain). And now, I've finished Coffee and a Wedding as well.

I want to thank everyone who donated to the Kofi or cheered me on while I raised funds to go to NYC for my birthday. I want to thank @winterisakiller and @tnystrk-exe who supplied so very many tropes to this tropefest.

Here it is- a special Monday night treat. Chapter 12, about nine hours early. 

Masterlist

Chapter 12:

Morning came with a pounding headache and too bright sun. I couldn’t think and I wanted to drink the whole of the ocean, salt be damned. But that would mean moving and moving was something I didn’t want to do. Moving was going to hurt in so many different ways. I swear to God, I am never going to drink again. Not a drop. But that’s what everyone says when confronted with a hangover, right?

Speaking of hurting, everything ached. I fought to right my brain through the fog of the hangover and sleep. I was beyond comfortable, at least I had that much going for me. I was naked, I realized, and pressed against Clint. He was also naked.  

His arms were draped around me. My head rested on his chest and shifted slightly with every deep breath he took. The room smelled of stale air and sex. I could feel the dried evidence of the night before on my thighs but my mind couldn’t wrap around what that meant at the moment. Though I knew it was something.

My leg was hooked over his, bent and riding up his thigh. I could feel him resting against it. My hand rested on his chest and even though I was still foggy at best, I couldn’t resist the urge to run my hand over the muscles. One of Clint’s hands rested low on my hip and the other wrapped around my rib cage. His thumb rested under the swell of my breast.  

I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay here forever and never face reality again. But that wasn’t an option. The game was coming to a close. Once we got on the plane today, it was all over. He would go back to only being my boss. I would go back to only being an employee. And I’d be okay with that, somehow. I had to be okay with that, somehow.  

This shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let this happen. It was a mistake. I untangled myself from the sheets and Clint’s arms. He groaned and shifted, throwing his arm over his eyes.  

“It’s not morning yet.” He whined. “Come back.”  

“Need to shower.” I grumbled, “Go back to sleep.”

I looked passively around the room after slipping on Clint’s shirt. Something to cover myself was better than nothing. The bottle of wine was never even opened. The dress Clint had spent so much money on was in a crumpled heap on the floor along with his suit. His blazer was wet, having soaked up the ice from the bucket as it melted overnight.

After grabbing a change of clothes, I slipped into the bathroom. I’d not seen anything in the trashcan in the lobby and the trashcan in here was empty too. It dawned on me how stupid we were. That’s what I felt dried on my thighs.  

Did we talk about it? I couldn’t remember but that didn’t mean we didn’t. It also didn’t mean that we did. Would it be rude to ask now? Was it too late? I mean, let’s be real- Clint’s too responsible to have anything?

I cranked the shower on and used the hot water to wash away as much of my worries as I could. I wasn’t worried about a pregnancy- I had gotten a IUD a few years prior but still. By the time I was out of the shower, I had decided not to worry about things. I felt pretty sure that Clint wouldn’t have given me anything, he was generally responsible, right? I mean, sure this was his mistake as much as mine but still.  

By the time I finished washing and dried, Clint had pulled himself out of the bed. He was making coffee in nothing but a pair of shorts when I came out. I had all my things from the bathroom balanced on a towel.  

“Coffee’s hot.”  

“Thanks. Shower’s free.” I said as if it wasn’t obvious.  

“Thanks, Babe.” I ignored him and shoved my few toiletries into the clear travel bag. Of course, Clint noticed and asked, “You okay?”

“Fine. Just tired. Not looking forward to the flight.” I lied.  

“Yeah- I could sleep for a year.” Clint nodded only to groan and rub his head. “Here.” He handed me a cup of coffee, doctored to my liking and smiled at me with warmth in his eyes. “I’ll jump in the shower. Check out is in almost two hours.”

“Right. I’ll get packing.”  

~~~~~<3

With a hangover between us, there was a blessed silence while we rode in the taxi. He listened as I talked, worked my way through idea after idea as to how I would tell my family that our fake relationship ended.  

“I could just tell them that everyone put too much pressure on us.” I decided. “Too much judgment. Too many snide comments. Questions.” I decided. Sometimes simple was better and honestly, if we had a real relationship during this trip it would be a fair reason for it to end. It was hard to ignore all the wonderful things Clint had said when he defended me.

“Okay.” He said.  

After a few minutes of silently chewing at my lip, I gave up. “Thank you.” I said. “For putting up with it. For all the drama, trouble. For Matt. You’re almost off the hook and I promise I won’t put you in this position again.”

“I could,” He softly spoke. “put up with it. I mean, for longer.”

“But you don’t have to.” I laughed though I wanted to cry. “Lucky you.”

“And if I wanted too?” I wasn’t sure if I heard him right. I mean, what did that even mean?

“We need to go.” I said instead when the taxi came to a stop. I could see mom getting out of the taxi a few cars in front of us. I didn’t want to talk to her. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want to pretend anymore. I wanted to get home and cry.  

There was a crack of thunder as Clint opened the taxi door. As I put my foot on the asphalt, the sky opened up. Torrential rains fell from the sky. Yep, that was how my day was going to go.

Clint wrestled the bags out of the trunk and made quick work of checking them in at the curbside baggage drop. I hardly made it out of the cab before he was offering me his hand with a bright smile. In the distance behind him, I could see more and Kurt making their way inside the airport. They looked as tired as I felt. I didn’t think they were paying us any attention.  

Still, Clint wasn’t one to take a chance. He pulled me to him and we danced, spinning in the rain. My clothes and hair were quickly soaking up the water, as was his but he didn’t seem to care.  

It took a bit for me to give in. But after a few dips, twists and turns he had be smiling at him. I couldn’t help laughing as people watched him pull me into a kiss.  

“Get a room.” Someone shouted and I realized it was Kurt.  

I had no idea when he and Mom made their way back outside the airport but at some point they did. I rolled my eyes and stepped away from Clint. He didn’t let go of my hand though. I guess the act was back on.  

“I’ll call when we get back to the city.” I promised though I knew already that I was more likely going to text them and call it good enough.

“You better.” Mom demanded.

~~~~~<3

I was beyond glad to get off the airplane. The moment we took off, I focused on trying to sleep. Clint seemed to do the same and both of us dozed most of the long flight. Now that we had our bags and my legs were moving, I felt much better. My head was clearer and my heart heavier.

“About last night.” Clint blurted out as we walked by a Starbucks in the airport. I didn’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to acknowledge this. I didn’t want to give voice to the demon for fear I’d make it real. But he had to go and bring it up.  

“It’s fine.” I said, putting on the bravest face I had. “I’m going to go grab a taxi and get home. I’ll see you Monday?”  

“Wait a second?” Clint looked between the cafe and me. I smiled and shook my head. “We should talk about it- I mean we-”

“No, it’s fine. We were drunk. It’s whatever. And… I think I want to be alone for a little bit. I haven’t been since we left for the trip, you know?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “I’ll see you Monday.” I smiled as bright as I could and walked away with a wave.  

When Clint didn’t follow me, I breathed a heavy breath. It took everything I had to hold myself together. I could close my eyes and still see the weight of everything as it settled on his shoulders. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to carry with him knowing that he got drunk and had sex with his college age employee. He deserved better than that. He was a good man and a good boss.  

“Wait!” Clint’s voice had the amazing ability to carry over distances.  

I hadn’t thought anything of the sound of running feet- people run in airports. His voice was what made me turn and look. He skidded to a stop in front of me, no coffee in his hands.  

“What, Clint?”

“I like you.” He blurted out. “Maybe could even love you.”  

“Stop.” It was hard to keep from yelling. His mouth snapped shut. “I am tired. You’re tired. We just spent a whole trip pretending to be in love. We got drunk and had sex. It’s fine. Yeah, I’m young but I’m a big girl. I can handle it. Don’t worry. Just- go home and rest before you feel pressured into making promises or say things you don’t mean.”

“What?” He looked deflated. I told myself it was just that he was tired. He was wound up, thinking he had to do something- to be something for me because the night before.  

I said, “I’ll see you Monday.” and turned.  

The heels of my boots echoed against the tiles. It felt like the airport was empty and that I was alone yet people moved all around us as I walked away. I didn’t dare to look back, not directly. Instead I used a window as I walked by. It was just reflective enough to see Clint standing where I left him, rooted in place and my heart broke. That was the instant I decided that I wouldn’t see him on Monday. I couldn’t do this. I thought I could but I cant.  

~~~~~<3

Somehow, I managed to make it home before breaking down. Even as tears dripped from my chin, I texted mom that we made it home just fine. I told her we had a blast on the trip. She told me of how Sarah had made a scene at the wedding not long after we left. She was wine drunk and screamed at the groomsmen. Matt had to take her back to the hotel room early.  

It turned out, Sarah had changed her flight and left not long after we were in the air. She was on a single ticket, leaving Matt behind on the island. What that meant for them or their future was anyone’s guess. While Mom held onto hope that they would work things out. She had hope that Sarah could still accomplish her dreams of going back to school with financial security, I had other ideas. I hoped that it meant that Sarah would file for an annulment and move far away from Matt.  

I spent the weekend unpacking. The dress Clint purchased was hung with care in my closet, still needing a trip to the dry cleaners. I hardly left the apartment except for running to the corner store for more wine, more chips and most importantly- ice cream. By the time classes resumed, I planned to not even fit into the cursed dress from the wedding. It wasn’t exactly a healthy coping method but it tasted good at least.

Monday morning came with much dread. I hadn’t heard from Clint all weekend but I hadn’t expected to… But I wanted to. I wanted him to blow up my phone. I wanted him to prove to me he cared. I wanted him to show me I was wrong. I wanted my fairy tale.  

But I’m not a child anymore. I don’t get fairy tales. I don’t get fairy tale endings. I get to get wine drunk before four in the afternoon. I get to ignore my phone all morning. I get to block the cafe’s number. I get to block the other supervisors.

By Wednesday morning and my third missed shift, Mr. Barton started calling. Then he texts, wanting to know if everything was alright. Did he do anything wrong? Was I sick? Did I need anything? Finally, he asked for me to just talk to him. I had to answer, somehow. I had to tell him something.  

“Mr. Barton, I quit.”  

I sent the text with my breath held. I watched with baited breath as the read receipt changed from ‘unread’ to ‘read’. The screen changed to reflect an incoming call from the last person I wanted to talk to. After rejecting the call, I made quick work of blocking the last connecting to Arrowhead cafe.

~~~~~<3

Somehow, I managed to survive until Saturday. I busied myself during my last free week before classes with looking for a new job. Nothing seemed right but I applied with as many positions as I could. I needed something.  

Outside, rain poured down in sheets and thunder cracked. Wind whistled down the street and between the buildings. Part of me wondered if power would hold out for the rest of the night. It wouldn’t be the first time this shitty apartment lost power due to a storm and it wouldn’t be the last.  

When the pounding started at my door, I almost jumped out of my skin. At first, I wasn’t going to answer. I was riding a nice buzz from the wine and had worked myself a nice sized crater into the tub of Chocolate ice cream I had been nibbling. When the pounding didn’t stop, I had no choice but to slip off the windowsill I had curled up in.  

I didn’t think about it what I was wearing as I walked to the door but god, I wish I did. All I knew was the pounding wasn’t stopping and it was almost one in the morning. I didn’t want to open the door without looking through the peep hole but then the last voice I ever wanted to hear came bellowing through the door.  

“Alexis!” No. No, not home. Go away. Maybe if I pretended to be asleep? “I just want to talk. To make sure you’re alright.”  

“I’m fine, Mr. Barton.” I tried so hard to sound fine too.  

“So I’m ‘Mr. Barton’ now?” He sounded tired and I wondered if it was my fault. Maybe he was having to work extra to pick up my slack. Maybe no one could pick up my shifts. It didn’t matter, though. “Let me in. Let’s talk.”

“Go home. There’s nothing to talk about.” I yelled through the door.

“I’ll stay out here all damn night then! Yelling. You’re neighbors are sure to notice. Maybe someone will call the cops. Want to see what happens?” Oh man, that was a low move. I scrunched my eyes closed and swallowed the urge to scream.  

Instead I yanked open the door and reached out, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him inside. The door slammed shut behind him. “That’s not fucking fair.”

“Do you ever wear pants at home?” Clint asked, looking at me than running his hand through his hair and looking away. Right. Boyshorts and a large tee. Why can’t I just be allowed to die. “Doesn’t matter.” He decided as I crossed my arms over my chest.  

“What do you want?” I snapped.  

“To know why you just up and quit!” He snapped back. “Everything was great and then we got back and you’re just-” He flung his hands out when he couldn’t find the word he wanted.  

“Fuck you.” I snarled.

“You did. Or rather. I fucked you and you just-”

“Yes. You fucked me! How could I go back to the cafe after that? Pretending like none of this happened?!”

“I asked if you were sure!” He snapped back before taking a calming breath and running his hands down his too pale face. “Look. We were drunk. I was drunk. But if you didn’t want to- you could have said ‘no’ and I would have stopped in a heartbeat. I’m not- I don’t want to be that kind of man. I never wanted to take advantage of you.”

“You didn’t. I wanted it.” I grumbled the words. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have but dammit I couldn’t let him think even for a moment that I hadn’t been on board with what was happening that night.  

“Then what’s the problem?!” Clint’s voice was climbing again.

“I didn’t plan on you going to the wedding. I didn’t plan on spending so much time with you. I didn’t plan to fall in love with you. I didn’t plan any of this, so leave. Just go so I can get over you in peace. Alright? I don’t need-”

“Look- I know you’re pissed off at me right now. I know I showed up unannounced and made a scene. But I think you just said ‘I didn’t plan to fall in love with you’ and I really need you to rewind.”

“I… wait- what?” I didn’t say that. I couldn’t have. Did I? Fucking wine and ice cream.

“Alexis- are you in love with me?” Clint stepped closer.  

“What? No. Why would I-?” I couldn’t find the words to properly dig myself out of this. “Look- I just didn’t want to make things hard for you, to put your reputation at risk or anything. It’s bad enough what you had to go through last week.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” At least he wasn’t yelling anymore.

“Because I didn’t- You don’t feel the same way, you couldn’t- I’m me and you’re you. So why get hurt?”

“I don’t feel the same way?” Clint’s face was blank and I nodded. “Jesus Christ- I told you, I tried to tell you- what do I have to do to make you see?!” He snapped. So much for the yelling being done.  

“See what?!” I stomped my foot. How very adult of me.  

Clint reached out and snagged a hand around my waist. There was nothing I could do to stop myself from crashing into him. A hand tangled in my hair as he pushed his lips against mine. I was tense at first, unsure of what was happening.  

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the fact that this is what I’ve been wanting from the moment I got home but I eventually relaxed. The kiss turned soft and sweet as I ran my hands along his arms, up his chest and rested a hand against the side of his neck. Stubble scratched at my face and his breath fanned over me.  

“I love you too.” He whispered.

~~~~~<3

It’s been a few years now, and I still work at Arrowhead Coffee for a few hours on the weekends. The mornings where we opened the cafe together were some of my favorite times, even if he still occasionally flirted with the espresso machine. A girl can’t win every fight.  

The sun wasn’t even up yet but in an hour, it would start coloring the sky a little at a time. I still wasn’t really a morning person but this- this was worth it. I was surprised to see the cafe windows still dark. Clint normally at least had some lights on by now.  

As I got closer, I realized it wasn’t as dark as I thought. Inside the windows I could see little candles perched on each table. Firelight flickered and danced. Flowers were everywhere.  

When I slipped inside, I called for Clint. Soft music played over the speakers. I couldn’t help but laugh when he stepped out of the back. He was far overdressed with his smart suit for working in a cafe.  

“May I have this dance?” He asked as he drew closer.  

I realized, as I let myself be pulled along the flower petal covered floor that he was wearing the same suit he had worn that night, so long ago. I also realized that the flower petals were getting crushed, squished into the wood floor and that it wasn’t going to be fun to clean this up. Romantic gestures tended to be messy- they don’t show you that in the Lifetime Romcoms.  

The song came to an end and for a moment, Clint held me. There wasn’t anywhere else I’d rather be. I couldn’t imagine being in the arms of anyone else. This was paradise. This was heaven.  

Clint stepped back and smiled, it was that soft smile that hinted at his lips but danced in his eyes- that smile he so rarely used for anyone or anything but me. I could imagine someday, Clint giving a baby that same smile as he rocked a tiny bundle in his arms.  

He sank down to one knee, completely ignoring how flower petals would be worked into his slacks. Reaching into his blazer pocket, he pulled out a box. It wasn’t black but it was velvet- a deep royal purple that matched the colors of the cafe. My breath stuck in my throat as I covered my mouth with my hand. It was a gesture I had made fun of countless times in movies and yet here I was, standing in the candle light doing that exact thing.  

“Alexis.” His voice was thick and heavy. It reminded me of how he sounded when he woke in the morning. “I can’t begin to say how much you mean to me. I thought it fitting, since everything started here that this should hopefully start here too. I first saw you here and I was captivated by your smile. This is where our fake relationship started. This is where I fell in love with you- far before you knew it. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. I could only nod, before he even got the box open. I was nodding so much that I probably looked like a bobble head. It didn’t matter because I launched myself in his arms, knocking us both to the ground and the box sliding along the floor.  

I didn’t care about rings. He could marry me with a string. “Yes.” I finally choked out, “I’ll marry you.”

~~~~~<3

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Tag list: @theheartofpenelope, @bradfordbantams, @ruebx (I posted early- friend!), @hufflepuff25, @0-0-0-0-0-0-0-7, @theoneanna, @alexakeyloveloki, @toozmanykids, @j-u-s-t-4, @missaphrodite23, @bambamwolf87, @nonsensicalobsessions, @tinchentitri, @xoxabs88xox, @queenoftheunderdark, @wegingerangelica, @myoxisbroken, @coyotesongwriting

[daresplaining]

Could you maybe make a post with some of the most inspiring Daredevil pages? Stuff like him overcoming the Purple Man making him more depressed and hopeless in Waid's run, or the "I am Daredevil, and I am not Afraid." page from Soule's run. Those kind of pages always help me when I'm feeling down, it would be cool to see more in that vein.

    I love this request, and yes, I can definitely do that! I draw a lot of inspiration from Daredevil too (and superhero comics in general; that’s one of the purposes of the genre, in my experience), and refusing to give up when everything is falling apart is one of Matt’s trademark moves. Here are a few of my favorite moments– and I’m including the ones you mentioned, since I love them and want to make sure other people have seen them too. 

[ID: The Kingpin is brutally beating up Matt, who is in civvies. Matt falls on his back, his face bloody.]

Matt: “Never give up– never–”

Let’s start with a classic: 

[ID: Daredevil is fighting Namor. He tries electrocuting him, but the blast knocks him to the ground. As Namor walks away, Daredevil reaches out and grabs his ankle before passing out.]

Namor: “This is madness!! Does your own life mean nothing to you!?? Have you no sense of fear??”

Matt: “Sure! But I seem to have carelessly misplaced it somewhere! Now, just stand there for a second, fella– I want to try something!”

Caption: “Taking one last desperate gamble, Daredevil joins the two live wires, hoping to stagger his super-human foe! […] But, once again, the power of the Sub-Mariner is greater than any could suppose, and it is he who recovers first– while the Man Without Fear, despite his insulated gloves– lies weak, and dazed, and helpless…! Yet, how can one measure the limitless courage of a fellow human? Although on the brink of unconsciousness– although racked with pain and fatigue– still the sightless crusader reaches out–!”

Matt: “Come back! You– you mustn’t fight the others–! They’re innocent– mustn’t be harmed– mustn’t–!”

Namor: “[…] I have fought the Fantastic Four, the Avengers, and other super-powered humans, but none has been more courageous than he, the most vulnerable of all! And out of respect to the courage of Daredevil, I shall not injure any humans! I shall fly above the waiting armed forces– and return to the sea where I am supreme!”

Daredevil vol. 1 #7 by Stan Lee and Wally Wood

    The issue that introduced the red Daredevil costume also crafted one of the first memorable depictions of Matt’s boundless resilience. Namor the Sub-Mariner comes ashore to sue the human race, and hires Nelson and Murdock to represent him. When the situation goes awry, Namor becomes violent, and Matt tries to subdue him. While he gets thoroughly thrashed in this fight, Matt’s persistence impresses Namor enough to make him leave the human race alone (for now). That image of a nearly-unconscious Daredevil clinging to Namor’s ankle is fairly iconic, with– I feel– good reason. 

[ID: The Hulk backhands Daredevil a good distance, where he crashes into some trash cans. He is injured and bleeding, but he struggles back to his feet as the Hulk stands over him, deciding whether or not to finish him off.]

Hulk: “NO! Banner made the Hulk a monster and Hulk will find him, even if it takes forever!”

Matt: “Hulk… *koff*… you won’t find Banner… *koff*… this way. You can’t… *koff*… find Banner this way. The police… the authorities.. I-I want to help them understand… *koff*… and… *koff* … I want to help you. …But you’ll have to trust me.”

Daredevil vol. 1 #163 by Roger McKenzie, Frank Miller, and Glynis Wein

    This is, thematically, a very similar situation to the first scene. The Hulk goes on a rampage and Matt tries to stop him. Just as in the Namor situation, Matt loses this fight– he is nearly beaten to death, and is confined to a hospital bed for quite a while afterward– but his courage breaks through the Hulk’s rage enough to calm him down. This is a recurring theme in their friendship. Matt first meets Bruce Banner when he is hired to represent the Hulk in court, and from the beginning, Matt has been vocal in his support of Bruce and sympathy for the Hulk. Despite the danger, Matt never hesitates to put himself within smashing distance of the Hulk for the sake of helping him. 

[ID: A taxi is resting at the bottom of a river with its hood bashed in. Matt Murdock is unconscious in the front seat. We see a close-up of his eyes as they open in a defiant glare. The next few panels show the Kingpin standing at a window looking out, and photos of the cab after it has been pulled out of the river.]

Caption: “Unconscious but living, Murdock is placed in a stolen checker cab… The cab is driven off Pier 41 into the East River. Its safety belt and doors are corroded shut by a chemical process that is identical to rust. Murdock is drenched in whiskey. A bottle, open, is laid in his lap. The owner of the cab is beaten to death by Murdock’s stolen billy club. Days pass into weeks. Still Murdock is never far from the crimelord’s thoughts. He imagines one last, terrible moment of realization… of Murdock thrashing wildly, desperately, hatefully… screaming soundlessly into the poisoned water… The Kingpin shudders at the thought, in pleasure… The world seems flooded with sunlight. Daily business becomes a joyous, childlike game. He has disgraced, destroyed and murdered the only good man he has ever known. This is his triumph of the spirit.

“At last the cab is discovered. There is blood, and bloody evidence of a struggle. There is a shattered windshield… a safety belt, severed by the windshield’s glass and what must have been a hideous effort of will. There is no corpse.”

Daredevil vol. 1 #228 by Frank Miller, David Mazzucchelli, and R. Lewis

    This is, of course, from the famous “Born Again” arc, and I had a hard time choosing a scene, since the whole story is essentially a seven-issue-long depiction of Matt being knocked down and then standing back up. (I highly recommend reading it if anyone hasn’t, and I also summarized it here. I also cheated by including another scene at the beginning of this post…). However, the scene above is a turning point and possibly my favorite moment in the whole story. At this point Matt has lost it all: his friends, his career, his reputation, his money, and his home. In a fit of desperate, delirious anger, he attacks the Kingpin, who beats him unconscious and then– in the scene above– tries to kill him once and for all. The above issue starts with Matt curled up on a bed in a hotel room, unable to force himself to even move. He seems thoroughly beaten, and the Kingpin assumes the same, which is why he decides to stop toying with his victim and just finish the job. But in spite of all of this, Matt freaking Murdock refuses to die, and he somehow finds the strength to physically fight his way out of this seemingly unsurvivable situation. The fact that we don’t see him do it– that we only get the Kingpin’s reaction and that panel of Matt’s defiant glare after regaining consciousness– makes this act of resilience all the more powerful.       

[ID: Daredevil is fighting the Vulture (the Spider-Man villain). Daredevil pins him to the ground and starts punching him in the face.]

Matt: “A while ago, you said I secretly wanted to die. You were wrong. Cowards want to die. I’m no coward. I’m proving it– to you and to myself– by beating you… you– and everything you represent… the death and decay that eat away at a man until he surrenders… the horror that pulls you down into the pit! Well, I’m not the surrendering kind, mister! Got that? I never give up!”

Daredevil vol. 1 #225 by Denny O’Neil, David Mazzucchelli, and Ken Feduniewicz

    Matt is not at all a suicidal person (I’ve seen some fans claim otherwise, but he really isn’t), and this scene comes from a rare issue that covers that topic. It takes place shortly after Heather Glenn’s suicide, and it explores how the spectre of her death haunts Matt and Foggy’s lives afterward. In this story, the concept of death is represented by the Vulture, who Matt discovers trying to rob Heather’s grave. Later, he appears at the offices of Nelson and Murdock, which have just gone bankrupt. Upset by this loss, Foggy wanders up to the roof and contemplates his life, at which point he encounters the Vulture. Matt, fearing that Foggy might kill himself, goes up after him in costume and tries to fight the Vulture off. For a moment, during the fight, Matt contemplates whether he actually wants to lose, before returning to his senses and defeating both the Vulture and his own dark thoughts. 

[ID: Daredevil is fighting a huge crowd of grotesque-looking demons while carrying a lit torch. He holds up the torch and the demons scatter.] 

Matt: “My whole life, endless fighting. What a fate. I wonder, could I change that fate? No matter how many I kill, they keep on coming.”

Mephisto: “Ha ha ha ha ha! I love it! That’s it, you big hero. Keep fighting. Fight till you drop that torch.”

Matt: “What if… what if I just stopped? If I just stopped fighting. If you stop fighting, isn’t the fight over? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. They can’t touch me. Okay, Mephisto. I’m coming for you. You made a mistake. You believe your evil breaks a man. Sometimes it does. But when it doesn’t break a man– it makes him even stronger.”

Daredevil vol. 1 #281 by Ann Nocenti, John Romita Jr., and Christie Scheele

    This is from Matt’s literal trip to Hell in Nocenti’s run (Hell is a cosmic setting in the Marvel universe, and Mephisto is a recurring antagonist, so this isn’t quite as bizarre as it sounds…). While trapped in a seemingly endless wasteland and attacked by hoards of demons, Matt musters enough free will and spirit (as represented by the fire he’s carrying) to not only survive, but to actually challenge Mephisto. It’s great. 

[ID: Matt is crouched on the side of a building at night, in the rain. He is wearing the Daredevil suit but has taken the mask off. He puts his hand to his face in emotional anguish.] 

Matt: “I’ve got to pull myself together. My world is falling apart and I am helping it every single step of the way. I have to focus. Focus. Foggy is right. My entire life– everything is up for grabs. Everything I’ve built– everything I am– can be taken away from me. Have to center my energies. Have to think. Focus. Center and focus. Center and focus. Don’t listen to their camera motors and their cell phones. Don’t listen to them. The phone calls. All I hear is my name over and over: Murdock. Murdock, Murdock. That name is not theirs to say. It’s not theirs! It’s mine. They’re stealing it from me. No! Stop it. Center and focus. Center and focus. Center and–”

Mugging victim (off-panel): Noooo!”

Matt: “Focus.”

Daredevil vol. 2 #35 by Brian Michael Bendis, Alex Maleev, and Matt Hollingsworth

    I love this little moment from Bendis’s run. It’s small and subdued, but highly moving in the context of what Matt is dealing with in this story. His identity has been made public, there are crowds of reporters camped outside his home, his entire life is at risk of falling apart, but he takes this second to pause, think, and regain some sense of control.  

[ID: Matt stands up and prepares to fight. He is armed with two tonfa, and is wearing black clothes reminiscent of his Man Without Fear costume, but without a mask. His head is bandaged.]

Matt: “You think you can… turn me into a blubbering wreck… by preying on my fears… but I’ve already faced them– and come out the other side! You understand me, Calavera? I know what I am… who I am… and I am not afraid!”

Daredevil: Reborn #4 by Andy Diggle, Davide Gianfelice, and Matt Hollingsworth

    The Reborn mini-series follows Matt’s attempt at emotional recovery in the aftermath of “Shadowland”. Having quite literally lost his identity and had his spirit broken by getting possessed by a demon, he goes out west and, through helping right some wrongs in a small town in New Mexico, he reaffirms his sense of self.  

[ID: A stormy winter night. Ferry pilots (Sid and Ronnie, off-panel) are waiting for Daredevil to resurface from the river. As their ferry moves away, Daredevil hauls himself out of the freezing water and onto a dock.]

Sid: “It’s been a while, Ronnie– think he’s still down there?”

Ronnie: “Sid– you a moron? Where else would he be?”

Sid: “Beats me. Just askin’. It’s too bad– looks like he went back down there for nothin’. ‘Cept maybe to die.”

Ronnie: “Well, I’m not givin’ up just yet.”

Sid: “No? Why not?”

Ronnie: “’Cause I don’t think he would.”

Daredevil: Dark Nights #2 by Lee Weeks and Lee Loughridge

    The first Dark Nights story is a celebration of Matt’s willpower, as he travels through a blizzard to deliver a heart transplant to a dying little girl. I particularly love this scene, in which Matt dives into the river to rescue the heart and the pilots transporting it from their crashed helicopter, and despite the cold and his exhaustion, he powers through and survives the experience.

[ID: Daredevil is bleeding and horribly injured, and crouched in the mud under a bridge. The Purple Man is standing above him, about to hit him with a plank of wood.]

Purple Man: “Shouldn’t you be angry? Shouldn’t you put up a struggle?”

Matt (caption): “But that’s how far down the pit I’ve fallen. I can’t even respond to his orders. 

Purple Man: “Come on. This is too easy. Don’t rob me of a victory I’ve waited years for.”

Matt (caption): “All I can do is sink into the blackness. I can’t feel pain. I can’t  move because I have nothing to push against. Nothing.”

Purple Man: “Show me some fear.”

[ID: Daredevil kicks the Purple Man, then falls back to his knees. ]

Matt (caption): “That. That, I know how to fight. Get up. You have momentum now. Don’t lose it. Don’t let the shadows pull you back in. Inertia is the enemy. Do something. Move. Move, Matthew.”

Daredevil vol. 4 #10 by Mark Waid, Chris Samnee, and Matt Wilson

    I’m glad you mentioned this scene because it’s one of my favorites too, as is this story arc as a whole. Waid’s depiction of depression is visceral and heartrending because it’s something he himself suffers from, and that realism makes Matt’s struggle to move forward and fight against his despair all the more impactful.  

    As an extension of the above moment, Matt’s decision to talk with Kirsten at the end of the issue (which I discussed at length here) is also breathtaking.  

[ID: A black page with a red heart monitor readout at the bottom. It flatlines, then spikes once.]

Matt (caption): “I cannot see the light. So I will be the light. I am Daredevil. And I am not afraid.”

Daredevil vol. 5 #612 by Charles Soule and Phil Noto

    And this moment– there’s nothing more badass than Matt literally willing himself back to life! “I am Daredevil. And I am not afraid” is a refrain that is repeated throughout Soule’s run, which is a neat way of tying his run together and emphasizing Matt’s relentless determination. 

[ID: Matt is alone in a gym, struggling to walk between two parallel bars. He falls, then, with a huge effort, pulls himself back up.]

Jack (off-panel): “Fear’s of no use to us, Matt. We have to live with it, but it’s not for anything. But pain? What’s pain for, Matt? What’s pain for?”

Matt: “Pain keeps us going.”

Man Without Fear vol. 2 #5 by Jed MacKay, Danilo Beyruth, and Andres Mossa

    The new Man Without Fear was another great recovery story, and gave us this really great moment when Matt, after suffering through the physical and emotional destruction of being hit by a truck, finally regains his fighting spirit.

    I also wanted to include a few scenes of other people being inspired by Matt’s courage and resilience, because there are some great ones. Here’s one of my favorites, from Waid’s run:

[ID: Foggy is sitting in a circle with a group of fellow cancer patients. They are all wearing Daredevil shirts.]

Foggy: “Ah, excellent. You all dressed for the occasion. I’ll be straight up with you folks. I have a friend. He’s probably the bravest man I’ve ever met. And no matter how much I beg him to teach me to be like him… in the whole time I’ve known him, I’ve learned only one thing about fearlessness: it’s contagious.”

Daredevil vol. 3 #31 by Mark Waid, Chris Samnee, and Javier Rodriguez

    I love this aspect of Foggy’s cancer plotline– the fact that Foggy uses Matt as a source of inspiration for facing his own fear. These two have always been emotional anchors for each other, providing moral support and guidance in difficult times, and that’s part of what makes their friendship so powerful. Here, Foggy is largely on his own. Matt can’t punch cancer, and Foggy doesn’t even tell him about the symptoms at first. But from the very beginning, Foggy latches onto Matt’s fearlessness as a way of fending off his own terror about the diagnosis. As I said at the beginning of the post, part of the purpose of superhero stories is to serve as inspiration for their readers to be kind and courageous in their own lives, and it’s wonderful when characters within those stories are impacted in that same way by the superheroes around them. To take this concept one meta step further, Foggy’s cancer story– the whole thing, including his drawing strength from his best friend– is in itself a hero story for readers who may be going through similar experiences. 

[ID: Flashback panels colored in black and white with hints of red. Matt (in civvies) is attacked by a group of ninjas on a city street. He fights them while Foggy runs and hides around a corner.]

Foggy (caption): “When you were around, it was different. The fear wasn’t so real. I was still freaked whenever anything happened… my nerves were a car wreck… but even as I was sweating bullets, I somehow knew I was safe. Because of you.”

Daredevil vol. 2 #88 by Ed Brubaker, Michael Lark, David Aja, and Frank D’Armata

    …And another great Foggy and Matt scene, this one from “The Secret Life of Foggy Nelson”, one of my favorite issues of Brubaker’s run. Foggy has been separated from Matt against his will, and in his isolation and fear, he reflects on their friendship and draws strength from Matt’s example. 

[ID: Luke Cage is sitting comfortably in a chair, legs crossed, directly addressing the reader.]

Luke: “Daredevil. I know him pretty well, actually. Well, as well as he lets anyone know him. End of the day, without question, he’s one of the best. Ever. I’m not going to get into who he is and how he became who he became. And I know there are a lot of people who think they know all there is to know about Daredevil and all of his secrets. But I can tell you from personal experience that the information that’s out there about him is pretty much crap. Let’s just leave it at that. All you need to know about Daredevil is that this man has sacrificed everything to try to make this city safer. He has lost more and suffered more for his dedication to you than, well, anybody I know. And I know some people who’ve suffered and lost. He ain’t the strongest of us, and he ain’t the flashiest… but Daredevil cannot be brought down. It cannot happen.”

New Avengers vol. 2 #16 by Brian Michael Bendis, Mike Deodato, and Rain Beredo

    And last but not least, here an excerpt from a great speech Luke Cage gives after Matt joins the Avengers. Even other superheroes– all of whom tend toward superhuman resilience– are impressed by Matt.  

[i-the-hell-is-bvcky]

i-the-hell-is-bvcky’s Marvel Kinkvember 2018

Kink 8: Angry/Hate sex

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Word Count: 1,547

Warnings: Name calling, swearing, rough sex, Daredevil season 3 spoilers, shower sex, alcohol tw

A/N: My first Matt Murdock fic! This one is a bit angsty, y’all.

**My work is not to be redistributed on any other site without my written consent**

How could you!” You yell. He left you for months, letting you think he was fucking dead. You saw that building crumble and you didn’t see him come out. You remember the world going silent, your scream inaudible to your own ears. You, Karen and Foggy stood across the street, behind the police barricade in shock.

The next months drifted on in a haze—everyday without him was unbearable. Karen and Foggy did their best to hold it together for themselves and for you. Just when you started to heal and to move on, he pops back into your life. And it’s not like he’s the same, sweet Matt. He’s cold and angry, so full of bitterness and it honestly frightens you.

Matt was in your apartment, somehow he let himself in while you were at work and to see him there? Well, if you were a gun carrying kind of woman it might not have been a good night for both of you. He’s bloody of course and looks like he hasn’t been eating well, his face paler than usual.

“I had to go underground,” he says gruffly as he slowly removes his blood stained clothes. “Can I use your shower?” You stare at him, stunned. “It’s not my blood, by the way. Actually got out of that fight relatively okay,” Matt says with a dark chuckle.

“Oh thank heavens,” you say with mock relief. “And fuck you, no! Months of thinking you were dead, inconsolable nights of tears and finally getting to a point where I could think of you and not breakdown and you come back with no explanation and you want to ask to use my shower?” You scoff and move around him and head to your small kitchen, looking for a drink. Preferably something strong.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he says. You find some left over tequila and pour yourself a shot, knocking it back quickly and get the next one ready. “I know you’re upset.”

“I’m livid actually, but go on. Give me one of your great, noble speeches about how you just couldn’t tell me anything. How you have to keep in the dark to protect me from monsters. Please, I’m thrilled to hear it.” You turn to look at him and you watch his jaw clench. He takes off his glasses and hat, positioning his body toward you.

“This is why I didn’t want to say anything to you,” Matt starts. He takes slow steps to the kitchen, his movements silent, almost cat-like. That’s probably how he broke into your apartment.

“Oh and why is that?” You spit.

“Because you’re irrational. You just act and say shit on impulse and always find a way to get under my skin. I’m fucking sick of it.” You roll your eyes and laugh bitterly.

“Fuck you, Matt. Grow the actual fuck up Matt. When will you learn that I am on your side? That Karen and Foggy are on your side? We all have our demons, shit that haunts us every fucking day but we know when to lean on one another. You’re not the only one who is fucked up Matthew!” Matt slaps his hands on the counter, the action makes you twitch in fear.

“Why can’t you stop being a bitch and listen to me?” He yells.

“Don’t call me a bitch! Maybe you should stop being a self-righteous prick!”

“I did it to protect all of you!”

“I don’t want your fucking protection, Matthew, I want you!” Your voice is hysteric, tears burn the back of your eyes and the alcohol is making your head hurt. “I just wanted you and you died,” you say, voice down to a whisper. “I watched you die. W-we had a funeral. I grieved. Now you’re back and demanding shit from me and I just can’t accept that. I won’t.” You know he can’t see you well but you stare into those chocolate eyes anyway, looking for some sympathy. Matt reaches over and cups your face in both hands, pulling you in for a rough kiss. You shove him off roughly, disgust and anger and lust rushing through you as you walk away from the counter and toward your room. You stop halfway before turning around to walk back to Matt. You grab him the collar of his shirt and you give him a passionate kiss of your own. The kiss is all teeth with little finesse to the movements. All you know is that even though you’re mad at him, your relieved he’s alive and in your arms right now.

“Shower. Now.” You demand and he nods sharply before he drags you to the bathroom. Clothes fly off and land all over the room as you kiss and try to make it to the shower. The two of you aren’t even completely undressed when you step in the shower. You turn the water on, the two of you startled by the lukewarm stream of water but you don’t mind.

Matt’s mouth is all over your neck, sucking and biting into the soft flesh like he’s trying to claim you. Or punish you. You grind shamelessly on his thigh, your underwear denying you the friction you need. Matt notices this and moves to remove them, the soaked cloth falling on the tile with a wet thud. His own boxers come next and the two of you stay like that, rutting against each other in desperation, fighting for control of your emotions and each other’s body.

“I missed you,” the words come out in a pant. Matt groans and begins to rub your clit, your body jolting to life. You feel him smile against your jaw before he kisses you again. His fingers dance around your hole before slipping inside easily. “How could you do that to me?”

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Matt says with a curl of his fingers and you moan. He continues this action that has you hanging onto him for dear life. “I have to keep you safe.”

“Fuck safe,” you retort. “I’m a grown woman. I can handle myself.” Matt chuckles and takes his fingers out of your pussy, only furthering your growing anger. “Fucking asshole, even now you gotta be a fucking dick. I am so tired of this,” your words are cut short because somehow, Matt is entering you. His intrusion stretching you out almost painfully since you haven’t had sex in months. You barely had the energy to masturbate the whole time Matt was “dead.”

“Ohmygod,” you groan, your head rolling back against the tile. Matt wraps your left leg around his waist, pinning you to the wall as he fucks you slowly.

“Still perfect,” he says. You’ve almost forgotten that you’re in the shower when you reach for something to grab on to. The sound of the shower drowns out the moans and the obscene sound of skin on skin. There’s little to be said, the sounds of two angry people hopelessly in love with each other pounding our their frustration. You bite down on his neck and Matt hisses, his hips jerking roughly against your, his pelvis brushing against your clit.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come.” Matt slips out of you and drops your leg and you’re about to give him and ear full until he turns you around so your chest is flush with the wet tile. He takes your hands hand holds them behind your back, the other spreading your legs so he can slip inside again. The angle has you reeling.

“Shut up,” Matt says. “I’m sick of your constant berating and complaining. I love you and I’m here now. I know you can handle yourself but I would never, ever forgive myself if something happened to you. I know I’m shite with emotions and so are you. Now,” he gives you a hard thrust and you yelp. “Will you let me fuck you? I don’t want to talk about anything until I make you come.” You shudder and nod.

“Say it.”

“Fine! I won’t give you shit just, fuck. Just fuck me okay?” Matt grins and kisses between your shoulder blades. The pace is bruising as he fucks you from behind, the angle makes him feel so big and you almost can’t handle it. Matt reaches around and plays with your clit and it’s the key to the combo.

“Oh fuck right there, Matt don’t fucking stop!” Your voice is unrecognizably high as you reach your peak. Matt’s grunts are loud in your ear.

“That’s it,” he says. “Come for me, I want to see it...feel it.” Your orgasm is almost too much; it runs through your body, months and months of pent up frustration, anger and sadness finally leaving your body. Matt finishes as you do, your body’s moving as one. The shower masks your tears as you come down from the high, your emotions all over the place. Matt slips of you slowly and turns you around for a slow kiss. You can’t help but cry fully this time and he takes you into his arms. He holds you as you cry and you can feel the hitches in his breath too. The two of you aren’t perfect by any means but with time, maybe you will be.

———————

Tags: @suz-123 @getinmelanin011 @wildaboutchrisevans @stars8melanin @coal000 @a-unique-girls-heaven @prettyjewel93 @sebastiansin-221b @sebastianneedschocolate @jazzytee @areubeingserved @buckmesideways22 @thewinterstolemyheart @thorohdamnson

[thepartyresponsible]

this fill is for @plantgrapes, who asked for frank castle and matt murdock as “ghost hunters a la buzzfeed unsolved.”

i have seen about...sixty-five collected seconds of buzzfeed unsolved. so this fic is actually about frank, who used to be haunted, and matt, who fixes hauntings, going around pretending to be ghost hunters while actually being ghost killers.

it’s frank, so warnings for violence and ptsd.

It works because it has to. The restless dead may be rich in misery, but they are almost universally poor in material goods. Foggy edits the videos together, and Karen does the research, and Matt looks affable and earnest on camera while Frank, at his best, sometimes earns the title of long-suffering skeptic instead of surly killjoy.

Ghost hunting can be reasonably profitable, but they aren’t hunting so much as they’re mercy killing. And there’s never any cash in mercy kills. Frank spent enough time in the murder business to know there’s never any money in mercy at all.

“Oh, yikes,” Matt says, as the EMF reader beeps and bips an insistent staccato beat. “We’ve got a live one.”

Frank holds his face perfectly still. He does not react to the terrible pun.

Foggy giggles off-camera, and Frank thinks, with less longing than he used to, that he could’ve died in Kandahar.

Matt curls his hand around Frank’s elbow, shuffles closer than he needs to, and makes an interested noise in the back of his throat. “What’s it say, Frank?” he asks, nodding at the reader in Frank’s hands.

Frank doesn’t really understand the damn thing. They bought it online because all the other ghost hunters had them. It has something to do with electromagnetic fields, and, as things get spookier, it sometimes obligingly lights up its little line of LEDs like a tiny, handheld rave for ghosts.

They had to alter it for Matt, because viewers kept asking inconvenient questions about Matt’s constant awareness of the silent EMF reader. So now it beeps and bops with increasing intensity as the reading climbs higher.

Foggy claims all the noise adds drama, which is what Foggy usually says about any annoying bullshit that’s going to ruin Frank’s whole damn day.

“Frank,” Matt repeats, fingers tightening around Frank’s arm. “What does it say?”

Frank should’ve worn long sleeves. Matt always gets handsy on the creepier jobs. Frank knows that. He knew that when he picked this shirt out this morning.

He really needs to stop all this self-sabotage. He suffers enough as it is.

“It says,” Frank reports, dutifully, “that this hundred-year-old building has some real shitty wiring.”

“Ah.” Matt smiles that sweet, secretive smile he uses on reporters and fans and attractive cops who show up halfway through a job with unhelpful questions. Frank has no idea why he’s using it on him. There’s nothing Matt needs from him that he couldn’t get just by asking.

“It’s a good thing you’re here, Frank,” Matt says, as they start navigating their way down the dark hallway, toward the rooms where the ghost children are supposed to walk. “Without you to ground me, who knows where I’d end up?”

Matt found Frank in crisis, walking the streets of NYC in the middle of the night, three months after the divorce, hauling sixteen dead men in his wake. The ghosts chattered and whispered and wailed, and he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t breathe without feeling their hands wrapped jealously around his throat. He walked with deep, festering wounds in his soul that ripped open again and again, leaked blood and hope and life right out of him.

Without Matt, he’d be dead. And there’d be seventeen dead men following Russo around, and Russo wouldn’t ever know or care, because Russo welded his soul shut, made his heart impregnable and cold.

Ghosts don’t haunt places. Memories haunt places. Walls can hold echoes of fear and pain and joy and hate, but they can’t hold souls. Ghosts only ever haunt people.

But the process of ripping a ghost away from its focal point is ugly and brutal and hideous to watch. It’s a second death. It’s not something that sells well. They’d lose their sponsors over it. So they sneak around places with troubled pasts, hunting safe scares for their subscribers, and they do their real work with the cameras turned off.

A door slams shut in front of them. It’s a draft, or maybe the hospital remembers a patient with a temper.

Matt flinches hard and leans into him, laughing in the tight, anxious way he laughs when he’s pretending to be startled. Frank can feel the warmth of him, all along his right side.

He really, really should’ve worn longer sleeves.

  Matt senses ghosts, the same way he senses people. It caused all sorts of problems for him when he was younger, because he couldn’t always tell the difference.

“It’s the heartbeat,” he tells Frank, once, when he’s drunk after a particularly grim night. “They can get the heat and the shape and the smell of a person right, but they mess up the heartbeat. They do it out of habit, like breathing, but they’ll forget for a while, or they’ll get a song stuck in their heads, beat to that instead. I once caught a ghost cuz his heart was beating ‘Highway to Hell.’”

Frank never asks about his ghosts. He doesn’t want to know. He killed them once, or he got them killed, and they attached to him because they could smell their blood on his hands.

He went to war, and he killed them. And then, when he could, as soon as he found someone who could do it for him, he killed them all over again.

He felt each one ripped out of him, like getting a tooth pulled from his heart instead of his skull. A long, building scream of pressure and then a sharp, bone-deep crack as they lost their hold. Every nerve in his body sent up static signals, like getting electrocuted all over, like getting plugged into something strong, and boundless, and starving.

He felt hollow afterwards, and he slept for two days straight.

“They’re not always malevolent,” Matt says, another time. “It’s a 60/40 split, maybe. The warmer ones mean well, help out sometimes.  People think they have angels.”

“Angels,” Frank says. That sounds nice. Sounds like not feeling alone every Goddamn second of his life. Sounds like not calling his kids from hotel rooms and roadside diners, sending postcards when he remembers, trying like hell not to forget their faces but knowing, when he sees them, that they won’t look the same anyway.

“They’re parasites, Frank,” Matt tells him, tone so gentle that Frank wants to punch him right in the mouth. “It’s in their nature. They can’t help it. They feed from the living. All of them.”

“Everyone’s a fucking parasite,” Frank says. And he leaves, because he has to. Because if he sticks around any longer, he’s going to tell Matt that the 60/40 split is bullshit, and he knows, just like Matt knows, just like everyone knows, that there’s no good or bad, no warm or cold, no malevolent or benevolent.

There is no or. With people, living or dead, it’s always an and.

Frank earned every one of his ghosts by killing someone who was a mix of saint and sinner, just the same as Matt murders ghosts who are a blend of angel and demon.

They’re killers. For whatever cause, they’re killers. Sometimes Frank can’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

  The video of the abandoned mental hospital goes viral overnight, because Frank is exceptionally surly, and Matt is especially charming, and Foggy catches the doors slamming on camera, and the machines designed to light up and beep manage to light up and beep in particularly theatrical ways.

They get thousands of views, then tens of thousands. It climbs higher. Karen makes a lot of enthusiastic noises at her phone.

Before they leave town, they pull the ghost of a boy who died in that hospital out of the grandniece he’s haunted her whole life, passed from mother to daughter like a family heirloom for three generations.

The woman’s still crying when they leave two hours later. Frank doesn’t blame her. She’s never lived alone, never been without him, and, even now, three years on, he still sometimes misses the souls that huddled and shook in his overcrowded ribcage.

Sometimes harvesting ghosts breaks the host. It’s like resetting a bone or amputating a limb. People are never the same afterwards. But carrying a ghost is always eventually fatal.

They steal life. They have to.

The haunted grandniece’s mother died at forty-five of a heart attack. Her grandmother ate a bullet at fifty-two. The grandniece is thirty and exhausted, but, if she recovers from the shock, her life expectancy should go up by decades.

They saved what was left of her life. It’s a good thing. Good work.

Matt’s quiet on the drive back to New York. He saves the amiable charm for fans and viewers, and Foggy, Karen, and Frank are the only ones who see him like this, blank-faced and grim, worn down by the work that they do.

“Hey,” Frank says, because Foggy and Karen are in the other car, and so it’s his job to keep Matt steady. “It was the right thing to do.”

Matt laughs, soundless and eerie. He tips his head back against the headrest. “I can hear lies, you know.”

If it’s a lie, it’s only because Frank stopped believing in the right thing the moment after his first messy headshot knocked a soul out of its body. “You did what you had to do,” he tries, instead.

“There we go,” Matt says. He smiles. It’s small, and sad, and so transparently fond that Frank can’t look at it, not even in the reflection on the windshield. “Thanks, Frank.”

“She deserves a life,” Frank says. He’s gone off-script. He doesn’t know where he’s heading. With everyone else, he just keeps his damn mouth shut, but, with Matt, he’s always saying things before he has a plan. “She didn’t—that boy deserved one, too, but he lost it. And it’s her turn. She deserves a life.”

Matt tips his head Frank’s direction. He’s not wearing his glasses, and his eyes aren’t aimed the right direction. He does this sometimes. He means to look someone in the face, and he ends up staring straight at their hearts.

He only ever does it with people who know what he can do, so Frank thinks, maybe, it’s not an accident. Maybe it’s intentional. Maybe Matt reads hearts the way everyone else reads faces. Maybe this is his way of warning people he’s listening.

“You’re right.” Matt’s voice is quiet and scratchy, the way Maria used to sound, years ago, when she’d wake up in the morning affectionate and soft instead of cold and hurt and walled-off. “Everyone deserves a life.”

Frank swallows and focuses on the road. He doesn’t want to know what his heart is doing right now. He doesn’t want to see the expression on Matt’s face as he listens.

  Between episodes, Matt freelances around the city. He goes to a lot of churches. He got kicked out of seminary school for fucking men or killing ghosts or both, so he has a sort of complicated relationship with most of the priests in town, but people will grab hold of any rope they see, when they’re drowning.

“Why don’t you tell these old bastards to fuck off?” Frank asks one evening, when he and Matt are sitting on the steps outside a church, eating cold sandwiches, waiting for Father Whoever to deign to speak to them.

“People trust them, Frank,” Matt says. He has mustard smeared on his chin. It’s adorable. “If you’re haunted, you go to a priest.”

“I hate these places.” Frank glares at the stained glass, gets a gunfire flash of memory, thinks about sacred places and penitents and how everything holy burns just as fast as everything profane.

“Hm,” Matt says. He licks at his mouth, maybe hunting for the mustard. He doesn’t get it. “Is it the guilt or the shame?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Frank advises. He takes a mulish bite of his sandwich and chews until he can speak like a sane, normal person. “It’s the lies.”

“Ah.” Matt seems perfectly at ease with that comment, like it doesn’t bother him at all, even with that cross hanging around his neck.

He prays for every one of the ghosts. He prays for the hosts. Frank once caught him praying for a raccoon they almost hit with the car.  

Matt’s got so much mercy in his heart that Frank doesn’t understand how the damn thing doesn’t shatter apart every single day.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Frank says, finally. Matt didn’t ask, but Frank doesn’t care. “It’s bullshit. It’s just words. They promise you shit they can’t give, and then you just—these guys make a whole fucking life out of lying to people. At least we elect politicians.”

“Not sure that’s fair, Frank.” Matt’s voice is mild. His body language is loose and calm and so trusting it’s almost sleepy. “I don’t hear any lies from some of them. If they believe in it--”

“And you weren’t good enough for them,” Frank says, which isn’t what anyone asked, and isn’t relevant, and isn’t what he meant to say.

Matt’s quiet for a moment and then a delighted smile breaks across his face. “Are you holding a grudge against all of Catholicism for my sake, Frank?”

“You have mustard on your chin,” Frank says, because he probably can’t tell him to go fuck himself twice in two minutes, not right in front of a church. “You asshole,” he says, instead, as a compromise.

  Half their fans think they’re fucking. Frank pretends not to notice. Matt knows, of course, because he’s the one people overshare with the most, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He keeps grabbing onto Frank’s arm, and leaning in close to murmur perfectly benign shit right into his ear, and sitting slouched into him at panels and interviews, so Frank thinks maybe he plays it up, to get more views or make a point.

Frank doesn’t care. Maria sends him a screencap and a shitty, passive aggressive text about accepting himself that she apologizes for later.

“Look,” she says, because she calls him, because she’s the kind of brave that looks right at the heart of things that hurt her. “That was cruel, and uncalled for, and I’m sorry.”

“Hey, Maria,” he says, “how’re the kids?”

“Fine,” she says. “You should visit more. That’s not why I called.”

“I don’t care,” Frank tells her. “It’s all over the fucking internet. You think I don’t know? I don’t care what people say. I don’t care what you think. It’s fine.”

“That’s a lot of not caring,” Maria says, and it’s like a live wire straight to his chest, the way she says it. Sad and gentle and serious, like a goodbye kiss. “It just hurts to see you happy without me, Frank. That’s shitty, and I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

Things rotted and fell apart between them, and that’s always going to be Frank’s fault. Because Frank went to war and came back someone else, and it’s not Maria’s fault she didn’t love the stranger who came home. It’s not Maria’s fault she started flinching away from him.

He never, ever would have hurt her, but he scared her anyway. And some things don’t ever get better, so you cut your losses, and you run.

“I’m sorry,” Frank says, because he is. Because he probably always will be. That black well of hurt inside him doesn’t belong to anybody. He thought for a while that it was something she did to him, some pain she inflicted on him when she cut herself free, but Frank knows now that she cut herself just as deep. They were stitched together, after all.

If she hadn’t left him, he wouldn’t have found Matt. And if he hadn’t found Matt, those ghosts would’ve eaten him alive.

“Christ, Frank,” Maria says, “don’t be sorry. Just be happy. And visit sometimes. Your kids miss you.”

  They do a whole episode at a graveyard in the middle of the night, and Matt’s smug the entire time, because he���s the only one who doesn’t trip over any gravestones. “You should be more respectful to the dead,” Matt tells him, as Frank’s nursing a badly stubbed toe and offering a litany of crude suggestions to Leticia B. Vaughn, 1819-1836.

“Also,” Foggy says, off-camera, “Leticia’s a minor, so maybe watch your language.”

“She’s two-fucking-hundred years old,” Frank snarls back.

“What was the age of consent in the 1800s?” Matt asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Not high enough,” Karen says. “She died in childbirth. Sorry, Frank. She probably hates men with good reason.”

Frank cannot believe that this is his life. He used to murder people, professionally. Back then, people took him seriously. His own wife divorced him because she looked at him and saw a monster looking back.

These idiots are needling him like they’ve never been scared of him in their lives.

It hurts like something cracking open, like blood coming back to fingers nearly lost to frostbite. He throws in one last, final, “Fuck you, Letty,” and then clears his throat before anyone notices the way his hands are shaking.

“Hey,” Matt says, hooking his arm through Frank’s. “Protect me from the angry Letty’s of the world.”

Frank is so much worse than a dead 1800s woman. He breaks every nice thing he touches.

The thing about Matt, though, is that he isn’t very breakable. And his kindness is almost saintly, but he isn’t, on the whole, very nice.

He takes two malignant spirits from the overnight groundskeeper, and the man is so grateful afterwards that he cries on Matt’s shoulder and blesses him six separate times.

Those spirits, when they go, aren’t anything like grateful. But Matt never flinches, not once.

  They go to Josie’s when they’re back in town. It’s a tradition they probably can’t keep for very much longer. “People keep asking for you,” Josie tells them, like they’ve brought syphilis into her bar instead of paying customers. “They say they’re from the internet.”

“They’re not from the internet,” Foggy says. “They use the internet. They find outstanding bars like this one on the internet.”

“They asked me,” Josie says, visibly outraged, “for a pineapple mojito.”

“Jesus,” Frank says, picturing the subsequent bloodshed.

“And may God have mercy on their souls,” Matt intones beside him.

They stay for a couple of hours, drink their way through at least half a bottle of uniquely terrible tequila, and play pool until their fine motor skills degrade past the point of entertainment. A small crowd comes sneaking in behind them, and Frank wonders if this is why Karen and Foggy have been so gleeful about their phones recently.

He stopped checking the view counts on their videos a month or so back. As long as they’re getting paid enough to live, he doesn’t need to know more.

Someone sends them a tray full of shots, and Foggy wades off, charming smile in place, to thank their admirers, and it’s all fine, really, until someone gets weird with Karen, and she drops him to the ground before Frank can even pass his drink to Matt.

“Whoops,” Karen says, Bambi-blinking with a look of practiced innocence. “Time to go.”

“Take your groupies with you!” Josie yells, and Frank honestly doesn’t know how she stays in business with a temperament like that unless she’s running an absolute mess of drugs through this place.

They empty out into the night. Foggy peels off to walk Karen home, and Frank ends up taking Matt all the way to his place, even though Matt’s not that drunk, and Frank’s not that sober, and it’s honestly a little hard to tell which one of them is holding up the other.

“I’m gonna go see Maria,” Frank tells him, when they get to Matt’s door, and Matt’s waiting, expectantly, like there’s something Frank forgot to tell him. “To see the kids,” he clarifies. “I can’t avoid her forever. And I miss her. You know? She was my best friend for years.”

“I know,” Matt says. He’s good with things that like. Painful things.

The dangerous thing about Matt Murdock is that he makes you feel like you can hand him every bit of pain you’ve got, like he’s some kind of Atlas. Like he’ll hold up your whole world while you find your place within it.

Frank’s never thought of pain as something you could share. It’s always been something he lived with or destroyed or evaded. It’s something he ate, piece by piece, until it poisoned him or disappeared.

Frank doesn’t know how the hell those priests could turn Matt away. He’s the holiest thing Frank’s ever found.

“I don’t love her anymore,” Frank says. But it’s a lie. “I’m not in love with her anymore.” And that’s true.

“Frank,” Matt says, slow and careful, voice curling up like there’s a question he won’t ask.

That’s the trouble with Matt. That’s what Frank’s learned. From the day they met, Matt’s been taking other people’s nightmares, swallowing pain, banishing demons. He takes bad out of the world, but he can’t ever seem to ask for anything good. Not for himself. Not ever.

“I wanted you to know that,” Frank says.

Matt’s turned his direction, head cocked, mouth slightly open, when Frank kisses him. He makes a soft, surprised noise into Frank’s mouth, and Frank’s been letting himself think about this for weeks, but he still not ready for it.

It’s not that different, really, from kissing a woman. He’s not sure why he thought it would be.

Matt’s warm and familiar and friendly, and it’s not until Frank’s got him pressed fully back against the door that he realizes things are getting a bit out of hand.

“Okay,” Frank says, stepping back, licking his lips and tasting Matt’s. “I wanted you to know that, too.”

Matt smiles at him, and there’s an echo of that very first smile Matt gave him, when Frank was stretched to the point of splitting right in half, hauling dead men behind him with every step, waking up to the taste of blood and gunpowder every damn morning.

Frank’s spent years being grateful to Matt for sensing all those ghosts, when all Frank could feel was the war. He’s just now realizing that maybe the most miraculous thing about Matt Murdock isn’t that he can see ghosts. It’s that he could see Frank beyond them.

“If you come by in the morning,” Matt says, “I’ll take you to breakfast.”

Frank’s heart is doing something stupid in his chest, beating out a rhythm he’s reasonably sure isn’t meant to sustain life. It’d be embarrassing, except Matt’s smile is wide and dopey and getting sweeter by the second.

“Yeah,” Frank says. He takes a step back. He knows, in the morning, that Matt will be waiting for him. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

[garglyswoof]

At the Seams

Happy holidays Kamille / @songof-thelark​! I hope you enjoy this fic. I lightly used your prompt of her telling him about her brother, but i definitely used it as more of a connection between them than a deliberate scene. I hope you still like it!

She feels guilty that she’s not fully bought in to Nelson, Murdock and Page. Don’t get her wrong, the concept is there in spades, and every once in a while when Foggy’s talking on the phone to a new client in that jocular way of his that still manages to be professional, or the office is quiet as Matt listens to legal briefs on the joke pair of Beats Karen had picked up for him, she is content. Moments of an almost aching joy she wants to trap in amber; fossilize Foggy’s laugh, Matt’s intoxicating smile.

But there’s so much in the way of these moments. Read here or on AO3

Karen stands and stretches, needing a break from the glare of the screen she’s been glued to since 10 am. Foggy looks up from his desk with a soft smile and her heart clenches at the easy acceptance in it. That’s Foggy, Champion of Good, way moreso than Matt if she’s being honest.

“Your eyes crossing?” Foggy teases, winging a pen back and forth between his fingers.

“Just a bit,” she responds with her own smile. They have a surprising caseload, though it really shouldn’t be considering Foggy’s fifteen minutes of DA fame. She’s just thankful their payment is in both casseroles and cash these days, the terrifying financial noose of the original firm’s run just a memory.

“Karen,” Foggy says, his eyes serious, and the suddenness of the change points to a thought long harbored. “What’s up with you and Matt?”

She grabs an elbow, continuing her stretch. Foggy’s pen is still. “Fog,” she mutters with a sigh, “we’re fine. As we can be.”

“Can I get more than that? You know I don’t like butting in, but something feels wrong. We’re a team, Karen. I’ve wanted this my whole life, and when you came into the picture it’s like you were there all along. So please spare me the ‘we’re fine’s. Can I help? What can I do?”

Karen rounds her desk and perches on the edge of his, the glow of the banker’s light Foggy had stolen from his old office pooling on his desk. “I honestly meant it- we’re fine. Look, Matt and I, what we were starting, that’s never going to happen.” She looks down, staring fixedly at the blotter on his desk where he’s adorably doodled ‘Marcy’ in six different fonts. “I really, really liked him, Foggy. So there are times now where I remember that feeling and I get pissed off at what he did. It’s just going to take time, time and a bit of awkwardness when we look at each other and forget.” She laughs. “Or remember.” She reaches over and squeezes his hand, sliding off the desk, cocking her head at Foggy’s sad smile. “It’s ok, really.”

“I guess I’m still stuck on the dream of it all. My best friend in love with my new best friend. But I get it. Just-” Foggy searches her eyes, “you would tell me if it was more than just that, right?”

She responds with a nod because vocalizing a lie seems so much worse. Because the “more than just that” is wrapped up in both Murdock and Nelson. And her brother. And Frank Castle, if she lets herself open that door. She pulls her lips in, brushes her hands over her skirt, and heads back to her desk, wondering when this dream will shatter too.

-----------------------------

He’s not fully bought into the rural lifestyle, but it does have its perks. The crisp snap in the air, the quiet disturbed only by the susurrus of the wind through the pines, the community in this space where the land seems to stretch out beyond normal confines. He’s made a deliberate choice to get to know his neighbors, to try to begin to gain a sense of normalcy. God, it was like the transition of military to civilian life but thousands of times worse.

Because how do you become human again when you’ve lost your ties to it? He’d tried living with his demons, waking up with sweat beaded at his temples, his hands bloody from the slide of the sledgehammer’s grip, the smell of Maria’s perfume somehow still in his nose.  It hadn’t worked.

So that’s why he’s here talking to Marjorie, who lives across the way in a tiny cabin with the most carefully tended garden he’s ever seen. The tract of land has houses built from stone and timber in the early part of the century, and no electricity lines mar the sky, only unbroken towers of spruce, the occasional maple tree flashing its bright fall plumage. His eyes crinkle at the corners at something Marjorie says, and he takes the casserole from her age-spotted hands with care.

“Thank you, ma’am. You set on firewood?” He says this with a tease - last time he’d chopped wood it seemed that Marjorie’s entire female friend circle just so happened to come by to chat.

“Young man, don’t begrudge them their simple pleasures,” Marjorie says, her voice a rasp to match his own, smiling and waving her hand idly at him as she turns to head back inside. “You going into town anytime soon?”

It had been weeks since he had. Despite Marjorie forcing him to kick his eating-out-of-the-can habit, there wasn’t much he needed out here. Time and books and the sweet company of an elderly woman telling tales from her past, the occasional visit from the taciturn old homesteader who brought his battery-powered stereo and blasted Springsteen to the skies. The guitar he stole from Lieberman. He shakes his head.

“Well, I’ll be heading up tomorrow. Need to keep up to date on what’s going on in the world since it’s all going to hell,” she says, the screen door slamming though she pauses for his response after, and he laughs, ducking his head.

“Yeh,” he mutters through the flash of his grin, that vocalization that’s more out of habit than an actual response. “Yeh, it sure is.” The smile drops and he can see Marjorie’s face soften through the screen.

She invites him for dinner and tells more of her stories. He finds himself returning the favor, stories of Frank Jr. and Lisa in trade for her own grandkids’ tales, and he heads back to his cabin with his heart a little bit lighter. It’s comfortable and safe and he knows it’s a respite, but holds on to his time here all the same. He hasn’t read papers or watched the news or even listened. It would just be fodder for a new list of takedowns, and he’s not ready for that. What he is ready for is realizing that his fight isn’t over. Just how he does it is. He’s always toed the line that is the brutality of death, but the emotion powering his vendetta confused things.

He is not like Red. He is fine with being judge, jury, and executioner. He doesn’t see it as playing god, if he even believed. It’s making a choice, and it is a deliberate one, and it doesn’t come without penalty.

He is just willing to do it.

Will there always be some criminal to fill the gap, come up the ranks? Of course. Thousands of years of human nature and the shit associated with it say a resounding yes. But he sees it like he saw all military work - to support a cause you believe, others may need to die. And he believes in getting the deep rooted conspiracy of scum out of their holes and into the streets.

He thinks of Lewis then. Thinks of the military and what it produces. Billy and Curtis and Lewis and him. Each with their own sense of order, instilled through military. He thinks how he shouldn’t have been there in that hotel, that it made no sense for him to be there, but he had been. Because talking with Lieberman, hell even Sarah, cemented it. Karen’s a sort of family now.  He thinks of her, wonders how she is. Wonders if she’s safe. It’s ok to just wonder.

He dreams less often.

----------

She wonders if he’s ok. Today’s daily thought devoted to Frank Castle comes as her hand grips her keys, eyes tracking her surroundings in the mall’s meager parking lot. She hates driving in the city, but had needed a new desk, and schlepping that on the subway all the way to Queens had not been on her list of fun things to do.

She hasn’t seen nor heard from him since the elevator, the memory of it foggy and displaced from the adrenaline and her injuries at the time. She sometimes touches her forehead unconsciously when she thinks about it, sees his eyes and the confused openness in them, the pain and adrenaline stripping everything away.

Where the hell is he? Where had he been when Fisk was raining terror on her and everyone she loved? It’s not like she waited for him to rescue her, she hadn’t expected that with Lewis either, but part of her...yeah part of her is still surprised he wasn’t there. That he didn’t show up, pumping a shotgun and unloading it in Dex’s heart.

It would have saved a lot of trouble. An agent’s life. Having to hear those desperately frustrated words from Matt’s mouth - god - that still hurt. She unlocks the car door with a flinch of remembrance, slides into the cracked pleather that needs a new layer of duct tape. There’s an old Jeep Cherokee staring at her accusedly from a space in front of her, a mirror image to the one she wrecked. She sighs and lowers her head and breathes, trying to remember what her thankfully-sliding-scale-therapist told her to do to quell the anxiety.

She remembers the look in both Foggy and Matt’s eyes when she’d told them. It had been what she expected, that mix of pity and incredulity and that judgment from Matt and an earnest attempt to understand from Foggy. She also remembers how it felt to tell Frank without saying a word. Because isn’t that it? Isn’t that why she’s held on to Frank, forgiven him with two hands clasped around his back in that hug she didn’t even know she wanted until he’d turned to leave?

All those unspoken conversations.

God, where the fuck is he? Her phone buzzes an interruption, juddering in the console where she’d stashed it.

“Karen Page,” she says, old habits from the paper dying hard.

“Ms. Page, free for dinner tonight? I know it’s a bit last minute but Lily’s been asking you to come visit for ages and I’m making Chicken Parmigiano and the kitchen smells fantastic and I thought of you.” A pause. “And that sounded incredibly wrong. But the offer stands.”

Karen smiles at Ellison’s awkward delivery. He’s really trying to regain her friendship, and the warmth of that realization suffuses from her heart through her chest.

“I would love to smell like Chicken parm,” she teases and checks the console’s clock. “What time?”

“An hou-”

She interrupts him. “And no matchmaking this time, right? I want to make that perfectly clear.”

Ellison laughs without a hint of embarrassment. “I promise I’ll give you fair warning if I try to set you up again. Though I have to say Karen, I thought you and Jason were gr-”

“OK yep, see you in an hour. Gotta go!” She cuts him off brightly and shifts the now-warm car into gear. It’ll take her most of the hour to get through Manhattan’s tangled streets, and she turns on her radio, grateful she has control courtesy of the free stereo repair from one of their lower-income clients.

Ellison greets her at the door with searching eyes and she pastes on the most sincere smile she can manage. It’s exhausting having people care, she thinks, then lets out a real laugh at the thought. It seems to appease Ellison as he takes her coat, the sound of Sinatra floating through the hall.

It’s just as comfortable as last time. She tells them about Nelson, Murdock & Page while Lily browbeats Ellison for letting her go, Ellison pulls a serious face as Lily brings out the dessert, “Tiramisu, from Geno’s. Mitchell can’t make desserts worth a damn.”

“What’s that face for,” Karen says suspiciously and Ellison leans over, fingers steepled below his chin. He stares at her for a moment as if composing what to say, so when he barks the words out, Karen jumps with their suddenness.

“Freelance. You up for it?”

She freezes and cants her eyes down, folds in on herself, hunched over her dessert. “I won’t tell you who he is.”

“I will never ask you that, not anymore.” His voice is warm, understanding, and she lifts her head to catch the softness in his eyes. Lily pushes back from the table and busies herself in the kitchen.

“I won’t give you Frank Castle either,” Karen says, steel in her voice, emboldened by his reaction.

“Karen, the attack on the bulletin messed with me hard. He attacked my family, in my home. A home as real as this one,” Ellison says, spreading his arms wide. “It put my trust in you to the test, because I know what I saw and heard and I know your tendency to-”

“To what?”

His mouth is open, lips moving to find the words. He knows he’s said the wrong thing and looks away to compose himself. “Karen, you’ve got a heart bigger than any I’ve known, and courage in spades, and you put yourself on the line for a story.” He shakes his head with a scoff. “That sounds like a hallmark card. Let me frame it another way. You are ruthless.”

Her eyes widen and her head shifts back, the words a blow. “Wh-what?”

“You’re ruthless in pursuit of a story. In protection of a source. In trusting in someone that’s earned it in your eyes despite evidence that would send someone else running.” Sinatra croons about flying to the moon as Ellison’s eyes catch hers. From the kitchen comes the smell of brewing coffee and Karen closes her eyes. “It’s a good thing. But it’s also a terrifying thing. It’s high stakes to trust you.” He holds up his hands in defense at her expression. “But I do, and I’m sorry that I didn’t show that. I’m showing it now. No Daredevil, no Frank Castle, no whomever comes next because apparently you’re a superhero slash villain magnet. Not unless it’s on your terms.”

Her whole body sags with relief and Ellison’s lip twitches in a half-smile hidden by his beard. Lily comes back to the table with freshly-brewed decaf, Karen smiling over her mug and trying hard not to think of diners and busted faces and what came after.

Where the hell is he?

It’s close to eleven when she finally heads up the stairs to her apartment, fishing out her keys from her purse as she sings Sinatra in a soft, out-of-key lilt. She’s at the stairs, the faint sound of music filtering down from her floor, which is a bit of a surprise. It’s usually pretty quiet, the building mainly full of retirees. She’d inherited the rent-controlled apartment from her grand aunt - there was no way in hell she could’ve paid Matt’s rent on top of a normal New York rent, even living out in Queens.

♫No matter who you are♫

Her step stutters and she dives a hand in her bag despite what the song playing must mean. Has to mean, right? She rounds the stairs and it’s there, sifting out from her apartment.

♫ Shining bright to see ♫

It feels a dream, and her steps are measured, one in front of the other as she approaches the door like it’s going to warp her to another dimension. Her hand lifts as if to knock before she shakes her head at the ridiculousness and places the key in the lock, the scrape of it echoing down to her toes. She pushes the door open, eyes scanning, her view of the living room frustratingly blocked by all her bookcases, but she doesn’t have to wait.

Her name is a rumble in his throat and her heart quakes.

“Karen.”

“Hi Frank,” she says in a clipped voice. “Drink? Oh, you’ve brought your own.” There’s a bottle of domestic she’d never buy in his grip. His hair is longer, not quite as full as his hipster ‘do, but definitely not the close shave she associates with The Punisher. His beard has made a return, close-cropped this time, and she knows these things are a conscious choice on his part, a way to separate himself.

“So what brings you by? I don’t work for the paper anymore so can’t help you as much these days.” She pulls her lips in, tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear. Turns off the stereo god that song. Fidgeting. Pissed.

“I’m sorry.” It’s unexpected, this apology, and it breaks the floodgates of her thoughts.

“Where were you? Fisk fucked up so many lives. A good agent died. Many good agents. Blackmail and death. I thought this would be prime Punisher territory or is it because it doesn’t connect with your fam-” She stops. Too late.

He stands, his hurt and anger propelling him out of the seat. His voice is an open wound. “Guess you missed the memo when you became family, Karen.”

“I’m sorry, i had no right to say that. It’s not even-” she pauses, closes her eyes, her mouth stuttering as she tries to form her thoughts. What did he mean? “It’s not what I really think. I’m just angry, and I have no right to be. I have no claim on you.”

“But you do, Karen. You’re family. And I should have left some way to get in touch. I went off the grid, trying to figure it out, trying to change, trying to put that past behind me.” He’s at her bookshelves, scanning the titles. The window Matt uses to break in is to his side, the lights of the city bright and crisp in the fall air.

Her voice still holds tension, her question tight. “And did you?”

“No.” It’s as long of an answer as he’s willing to give right now, and she shakes her head in response, breath blowing out her nose.  He abandons the shelves, scrubs a hand over his face. “I- I’m glad you’re safe Karen.”

She’s staring at him, her eyes hard with the weight of emotion, and she launches herself at him. He’s prepared this time, his arms circling around her, hand up to touch the silk of her hair, feeling the rabbit pulse of her heart against his chest.

She pulls back first and he’s reluctant to release her. She turns and sits on the edge of the couch, fiddling with something on the coffee table’s burled wood. Her laugh is self-deprecating. “My old boss called me ruthless tonight. And I thought, ‘you don’t even know the half of it’.”

He crosses the room, avoiding the spot that always trips her, where the rug curls up. He always knows where he is, moving with a grace that belies his bulk. “Maria used to call me that.” He laughs. “Ruthless. Said I focused on one thing so hard I forgot what else was around.”

“Do you think she was right?”

“Depends on what you define ‘one thing’ as. What she meant it as? Nah. I disagreed, didn’t tell her that though.” His face is in shadow and she reaches to turn on the light. He squints until his eyes adjust. “Things were rocky those last couple tours. I was taking it home with me. So I just kinda took whatever she said. She was a real ballbuster, she was.” His smile is far away and he shakes his head like he’s shaking off a blow. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just reminded me.”

“It’s ok.” Her voice is soft. She spins her bottle on its edge, studying the condensation ring on the table. She’d forgot to put coasters out.

“What is it, Karen?”

She laughs once, an unhumorous huff, and then the words scratch out of a warring throat. “When I was nineteen, I killed my brother.”

--------

Frank had missed the city, the sounds and horrid fucking smells and the people and the sheer controlled chaos of the streets. So he feels at home in this weekly cash-up-front rental, his police scanner a low murmur in the background, the sirens and accented shouts are the background to his thoughts.

He’d swung by Curtis’ place, the man’s face still bearing the scars of Lewis’ brutality, and Curtis had tried to pry in that subtle, vet-meeting, questioning way which Frank had mostly dodged. He was getting soft, all these deep conversations and heart-to-hearts, swear to god. But Karen, she-

He’d known there was something, a darkness in her that called to his own, however goddamned sparkly vampire that sounded in his head. Just something off, then. Simple as like calls to like. He’d been wrong about her and Red. He wouldn’t be able to hold on to her, not with the pedestal he’d put her on.

Sometimes you’ve gotta recognize the darkness in others so you can understand it. It was something he’d started to teach Lisa, when that asshole bully at school tried to make her life miserable. He’d taught her how to recognize it, and at the right time, to use that understanding to make the bully stop. Her face as she ran off the bus that first day she’d stood up to him, running up into Frank’s arms with that grin so much like Maria’s it hurt, god.

So many things in that smile. A darkness in its own right.

He shook his head, picked up the book Karen had let him borrow, a gesture that made him smile himself, now, because it spoke of tomorrow. She’d joked that she’d put flowers in her window when she wanted the book back.

He hadn’t been sure if he was fooling himself with her friendship, not with the deaths on his hands, but she’d all but screamed her acceptance at him, and who was he to argue when it felt so good to feel connected to someone?

He isn’t stupid. She is a beautiful woman and they are clearly attracted to one another. But it isn’t why she’s family.

She’s family because she is ruthless, and so is he.

------

The new modus operandi of Nelson, Murdock and Page isn’t much different than the old one, they’re just more obvious about it. They still help those who aren’t getting a fair legal shake, and with that comes the inevitable investigation that uncovers the seedy underbelly of Hell’s Kitchen and beyond.

It’s a system that works surprisingly well. A dream scrawled on a napkin come to life. She looks into the cases, digging deep on the angles and motives. Matt does nighttime reconnaissance and rules the jurists’ box with compelling arguments. Foggy quotes legal precedent like it’s a Jeopardy category he’s just won.

And while they’re doing good work, a part of her wonders if they could do more, especially when they begin to realize something’s horning in on Fisk’s old territory. Something big. There’s whispers of it in the Kitchen, talk of a crime family with deep pockets and an even deeper streak of violence. She takes her work home with her, files she’s pulled from legal records, info from The Bulletin’s database. There’s a whiteboard in her kitchen that looks like a conspiracy theorist’s dream.

She brings it into the office, expecting Foggy to laugh, but he just calls them Team Awesome and moves a pushpin around.

“Seriously Karen, I’ve dreamed about this moment. You-” he points at her, “are helping Foggy Nelson realize a life’s dream.” He puts his hands in his pockets and leans back, observing. “Wow. It really does make things clear. I resolve we have this at all future Nelson, Murdock and Page meetings. By the way - we’ve got enough petty cash to pay for your investigator’s license. We should make this legal, huh?”

Matt smiles at her pleased surprise. “You’re part of our dream now, Karen. You didn’t think you’d escape did you?”

And despite all the bs between them, the shadow of his lies and those months where they’d presumed him dead and that desperate hopeful act of paying his rent, her smile at Matt is real, and the gleam in her eyes is too.

“Yeah, so,” she brushes the front of her skirt, motions to Matt, “when you got that name a few weeks ago, Blackwing, that broke things open.” She points to an article pinned in the upper right. “We’re dealing with the Maggias. An international crime organization that saw an opportunity in a Fisk-less New York. But look here,” she points to a picture with two strands of yarn leading from it. “This girl. If we get to her…” She trails off at their expressions. “What?”

“You are not going to directly involve yourself in this, Karen.” Matt’s the first to say it, but Foggy’s looking at her with the same stern face.

“Wait, what?”

“You can’t pull a Fisk on us again, we have to let law and research and Matt’s reflexes build our case for it.”

She’s pissed her actions have become a noun and says so.

“Look Karen, it’s hard enough to let a guy with supernatural reflexes out there and not worry to death,” Foggy’s saying, but she’s tuning him out. Because it’s what she expected from them, this overprotectiveness that will result in saving her life and hurting others. But she nods, they deserve her at least making the effort.

And so she does, tries to work on another angle for a few days, but the dangling possibility of investigating the crime lords’ mistress holds too much promise. She leaves work early, feigning cramps, a sadly still relevant way to avoid any questions from the boys.

She’s home in forty minutes, and is a whirlwind of activity, grabbing a notebook, pulling out some spare ammo from a drawer. When he speaks, her heart leaves her body.

“Going somewhere?”

She explains.

“Do you have a death wish Karen?” He asks as if he already knows the answer.

“No. Yes. Not really,” she answers and he nods, because it’s the truth. The question is the wrong one. It’s not about having a death wish. It’s something tangled up in a lack of self-preservation and her own sense of self-worth. Add a dash of genuine rage. Stir.

“Matt sees it as selfish,” she says suddenly. “I know he does. He said the same to me when he had to rescue me at the church. I blew his chance at Fisk because of my own bravado. God Frank, he was so mad.”

Frank stands during this, stalking towards her with an angry set to his jaw. “It sounds like me and Red need to have a talk.” He grabs her hands, holds them up so her palms are facing the ground, fingers pointing down in his grip. “You don’t have a death wish. And you’re not selfish. You follow your gut. You’re ruthless.”

Her eyes shine at this reminder of their talk, but she’s not ready to let go of her thoughts just yet. “But part of me thinks he’s right. When I go with my gut, people die. My brother. Ben. Father Lantom. So maybe I go, and i don’t involve anyone.”

“Is that what this is?” He lets go of a hand, circles his own in the air in reference to her frenetic packing. “You going off on your own? It didn’t work with Lewis, it’s not gonna work here.” She pulls from his grip, and he’s surprised at the anger on her face.

“So I just sit here, while the Maggias slip into Fisk’s shoes?”

He holds her gaze while shaking his head slowly. “Never said that, Karen. Wouldn’t say that.” The groove between his brows deepens and he cocks his head to the side, considering. He starts to say something, but his thoughts haven’t caught up to his voice and it comes out a low murmured rasp.  “You...Karen.” He pauses, his eyes darting around the room as he thinks. “You’ve got this thing about you. Like a pitbull. You don’t let go. And yeah, maybe it’s like Ellison says, you’re ruthless. You’ve got the killer instinct.”

She watches him without expression, her arms clasped across her body. A door creaks and slams closed nearby and she wonders at how normal it feels, Frank in her apartment. She stays silent, unsure if it’s more because she’s afraid of what he’ll say or that she needs it so much.

“Could your law friends dismantle this in a few years? Sure. Could Red beat up and threaten folks in the Kitchen until he gets lucky? Sure. But waiting means more people die. And you get that.”

Karen looks up sharply and Frank’s gaze narrows on her own. “Sometimes you gotta do something crazy to get results and you-” he breaks the stare, his teeth flashing in a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, “you don’t even pause to think about it. You just do, Karen.” He turns back to her, his brow clear, his stare piercing. “Now how’s somebody gonna say that’s selfish? Here’s the thing. You’re always left with the aftermath, but what if you hadn’t made your choices?”

“My brother would still be alive. Ben.”

“Bullshit. Your brother would be dead at your boyfriend’s hands, from what you told me. Ben might be alive but Fisk would’ve killed someone else. You uncover stuff, you worry it between your teeth. Pitbull, Karen.”

She smiles at this. “I’ve always loved dogs.”

“Heh.” Frank walks back to the couch, takes a pull off the beer sitting there. “So what’s this plan that’s got your lawyer friends in a tizzy?” He says the last word mockingly and circles the bottle in the air, an encouragement to speak.

She relaxes into another sort of tension, borne of facts and research. Turns towards the kitchen, grabs a Fat Tire from the fridge and sits down next to Frank. She watches his profile as he takes a drink, his throat working beneath the sharp cut of his jawline.

“The Maggias are divided right now. A bunch of hot-heads scrambling for power left in the void Fisk’s arrest made. And-” she says this last word like it’s a revelation, “two of them are after the same girl.”

Frank is nodding. “The mistress angle. Nice. She’s gotta be under a helluva lot of protection then.”

“Maybe,” Karen concedes, “but she’s not part of the family. From what I can tell she has no idea what they’re into, so if she has protection it’s well hidden. I want to talk to her. I want her to start asking questions. I want her questions to scare them into making a false move.”

“Is she...with both of them?”

“No. Neither. I think she senses something. But they’re obsessed.”

“That makes it easier to convince her. But what’s after that? Let’s assume she tells them, and they spook. So what?” He turns his body towards her, raises his bottle and ducks his head. “You acting as bait? That’s not gonna work with these guys.”

Karen looks down, her hands tangled in her lap. “Do -” she pauses, takes a sip of beer, “do you want to help?”

He stares at her and the silence stretches. She ventures a glance at him, and his eyes are tracing the planes of her face, his mouth open, his head nodding in a rhythm that speaks less of an acknowledgment than a means to think.

Frank breaks the silence with a croak of laughter, his head ducked down and that flash of teeth shining and it surprises her into her own laugh, though she’s unsure why she is.

“Just thinking last year I’d tell you hell no, I work alone. But maybe this is the new me. The new Frank.” His eyes dim for a moment. “I don’t pull punches Karen. If I help you, people will die. That part of me isn’t gone, never will be. But you know this. Right?” He looks up at her and there’s a vulnerability there that he’d deny if she pointed it out.

And that’s part of both of their stories, she thinks. Reaching out unconsciously to someone who just might understand. It’s human nature to want connection despite what terrors your own mind commits. And Frank may think his are on a different level - maybe they are - but she doesn’t see it that way. And she tells him so.

His face hardens for a moment in that inexplicable instinct to deny acceptance freely given, but his brow clears at her fierce expression. “Shit, Karen, you’re a firebrand,” there’s a smile in his voice. “So then,” he sets his beer down, holds his hand out. His fingers slide up her wrist when they shake and she shivers, unbidden.

“Partners?” He says and darts his eyes away, and her mouth curls up in the lightest of smiles as she responds.

“Sounds like a plan.”

[soldatbarnes]

The Witching Hour [6]

Summary: You’ve married the love of your life, and have moved into your dream home. Nothing could go wrong, right? // au-ish. // a haunting au.

Bucky Barnes X Reader

Word Count: 1355

Warnings: Aspects of a haunting; Bucky being super supportive; Arrival of a guest (do those need to be warnings?)

A/N: Sorry to those reading this that I didn’t post yesterday. I hurt myself and was relaxing it off. 

<- Previous Part  ||  Next Part ->

“Baby, you’ve got to breathe.” Bucky was holding you tightly to his chest. You’d bolted from the room as fast as you could and refused to go back in there. 

“It’s worse here than at the house!! It’s obviously mad that we left Bucky, we can’t stay here!! We can’t go there! What the hell are we supposed to do??” you were trying not to lose all control of yourself but you felt your mind slipping away at the prospect that something you couldn’t even see had laid some sort of claim over you. 

“Where felt more comfortable?” he asked softly. 

“Well, the house. I mean all of our stuff is there! With all of the different people and energies around I here, I think this environment is just going to feed it. We haven’t even been here for twenty four hours..” 

“Then we’ll go home. And we’ll figure this out together, okay?” you nodded. You’d give anything up for this to just go away. 

By the time you’d arrived back home you were exhausted. Entering the house you couldn’t help but breathe in the eerie silence. Everything was dark. There were no sounds coming from anywhere. No creaks from the hard wood, no rustling of trees in the wind, no crickets. All was still. 

“It feels weird in here.” Bucky commented, looking around the home. Everything was in place. 

“Can we just go to bed?” He kissed the top of your head before leading you up the stairwell. He didn’t want to leave you alone for any reason. Not now. He felt sick that you were going through all of this and there was nothing that he could do to help. 

You’d fallen asleep quickly, praying to anybody who was listening that you could sleep through the night. When you opened your eyes next you saw sunlight, and felt slightly relieved. 

“What the hell?” Bucky hissed from beside you, quickly sitting up. 

“What’s wrong?” you rubbed your eyes, and sat up next to him. 

“I rolled over onto my back, and it stung!” he turned to let you have a look at his bare back. You gasped when you saw three deep scratch marks tracing down his spine.  

“Oh Bucky!” you traced your fingers beside the cuts that marks his skin, stopping when you heard a sharp inhale. “It looks like somebody scratched your back.” 

He got up and looked at his back in the full length mirror in your bathroom. 

“Where the hell did these come from?” he mumbled, looking between you and the mirror.

“This is all my fault..”

“No, it’s not. You couldn't have done this. You’ve never cut me before. And your nails don’t leave marks like this.” 

“It’s got to be whatever is here... And it’s my fault! I wanted to move into this house! It follows me! And now it’s going to hurt you because of me.” you growled in frustration and lay back down. 

“Well I mean.. When we met I was kind of obsessed with you, so we really can’t blame the demon..” you threw a pillow at him as he chuckled to himself. 

“Not funny.” 

“Look, I’m fine. Nothing a little cleaning and bandaging won’t fix. Trust me Darlin’ I’ve had worse.” he waved at you with the digits of his left arm. 

You were about to argue with him when his cell phone rang from across the room. He looked at the caller ID before nodding, answering while walking out of the room. You stayed still, staring at the ceiling. A few minutes passed before he returned, sighing deeply as he dropped his phone on the dresser next to him. 

“What happened?” you asked, leaning up on your elbows. 

“Mission. Mandatory. They need all hands on deck.” 

“What?? James what am I supposed to do while you're gone?” you motioned to the room around you.

“I’ll figure something out, I promise I won’t leave you here alone.” he kissed you softly before grabbing his phone and leaving the room. 

You were pacing the living room downstairs while Bucky packed. You were angry and terrified at the same time. You’d never been alone for very long in the house, and you were scared that whatever was after you would target you while Bucky was gone. Or that it would go with him, and do something while he was vulnerable in the field. You jumped when you heard the doorbell. 

“I got it!” Bucky ran by to open the door. 

“Who is it?” you asked, hearing him greet somebody warmly. You turned the corner and felt the corners of your mouth turn up. 

“Matthew Murdock, it’s been so long!” you squealed, before pulling the man into a hug.   

“Too long.” he responded, pulling back from the hug. 

“How is everything? How is Foggy?” Bucky winked at you as you lead Matt through the house to the kitchen. Matt had been one of your best friends for years but you both were always so busy you rarely saw each other. When he knew he’d have to leave you, there was nobody else he trusted to be there for you more. 

“Everything is, as good as it can be. And Foggy is good! Still asks about you all the time.”

“I’ve missed you guys so much.” 

Bucky sighed in relief as he watched the two of you catch up. He hadn’t seen you so animated in so long. He felt thankful that something was able to lighten your mood. He felt some relief in his own heart at seeing your smile so big, despite not being able to bring it on himself. He wanted you to feel free.

After some time he’d finally finished packing up all of his stuff, putting everything in his truck. 

“All ready to go?” you asked, as he approached the kitchen. 

“Yup. It’s that time.” he smiled at you, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. You knew he didn’t want to go. He kissed you sweetly, before thanking Matt for coming and then he was gone.

“You’re both incredibly lucky.” Matt commented. 

“Oh?” 

“You both care and trust each other so much. It’s beautiful.” he smiled.

“He’s a good man.” you nodded. “I’ll never want anybody else, in this life or the next.” 

You’d called it an early night, once again feeling completely drained and exhausted. After a few hours you found yourself awake. Glancing at the clock you felt angry when you read the large red lettering. ‘3:30am’ stared back at you. 

“Fuck..” you spoke into the darkness. You reached over and felt the cold, empty sheets next to you. Shaking your head you dragged yourself up and out of bed, heading downstairs to get some water. 

When you finished the glass and turned around and almost screamed. Matt was  standing at the kitchen doorway. 

“Jesus, Matt. You scared the hell out of me!!” he held up a hand to silence you. You watched as his gaze seemed to fix on the door to your office behind you. 

“There’s something in there.” he spoke in a hushed tone. “I can hear it.” 

You both froze as the door opened behind you, slowly, until it hit the wall. You kept your eyes on Matt, as his own seemed to be following something in the dark. Your heartbeat sped up as they stopped, just shy of looking into your own. 

“Matt?” you whispered. 

“It’s behind you. It’s.. I don’t know.. hands are on your shoulders. It’s big.” 

“Matt...” you felt the tears brimming in your eyes.

You stood frozen as you watched your friend start to walk towards you. The closer he got, the more anxious you felt. You held your breath as he reached you. He grabbed your shoulders, and leaned over you. 

“She does not belong to you.” he spat. “You will let her go.”

You watched as he visibly relaxed in front of you. 

“What just happened?” you asked.

“Nothing yet.” he grabbed you and started dragging you towards the stairs as you felt he house begin to shake. 

“What’s happening Matt??” 

“I’m pretty sure I pissed it off...” 

[theshipsfirstmate]

Punisher Fic: I Found Peace in Your Violence (Can’t Tell Me There’s No Point in Trying)

Post-1x10 & 1x11 Kastle feels. That night, Karen finds herself standing in her kitchen, staring at a terra cotta pot of white roses.

A/N: HI I’M NEW AND KASTLE IS KILLING ME. Anyway, full disclosure: I have only watched select scenes of Daredevil, and Punisher (aka the Kastle scenes, essentially), and mostly-watched Defenders S1. But I love these two and I needed them to kiss, so I wrote a thing. It’s not any deeper than that (even though it got very out of hand), so please forgive any massive errors or oversights.

Title from “Silence” by Marshmello feat. Khalid, because it really screams Kastle to me rn.

I Found Peace in Your Violence (Can’t Tell Me There’s No Point in Trying) (wc: 3644 - AO3)

That night, when she finally gets home after a few hours of questioning, she's almost robotic with exhaustion. She goes through the motions, changing out of one more set of clothes ruined by the smell of smoke and blood and panic, using scalding hot water to shower off yet another brush with death, taking her first real, deep breaths in what feels like days. An hour or so later, she finds herself standing in her kitchen in her pajamas, staring at a terra cotta pot of white roses.

They’re fake — she could tell the second he dug them sheepishly out of his bag — but still, Karen wonders if Frank meant for her to keep them. She wonders if he meant to give her something so permanent. “I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy,” he had said, with a look on his face that was nearly a smile, and her foolish heart had skipped a beat in the pause before he explained the true purpose of the plant.

When he turned to leave that night, she had practically lept into his arms -- she almost has to laugh at the absurdity of taking The Punisher by surprise -- grabbing a hold of him tight. With two hands, her mind echoes. She remembers how they had swayed in the quiet warmth of her kitchen, how his arms spanned her back when he tightened the embrace, how it had felt, for just a fleeting second, so much like a normal moment between two people with normal lives.

She's thought a lot about that hug in the weeks that followed, sometimes with the burning flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, sometimes with the hot sting of tears. She hadn’t been sure at the time, or for a long time after, exactly what -- or who -- it was all about. Was it because of how impulsive she was with him, or the way his guard dropped around her? Was it his death wish or her newly-heightened sense of mortality? His angels or her demons?

Maybe it wasn’t even about them at all, some part of her brain that sounded a lot like Foggy had offered one time. Maybe it, like so many other things, was really about Matt. Maybe it was about the way Frank had smirked at her over a cup of coffee once, and told her -- like he knew better than she did -- how in love she was. Maybe it was more about the devil who died a hero, than those left behind in hell.

But maybe not.

Tonight, she picks up the pot of roses, and only when she hears the ceramic base rattle against the countertop does she realize her hands are shaking. She blames the end waves of the shock that's been coursing through her system for hours, and tries telling herself it has nothing to do with Frank Castle, that she might as well just toss the flowers down the chute because it'll be months again before she has to worry about him.

But it’s exhausting lie, and one she finds herself too weary for on a night like this. So instead, she thinks about Frank's forehead pressed against hers -- one moment of peace in this vividly traumatic day -- and she walks the roses across the room. She remembers the look in his red-rimmed eyes and sets the pot on her windowsill. Her rational mind catches up eventually, but still she leaves them there, crossing back to the kitchen and saying a silent prayer that he’ll return to her as readily as he did the last time.

Everything’s still right at the surface -- the icy terror that had sunk in when she realized he wasn’t following her out of the kitchen and away from the bomb, the solid warmth of his hands cradling her head after the world exploded around them, the agonizing sight of him climbing that elevator shaft with barely one good arm between the two. Karen's convinced that she just needs to see him to settle this turbulent feeling in the pit of her stomach.

It takes him less than an hour to call. She tries not to let herself think too hard about everything else that means.

“You okay?” She should have known not to expect pleasantries. His voice is Punisher-low, and it throws her off long enough to make him worry. “Karen?”

“I'm fine, Frank. Sorry, I--” It’s the worst possible time to find herself tongue-tied, but she can’t help it. They didn’t say goodbye earlier, not really, and the sound of his voice, clear and strong and alive, whites out her brain for a few blissful seconds.

“The flowers.”

“Yeah.”

“A mistake?” Something of a loaded question.

“No.” She silently curses at herself when she realizes she's blinking away frustrated tears. “I just… Can I see you?”

“I, I don’t--” His voice sounds pained for a brief moment and then he goes quiet for what feels like a very long time. “It’s not safe.”

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Okay.” She can't see his face, but she's so sure he wants to say yes. It might be the only thing keeping her from falling to pieces. “Okay.”

“Karen.” He puts so much into those two syllables of her name. He tells her an entire story in five letters -- and one she’s heard before, no less -- about how this thing only ends in an inferno.

“It doesn’t have to be tonight.” She’s trying desperately not to sound desperate, but there’s no time to appreciate the irony. “Just, when it’s safe. Whenever. Please.”

He doesn't answer, but she can hear him taking shallow breaths on the other end of the line. She wonders where he is, what blood-soaked new steps have been added to his list of plans. She wonders if he has the same look in his eyes that he did in the elevator. She wonders, if he was standing in front of her again, if he would lower his eyelids and tip his head to the side, just slightly.

“Frank?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Okay.” She sighs out a rush of relief, and hears something rustle on his end. “Please be careful.”

He hangs up after a gruff but similar sentiment, and Karen thinks that’s another one of the ways they say the things that can’t be spoken out loud.

Despite his agreement, she spends most of the next day going stir-crazy in her apartment -- on a temporary leave from work that Ellison had made clear was not up for discussion -- doing research and doubting she’ll ever see him again. It's become a bit of a habit for her, wondering with every half-goodbye if this time will be the one that makes them wish they had gone all in on whatever it is they're gambling.

She’s smart enough to know the danger didn’t die with Lewis, and now the whole city’s calling for Frank’s life too. The knot in her abdomen laces itself tighter with every article she reads.

Mercifully, he doesn't keep her waiting long. Just after one a.m. -- she’s sitting on her bed with her laptop, putting off the nightly struggle to close her eyes and keep them shut for any meaningful amount of time -- there’s a tap on the window by her fire escape. Karen barely even flinches, crossing to undo the latch and meeting his eyes through the thick glass.

“It’s still not safe,” Frank says before she has a chance to speak, sliding inside and looking her up and down. She’s suddenly very conscious of her sleepwear, even though it's a relatively modest zip-up and shorts. “Sure you're okay?”

She almost laughs in spite of herself at his concern, given the fact that he very nearly took another bullet to the brain less than 48 hours ago. “Yes, Frank, I swear. I -- are you okay?” He looks like hell, with an impressive collection of cuts and bruises, some of which appear to be worryingly fresh.

“I thought maybe it was--” He ignores her and then trails off, eyes darting around the room. She realizes he's sweeping the place. “Maybe it was something you couldn’t say over the phone.”

God, Karen thinks, what a pair they make. She looks at him and sees a dead man walking. He looks at her and sees a hundred ways to get her killed. Her hands itch with the need to touch him. “Thank you,” she practically whispers when his eyes finally make it back to hers, “for coming.”

Because all that tragedy doesn’t do anything to stop this pull between them. It didn’t stop his lips from finding her cheek that night by the river. It didn’t stop him from jumping in front of another bullet meant for her, and it didn’t stop her from rushing back towards a bomb he’ll be blamed for. It doesn’t stop them from reaching for each other when they should be running for their lives.

And it doesn’t stop him from showing up at her window just one night after he told her it was too dangerous. Even worse, once Frank’s certain she’s not in immediate physical danger, his eyes go sad and earnest. “I'm sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.”

She can’t help it then, looping her arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him close. He responds in kind, banding his arms around her back like they have before in this same space, but he seems wholly unprepared for when she turns, almost unconsciously, to press a kiss just above his ear -- where the thin red beginnings of a scar remind her, in centimeters, exactly how close she came to losing him.

Frank freezes in her arms, pulling back enough to meet her eyes with a questioning look that breaks her heart in a familiar way.

“I’m sorry.” She’s not, but she says it anyway, shuffling her feet nervously. “I just needed to…”

To see you. To touch you. To make sure that what’s left of your soul didn’t spill from your temple in that elevator shaft.

She remembers, in the moment yesterday, wondering how he was possibly standing with a head wound like that. She remembers swallowing down bile later, when she heard Madani tell one of the agents at the scene how Billy Russo grazed him as he ran down the stairs -- towards her. It’s been cleaned and stitched up now, but there's still something to the primal impulse she’d had to press her lips to his cheek, to stain her mouth red and tacky, to taste his pulse on top of his skin.

Tonight though, her chaster instinct has stopped them in their tracks -- Frank’s hands are warm but completely still on her waist while his eyes flicker down to her mouth. He doesn’t move, and she doesn’t have an end to the sentence she started. “I just needed to.”

She watches his throat work, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows what might be answers to the questions she's too afraid to ask. His hands come up to trace her own battle wounds, far less severe than his, as evidenced by the effort it takes him to lift his right arm. But he’s overwhelmingly tender when he frames her face, brushing a calloused thumb over the cut on her forehead, and she takes in a shaky breath.

“Christ, Karen. I tried to tell you.” He's gruff but not angry. In fact, there's something in his voice that she's never heard before. “How many times I gotta say it? I can’t have you in this with me.”

She bristles and pulls away from his hands, enough that he drops them back to his sides, and his eyes to the floor. “I’m in it, Frank. Like it or not.” She understands it’s his protective instinct, but this is not a conversation worth entertaining, not when every second is so valuable to them right now. “I was in the woods with you. I was in that kitchen. I was in that elevator.”

He shudders, and she wonders if it’s the thought of pressing a gun to her chin. She remembers how his eyes had gone black when she suggested the move, how he had spent precious time insisting there was another way. Mostly, she remembers how he was shaking so violently behind her that she was worried he was going to blow their whole cover.

In the end, they had settled for removing the clip from the gun, but even over the heart-pounding tension of the standoff, she could feel him hating every moment.

“I just want you to be safe.” This is why she can't trust anyone who only sees Frank as a killing machine, Karen thinks, the terror that fuels him is so clearly etched across his face. Her heart cracks when his voice does. “I need you to be safe.”

“I’m safe right now, right this second,” she offers wryly. “Maybe that’s all we can ask for, anymore.” It’s mostly a joke, but he flinches again. She reaches out to gently pull his right arm to her, checking the spot where the shrapnel had been embedded. He’s all patched up, though, so she traces her way down and tangles their fingers together. It’s a loose hold, but he doesn’t let go or pull away.

“I wanted to stay with you in that elevator.” She looks up when he speaks, but his eyes are focused on their intertwined hands. “If you hadn't told me to go, I would have... I wanted to--”

“I know.” Her words come out heavy, bringing forth the tears in the back of her throat. He takes a few sharp breaths and continues.

“I can't afford to make those kinds of mistakes, Karen.” His hand squeezes hers and she wonders if he meant to do it. “Not with what’s coming.”

You let me know if you find a way to shut it off. That’s what she wants to say. Instead, she just repeats herself, somehow even heavier. “I know.”

He sighs and looks up at her for just a second, before averting his gaze. “I don't know how many more ways I can prove I've got nothing left to offer you.” One step forward, two steps back. Karen furrows her brow and tells him the truth he won’t let himself hear.

“I’m not asking you for anything, Frank.” She tries to keep her tone sharp, but ruins it with a sniffle, and he looks like the sound physically pains him. “I just wanted to see you. It's not wrong to want things.”

His nostrils flare at her final words, and she prepares herself for a gruff reprimand on why she’s got it backwards. But that’s not what he tells her at all. “I haven’t wanted anything in a long time,” he admits, with an emphasis on the word that sparks something low in her gut. “But I did yesterday.”

He doesn't tell her any more. He doesn’t have to, Karen’s breath catches at the sense memory. If she closes her eyes, she’s certain she'll still be able to feel the diamond-plated steel up against her back, the almost that he left on her lips.

But she can’t look away from his gaze, not any more than she can stop herself from asking, “And today?”

Frank nods, so softly and imperceptibly that she’s not even sure he knows he’s done it. It’s a nod like the one he gave her when she finally found the right wire on Lewis’ bomb. The metaphor practically writes itself.

He tugs on her hand and takes one step closer, putting them almost toe-to-toe. She stands her ground. She can feel the atmosphere get lighter once they’re sharing it, can feel every cell in her body magnetized in his direction -- but he has to be the one to pull the trigger. He’s in control, not because he's The Punisher, but because he's a man who's lost everything, more than once over. She won’t be another person who takes more than he's offering.

So she asks one more question. “What about tomorrow?”

“I’m going on the record for Madani first thing tomorrow,” he murmurs, tipping his forehead down to hers once again, so close she can feel the warmth of his words on her lips. “I don’t know what happens after that.”

It's intentionally vague, and she understands why. From Karen’s perspective, the Homeland agent seems trustworthy enough so far, but she knows as well as Frank does that there’s a chance he doesn’t even make it in the building for that testimony. Or out again afterwards.

“Frank--” She wants to lie and say it'll all be fine. She wants to tell him the truth about how proud she is. But her eyes have fluttered closed and his lips are on hers the second she says his name. One kiss, then two, until she’s losing count. True to his unspoken word, the flames between them roar to life as soon as the match is lit.

He smells like gunpowder and sweat, but he tastes like copper and cinnamon, and her eyes snap open and then closed again while one hand snakes around his waist and the other reaches up to stroke his stubbled cheek. He groans into her mouth, low and dark. It sounds like her name.

His lips are softer than they have any right to be. None of it's fair, really, not the way his calloused hands leave goosebumps when they skim down her sides, not the way her knees wobble when he pulls her flush against him, not the way he kisses her like it’s salvation. And especially not the way her heart thuds painfully when she realizes he's only doing it because he thinks he might not get another chance.

They stumble backwards towards her couch and, without breaking the kiss, he clumsily pulls her down to straddle his hips, anchoring her with warm hands on her waist, fingers curled around the waistband of her shorts. She grinds a little in his lap when he sweeps his tongue across hers, but the groan from deep in his throat calls to attention the rapidly approaching point of no return.

“If there’s anything left when I’m done with all of this…” Frank presses the words to her lips, deep and desperate, as his hands flex on her thighs, “if there is an after--”

Karen kisses him back just to keep him from making promises he’ll have to worry about keeping. Even still, his words deal the shattering blow to that piece of her heart that’s been breaking for him since they met. This is the moment, she knows it for certain. They can slow down and do things the right way, or carry on and let it all turn to ash.

Frank’s following her lead so closely that it's easy for her to drag their kisses to a lazy stop, once she’s able to talk herself into it. He doesn’t pull away completely, just keeps his forehead pressed to hers, palms smoothing softly up and down her legs. “Y’okay?”

“Yes.” She says it because it’s the truth, and when he answers her small grin with one of his own, she feels giddy and triumphant. “But I think, you know...” It’s hard to focus when his hands haven’t stopped moving. “I think we should--”

“Yeah.” he nods and stills, eyes going a little wider. He’s clearly, finally caught up, at least a little. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She gingerly climbs off his lap to a spot beside him on the couch and takes a beat to steel herself before she looks back up. His smile is gone, but in its place is something even more surprising -- something that looks almost like a confession. It lifts a burden off her chest and brings tears to her eyes, and she realizes it’s because she’s always expected that it would be an apology instead.

When she kneels up to steal one last kiss, Frank lets her take two. “Will you stay?” she asks as she pulls back, and the corners of his mouth turn up again. She wants to pinch herself. “Just for a little?”

He wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close, tucking her up against his side. “C’mere.” For just a second, she flashes back to the elevator again, to reaching out for him when he was just too far away. But tonight Frank’s t-shirt is soft against her cheek, his chest is warm where she rests her hand, and it keeps her here with him. Once he presses a kiss to the top of her head and heaves out a deep, shaky sigh, she starts to drift off to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Karen’s not surprised that he's gone before she wakes, but she is surprised to find herself tucked into bed, a note on her nightstand the only evidence he was ever here. She reads it again and again, pacing the kitchen and eyeing the roses that still sit in the window. It's the most he’s ever asked of her and the most he’s ever promised, all at the same time.

Stay safe, he's scrawled on what looks like a page torn from a paperback book. And then, lower: If there’s anything left, it’s yours.

[darklygophilia]

Just A Little Comparison...

This gif basically sent me down the rabbit hole of Daredevil & Punisher meta-land...

Here we have Matt pushing Foggy out of the way of the incoming bullets, but Fogy still gets hit regardless. Which, IMO, mirrors their friendship. Despite Matt’s good intentions, Foggy still has to deal with a lot of Daredevil consequences no matter that Matt tries to keep him safe, 1st by keeping that part of himself a secret in S1, & later by trying to avoid talking about Daredevil with Foggy at all in the beginning of S2. But Foggy can’t ignore that Matt’s Daredevil, he can’t just ignore the elephant in the room! So, Foggy faces a lot of fallout b/c of Matt’s inability to balance his duel identities as well as Foggy’s own inability to accept both sides of Matt b/c Matt lied to him for most of their friendship. I do feel that if Foggy had found out much sooner, if Matt had confided in Foggy, than their friendship wouldn’t have suffered so much. But, there’s always gonna be this part of Foggy that likely feels that Matt didn’t trust him b/c he didn’t tell him he was Daredevil. And that has to hurt. Foggy had to find out on his own, by accident! Which leads to the question: Would Matt have told him himself if Foggy hadn’t accidentally found out?

With Karen it’s a little different. The Matt she’s known was a lie, in a way she fell in-love with her own fantasy of Matt. The Matt that he projects onto the world by day. And while, unlike with Foggy, Matt does decide to confide in Karen himself that he’s Daredevil (probably cause he was trying to learn from his mistake with keeping things from Foggy, & hoping to avoid loosing another one of his only two friends), Matt still essentially lied to Karen. He showed her a false image of himself. And she’s done the same thing, she has her own secrets. The fact that their brief romance was essentially built on lies/secrets from both of them needing to hide their true selves from each other (both out of fear of rejection) provides a very week foundation for their so-called love story. Not to mention their differences of moral ideology (Karen’s moral ideals are more on par with Frank’s than Matt’s). Which is why I’m CONVINCED that Karen/Matt are NOT endgame. B/c the foundation of a good, healthy relationship full of trust, & love, & knowing each other just is NOT there at all. Another thing, they’re both wearing masks. Karen projects an image of herself to Matt as well. Basically, neither Matt nor Karen really know who the other is, even after Matt tells her he’s Daredevil. They simply don’t know each other! And its strongly hinted that they have a very different belief system.

What is ironic is that, the answers were all there! We as viewers can clearly see they’re both holding back something. But the fact that neither Karen nor Matt strive to really delve deeper with each other, not only shows they don’t know each other - it shows that they don’t want to know each other! B/c they refuse to see the truth of one another even when all the hints are there staring them in the face. Seriously, Matt can hear a person’s heartbeat & tell when they’re lying, so you know he’s gotta know that Karen is lying, too. She’s holding back her real self. Karen is also very observant; she knows when someone’s bullshitting her. Just look at her relationship with Frank. She’s not at all afraid to call him out on anything & get to the truth of him. The fact that she doesn’t do this with Matt is very telling.

Then of course there’s the differences in behavior in interaction between Matt/Elektra & Frank/Karen.

Just look at them! They’re brutal with each other. Passionate. Driven.

They both know each other’s secrets & dark side. And what they don’t know, they strive to know & understand. They have chemistry. And, of course, they argue/bicker like a freaking old married couple!

And the thought of loosing each other is unthinkable...

Now back to the gif that spurred this meta into action...

Matt isn’t just protecting Foggy, he’s also protecting Karen. Or, IMO, he’s protecting his fantasy of having something normal. In a way, the Matt/Karen relationship is driven on expectations. The people they project to each other are the very people that others expect them to fall in love with. There’s also the expectation of the audience & comics. They’re canon (though in canon they didn’t actually have a happy ending, either) so, their inevitable love is expected, & almost tired by the time it actually happens within the show’s narrative. Anyone who hasn’t read the comics or is new to Daredevil, doesn’t really expect Matt to have this deep, complex connection to someone like Elektra who, at first, seems to be the exact opposite of Matt. But, in reality they’re both very similar. Matt strives hard to be the ultimate, typical good-guy even when it’s not realistic (cause sometimes you need to get your hands dirty to do a greater good, like Frank). Matt has been raised with the typical Catholic guilt, he’s driven by being better than the criminals around him, & he was taught by Stick to keep people at a distant & therefore taught to lie about himself. Elektra may seem like the spoiled, entitled rich girl at first, but we quickly learn she’s a lot more like Matt than even she realizes (their similarities, are probably what drew them to each other in the first place). Elektra may not have Catholic guilt driving her, but there does seem to be a lot of guilt that’s projected onto her from Stick. Elektra knows she has a dark side, but b/c of Stick teachings she was taught to deny her nature, to lie about herself, to keep others at a distance. Like Matt.

It’s similar with Karen & Frank. Neither is what the other expects. Frank’s not at all the kind of man whom people would think Karen would be drawn to. But she is. She sympathizes with Frank’s loss & his inner demons b/c she’s experienced it herself. She’s able to see past the mask of the Punisher. Just as Frank sees past her mask. They’re both passionate people of conviction & have their own moral code that might not be purely good or purely evil. They both operate somewhere in the grey-zone. Better yet, they’re the kind of people who aren’t afraid to do something bad, but for the right reasons! And while Karen may not like a lot of what Frank does, & Frank doesn’t like that Karen puts herself in danger, they both accept each other regardless.

In a way, I kinda feel like the Matt/Karen “romance” was a red haring, like MARVEL was totally trolling us. B/c their relationship opens with typical, cliche hero/heroine development. The girl doesn’t know the hero’s secret, the hero saves her (both as himself [Matt], & as his alter ego [Daredevil], plus they’re prominently in each other’s lives b/c they work together & are friends. I wonder if MARVEL was like, “Ok, the audience are gonna ship these two, so let’s play with that.” B/c 1) of course they’re gonna get shipped at first, b/c there’s this idea that two people who work so closely together & are of the opposite sex can’t simply be friends; & 2) it’s in the comics so its canon. Like, MARVEL gave us what was expected, the typical cliched hero/heroine romance (which was really, romance-lite) before ripping it apart & giving us something more real, more tangible with Matt/Elektra & Frank/Karen. Like, “Ok, audience, this is what you think you want. But look over here! This is the real deal. This is what you’re really looking for.”

I mean, just look at this gif again...

All Matt does is push Foggy & Karen to the ground, & covers Karen’s body with his own. There’s no caressing, no clutching, no words at all exchanged between them.

Look at these...

Matt caresses Elektra with one hand while clutching onto her with the other.

He literally nuzzles her entire face while clutching onto her, afraid to loose her.

And now look at these...

Frank doesn’t just push Karen to the ground. There’s a lot of movement in this scene, & I’m not referring to the bullets flying all over the place. Just look at Frank’s face. It looks like a combination of fear for Karen’s safety as well as absolute rage that anyone would dare try & kill her. Plus the fact that Frank shows up simply to prove to Karen that it wasn’t him that shot at her. Frank doesn’t really care what people think of him, he doesn’t care that at least 50% of the city thinks he’s a monster. But he just HAS to tell Karen that it wasn’t him. It reminds me of their hospital scene when Frank does everything to ensure that Karen knows he would never hurt an innocent person, he’d never hurt her, that she was safe even when he was gunning for Grotto. He doesn't care about what anyone else thinks of him, but he cares about what Karen thinks.

Frank also repeatedly looks back down at Karen. Even though he’s covering her & there’s simply no way she could get shot with him protecting her, he keeps looking back down at her as if to reassure himself that she’s still alright.

And Frank’s not the only one clutching, Karen is, too! But Frank also draws his hands repeatedly over Karen’s head, almost like he’s caressing her.

If that’s not love I’ don’t know what is.

[shockcity]

DD #12 - Balance

Rating: M Summary: 5 times Matt seeks clarity, and the 1 time he gets it. Category: gen Warnings: severe mental illness (manic depression), and internalized ableism

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                                   1

He is sixteen, and he is barely holding on.

He is tipping. He is alive, though he wishes he were not. Everything is black. Everything is confusing. Everything is clear.

How am I supposed to live like this? he thinks, ears ringing with the sound of the city. He thanks God that Stick taught him how to block it out, but sometimes he can't stop the noise from flooding in. When that happens he hates Stick. He thinks God is punishing him, and wants to yell and scream and punch the daylights out of that old bastard. Then he is sad. Stick left. People leave. That's what they do.

Matt is on the edge of a very great fall. He’s almost gone. His toes are tipping down as the ground slides from under him, and above, the sky is full of blinding, bewildering light. Only the edge is sharp. Only the drop is clear.

Leave me alone, leave me alone, Matt thinks, when the sisters come to check that he is eating. He has not been to school this week, I'm going to fail, I hate this, I hate this, and they are kind but stern. They do not like when Matt has these 'fits', is what they call them. It makes taking care of him difficult, and difficult children are always hard to like. So they pray for him, but they do not like him. They try to hide it but Matt knows.

Why is this happening? he thinks, curled up in bed with his hands clasped over his ears. Confused, he sobs, and sleeps, and sobs. Then he is back, and awake and aware.

It is clear what his problem is. I should be dead, he reasons. There's been a mistake. I shouldn't be here.

He goes back to school. Floats through everything. There is a long hiatus. A winter with a demon on his back; the entirety of him dragged into the undertow. He lives eighty-eight days in the deep end, breathing bad water.

When his time is up, he remembers nothing.

                                2

"We're worried for him, sister," his math teacher says. She has come to see Matt at the orphanage, and to talk about his behavior with his caretakers. They, all of them, are in charge of the orphans, and Matt wonders who nominated Sister Penny in particular for this unpleasant task.

"I understand," Sister Penny agrees. "He's always been a somber boy."

"It's a little more than that," Mrs. McKenzie insists. "He never smiles, never engages with the other children– he seems very unhappy, sister. His teachers are worried, Mr. Ryan and I, especially."

Sister Penny does not know how to handle this. How to handle Matt. She never signed up for this, and he feels bad for her, as he listens to her make half-hearted promises to 'look into getting him help'. He feels sorry for the both of them– for them having to put up with him. He is already disabled, and needs more accommodations than the other children– and he's got to add a horrible attitude on top of everything else? Matt is not a good person. They know, and he knows, and he's pretty sure God knows.

But Matt doesn't know everything.

His walls are high, and the sisters do not wish to intrude for his sake, no matter how much they care. "We will look into getting him help," Sister Penny promises, and her heart aches. She feels useless, because she doesn't really understand.

"That's all we ask," says Mrs. McKenzie, thinking of the quiet, brilliant little boy that she desperately wants to help. To her, he is not difficult. To them, he is not a burden. He is good.

But Matt does not see this.

                                   3

Matt is going to Columbia, and he is very excited. His dad always wanted him to excel, and so he has done, and only partially in memoriam. Matt is ambitious, and now he is off to college, where he hopes to do well enough to get into law school. Matt is intent on doing well, and doesn't doubt very much that he will. He is smart, after all, and failure is simply not an option.

It doesn't matter that some days he feels stupid, that some days he feels like the scum of the earth. Today he's on top of the world. He feels so good that he takes the subway, which he usually avoids with a passion. He cannot remember why he ever did, once he gets on.

A woman drops her bag, which is full of coins and keys and unnecessary things. The sound rushes through his head like a tidal wave, building up as it goes. His spine crawls, and electrifies; and Matt suddenly remembers exactly why he avoids the subway. His heart tries to twist out of his chest. His shoulders tighten painfully. Inside his head, he screams through gritted teeth.

He gets off at the next station, but doesn't know how he makes it home.

                                4

Foggy has left his books on the floor again. Matt trips over them and catches himself on his bed before he can hit the floor. What the hell. Are you kidding– he clenches his teeth and closes his eyes, hands shaking. Every time. Every goddamn time. Fiery irritation runs through his veins. He feels like his face is hot and red. I hate him, I hate him, he thinks.

"Oh, sorry dude," says Foggy, sounding genuinely apologetic.

"It's fine," Matt snaps. Foggy flinches.

The guilt rises up and crushes him. Shit. Shit. It's not every time. It's hardly ever. He never does this. Foggy is good. He's good--

Matt sits down at the edge of his bed.

"Going out tonight?" he asks pleasantly, still angry but so, so sorry.

So tired.

Foggy takes it in stride, even though he shouldn't have to. Matt hates himself, and knows that never in a million years will he deserve Foggy Nelson's friendship. He feels like he should be crying, but nothing happens.

                                   5

Elektra shatters him.

He is sky high after he meets her. He's fucking amazing. Everything is good and bright and wicked in the world, and he's at the center of it. They fight and fuck and rule the goddamn planet. Matt feels like he's going a million miles an hour, and she's beside him, riding it with him; egging him on.

He doesn't sleep. He doesn't need to sleep. Sleep is a waste. Of what, he doesn't know. It's just that he could be out and running around untouchable with the love of his life but instead he has to sit and learn about things he already knows. So he doesn't bother. He's too smart for Columbia Law, anyway.

"You're not challenged enough," Elektra agrees. Feeding him. "Let's try something else."

They try petty crime and vandalism. They spend thousands and thousands of dollars on who knows what; on things with no lasting power.

Matt experiments. Elektra fucks him and he fucks her, and there are others. They come and go just as Matt's interest comes and goes, because eventually they bore him. Mostly he thrives on Elektra.

They get angry a lot. They fight and they fuck. The world is bright and good and Matt never wants it to end.

"She's fantastic. She makes me better, you know? I feel like I've been waiting for her, just going through the motions until she showed up. She gets me, you know? Really gets me. That sounds strange, I don't know if I'm saying it right. Am I saying it right? Do you like her? I don't think you do. It's okay. I'm just trying to explain it. It's hard to explain."

Foggy is worried, even though he has nothing to worry about. Doesn't he see how good Matt is right now? He's perfect.

"Matty," he says. "Maybe you guys could slow down a little. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for you, really–"

"Then why don't you like her?" Matt asks, accusation in his tone. "You're happy for me but you don't like her. You don't even know her. You don't understand."

"I'm trying to–"

"Save it."

Matt leaves. What does Foggy know? He can't understand how Elektra makes him feel, it's too big to put into words. It's ghost smoke. It's theirs. And Matt won't slow down, because nothing is wrong with how they are. They are sustainable; he's sure that they are for forever. They're immortal.

Matt is a G--

--she shatters him.

Or he shatters himself. Either way, he's in pieces. It's a long fall and he is shoved out of a plane without a parachute. He realizes he's going to hit the ground hard and doesn't care. He has ruined everything.

He is nothing.

                              + 1

When he first hears the girl crying, and the things her father is doing to her, Matt vomits. He throws up and gags and chokes on the guilt, because he can hear it and initially he does nothing. He's probably in some sort of shock, but that's no excuse.

Matt tries the legal way, but that proves useless. Sometimes the law isn't enough. Matt gets that. He doesn't like it, but he gets it. He vacillates, and she cries and cries and cries. Until one night, it's too much, just too much– and it sets him off something awful. He is sharp and intense in those days; he is cruel and wrathful. His smile is not a smile. He plans. He waits. He beats the shit out of the bag and breathes slow, and deep.

Then he takes care of the problem.

It feels– Matt doesn't know how it feels. Like a piece that was missing has fallen into place? Like he's finally figured out what he's doing here? Finally found out that the elusive answer to why why why is this this this?

He's spent years trying to soothe the devil inside of him. He's tried sex, alcohol, drugs, money, company, solitude, and fear– but he's never really tried vengeance, violence, and blood. He's never considered that soothing the devil might just mean indulging it. And he knows he's bad. He knows he's no good like this. But damn if it isn't a potent remedy for his messed up head. This is the cure for insanity. This is his destiny, to complete this metamorphosis, because wrath is the only panacea.

So Matt becomes the devil.

Or maybe that’s what he's always been from the start.

[atroopofechoesband-blog]

Band-on-Band Action:  Mahi Mahi vs. A Troop of Echoes

Here’s the fourth entry in a series of interviews with artists and musicians we enjoy and respect.  In these “double interviews,” bands ask each other a series of three questions.  No agendas, no awkward plugs, no corporate bullshit.   

This time, we’re catching up with Mahi Mahi, Providence's original two-man dance inferno.  These dudes were total legends during their tenure around the '00s, transcending the noise rock and dance music scenes to create something weird and wonderful.  And people noticed.  Mahi Mahi headlined a number of festivals and other high-profile gigs around Providence during their reign, but always stayed rooted in a strong DIY ethos.  For us, watching Mahi Mahi do their thing was a hugely formative experience during our early days.  Over the years, we've watched or played with Mahi Mahi probably 25 or 30 times, from sold-out benefit shows in Providence to anarchic house parties in rural Massachusetts.  Best band friends forever!

Mahi Mahi shredding Dan’s living room circa 2009.  Photo credit:  Matt Heisler.  

Harry (A Troop of Echoes):  One of the philosophies in Mahi Mahi was no sequencers and no backing tracks. How did this originally start, and how did it shape the way you write?

Josh (Mahi Mahi): During our beginnings and up through HE NO WA, we would play to some backing sequences that I wrote on a little Korg thingy. Pretty neat sounds, and it was inspiring in it’s own way to have that inhuman layer that we could play around. That got old pretty fast. With our mediocre sound system, we would sometimes struggle to stick to it and we’d be focusing on that too much. We shed that element and it felt great! The idea that we had “techno”-ish music, but with a real human feel was neat and seemed to really jive with the energy of the dancers. As far as shaping our writing, I’d say it didn’t shape our writing, which I think is the best case scenario.

Paul (Mahi Mahi): Yeah we definitely didn't want to depend on sequencers or backing tracks. But we did have fun experimenting with them a few times,and had a couple of songs we used them in.  But what NOT using them added for me was my personal challenge to play and BE the sequencer, playing drums while simultaneously playing a bassline was so much fun..and something I still enjoy trying to master.  Always trying to take it to the next level...

Pete, trying to make the sax sound like a slide guitar.  Photo credit:  Freddie Ross, as usual.  

Paul (Mahi Mahi):  Hate to go for the easy question..but I am pretty damn curious, where do you guys get your inspiration from? I haven't been able to put my finger on what artists might have inspired you guys.  Fugazi has to be in there somewhere...

Pete (A Troop of Echoes):  We get inspiration from a lot of different places. We didn't really have one band that was like the "touchstone" of our sound, or a primary influence. Each of us listened to very different music, but we were also definitely influenced by bands we grew up watching together early on - Lightning Bolt, The Slip, Zox (and you guys, not to make this weird). After we found our feet I think we started to get motivation in just collectively looking for cool new sounds, or coming home from tour and being so sick of playing the same songs over and over that you throw everything out the window and let yourself really jump into some new stuff you've never done before. Can we make a guitar sound like an organ? Can we make a sax sound like slide guitar? That kind of thing.  

Mahi Mahi’s legendary performance at Foo Fest, 2006.  Photo Credit:  AS220.

Dan (A Troop of Echoes): You guys have played some pretty memorable shows:  Foo Fest, Indie Arts Fest, opening for Battles, etc..  What were some of your favorite moments performing as Mahi Mahi?

Josh (Mahi Mahi): There were so many great moments! Shortlist (in no particular order):

1. Philly basement show where we blew the power a million times as everyone freaked out dancing and asbestos dust filled the air, and we played for about 90 minutes, repeating songs multiple times.

2. Playing in some basement down in N.K. That hot sweaty scene, where kids started stripping and I was looking at Paul like “these kids are in high school, are we going to get arrested?”

3. The night that we covered the Purple Rain album (with Jamez Day on guitar).

4. The couple of shows at AS220 when we played on either side of the stage while the crowd danced in the middle.

We harnessed some magic for sure. Paul (Mahi Mahi):  Pretty much all the shows Josh mentioned!  I will add the Future Friends Fest show. It was somewhere out in the woods and just about every one of my favorite bands from Providence at that time played. We played at like 11:30 or midnight, and set up all our gear on the slanted hill right in the grass and dirt.  It was so cool at that time of night because it was starting to get foggy which accentuated our cheap light set up....epic night. And overall, one of the best “vibes” shows we've played.  Another show that stands out and I wish I could remember what state it was...Josh will remember...was a basement show kind of in the middle of nowhere, no other bands showed up, and there was only about nine people there. It was a guarantee that we were not going to get our guaranteed pay that was arranged.  It didn't matter, we still set up all our stuff, and we still played with the same amount of passion as if we were playing in front of a club filled with people!

A Troop of Echoes:  Apocalypse Rock for the Discerning Consumer.  Photo Credit:  Katie Brunero.  

Paul (Mahi Mahi):  I've always appreciated how you guys don't always go for endless dark and gloomy chord progressions.  A lot of bands get trapped and feel more comfortable creating with a strictly dark color palette. The notes and colors you guys use always, for me, portray a sense of a struggle...but always give way to a very hopeful and optimistic feeling.  Have you guys ever thought about opening up the gates from hell and creating an album to listen to as we head into the apocalypse?

Harry (A Troop of Echoes):   Funny you should mention that...waaaay back in 2010 at the release show of our first album (which you guys headlined, thanks!) one of our friends wrote a short story about us based around the concept of “Apocalypse Rock,” and another friend drew illustrations. Think “Mad Max” meets “Providence loft shows.”  We only made about 30 or 40, but they sold out as soon as we put them on the merch table. 

Dan (A Troop of Echoes):  Early on, a lot of our songs were pretty balls-to-the-wall aggressive, noisy, fuck-off riffs, all that jazz.  And it was a blast.  But at some point, we got a little tired of that.  We felt trapped, and wanted to start exploring some other sounds.  It took us a while to figure out exactly how to do that (which we talk about more in our recent interview with Roz Raskin), but after a year or so of writing total garbage, we re-discovered how to make good decisions, which laid the groundwork for The Longest Year on Record.  

Pete (A Troop of Echoes): Having said that, and having just made an album of slow jam hypnosis, I’m personally totally down for making our next one the soundtrack to the apocalypse.

Mahi Mahi killin’ it at Liberty Fest, shortly before someone got hit with an errant firework.  Photo Credit:  Bob Otis of Dropdead.  

Dan (A Troop of Echoes):  What are you guys currently doing musically, and how have your experiences in Mahi Mahi influenced what you're up to?

Josh (Mahi Mahi): Music has been great for me lately. I can’t get enough of it. I’m so happy to be able to have it as an outlet. Whether it’s playing a TON on my nylon string guitar, piano and upright bass, or singing and venting with my current project Beta Motel, music is like my built-in therapist. It’s so important to have expression as a “release-valve” to get our demons out.

As far as Mahi Mahi’s “influence”, that idea gives me feedback. Mahi Mahi is a great project and what we’ve done contains so much of our heart. I say heart (singular) because creating with Paul at times felt like we were one voice. I hadn’t experienced that type of chemistry to that degree before Mahi Mahi. The main chunk of many of our tunes remained mostly intact from the first jam of the idea. It usually just worked, so we didn’t have to fiddle as much. It felt like we were channeling more than writing sometimes. So, long answer-short, I suppose that my experience in Mahi Mahi showed me that if the chemistry ain’t there… RUN!  

Paul (Mahi Mahi):  Since leaving Providence, it's been tough trying to find like-minded people to create with, but I’ve had a few production gigs and have written music for singers, burlesque dancers...and even a witch! Currently working on a solo project as well as starting to work with this cat named David Blais (Project name: Cassandra Effect).  Like Josh, music is a constant in one way or another.  Providence was a tough place to leave on the creative tip, and Mahi Mahi is definitely a tough act to follow.  Still reaching for what's next...and I am hoping a Mahi Mahi reunion can happen soon...

Pictured:  The Future.  See ya later, meatspace.  

Paul (Mahi Mahi):  Speaking of the future...considering how technology is advancing at such a violent pace, and the nature of it has become such that just about anybody who can operate a blender can make complete pieces of music without having to put in the time to learn the ins and outs of an instrument, do you guys think this will affect the quality of music in the future?  And if so, how?

Pete (A Troop of Echoes): Man, super interesting question. I have no idea (laughs). I have split feelings about it. On one hand you definitely see some bands putting out material and getting recognition before they’ve actually developed the ability to, you know, put on a good live show. And it feels really easy to slam this and say they don’t know what they’re doing. And it’s true that doing certain things digitally isn’t as hard as learning to play a physical instrument and we have to respect that. But on the other hand, I’ve had the experience of dealing with disability and physical limitations myself, which sort of makes the question look different to me. Now I sort of think of it as, “who should be allowed to participate in music?” If your hands aren’t strong enough to play drums or guitar, should you still be able to get the sounds out of your head and into other people’s? For me I think the answer has to be yes. But we still give total respect to bands that can go into the studio and nail everything in one take.

We’re patiently waiting for a Mahi Mahi reunion (and the release of their final album).  In the meantime, check out their official releases on Spotify, plus some unreleased studio tracks and live cuts on Soundcloud and YouTube.  

[stripshowrevue-blog]

New Years Special Feature: Get In The Arena

Here We Go!

A new year. The champagne's been drunk, the mess has (hopefully?) been cleaned up, and the page has been turned.

Now, what are we webcomickers going to draw on it? And more importantly, how are we going to keep drawing?

More Than A Resolution. Resolve.If you're like me as a creator, your secret, unspoken resolution is 'make something amazing'. But even the resolutions you wrote down revolved around your creative practices.  Get better at faces drawn at different angles, build a buffer, get something on paper....sound familiar?

If they are, I imagine the anxiety, disinclination and frustration that follows a bout of enthusiasm are probably old 'friends' as well. 'I'm not good enough', 'I'll never be as good as that guy',  'why do I even do this' 'I suck' and thoughts of that kind can feel like demons whispering on your shoulders, waves battering at your foundations. So how do we keep drawing?

Get In The Arena Ask Yourself: Why Are You Stepping Into The Ring?

For this first week of a new year, I'm going to ask you to do something difficult: sit down and ask yourself why you do this. Why do you like webcomics? Why do you work on them?

I'm asking you because you need to know that you have a reason. At three in the morning, you need to be able to ask yourself 'why do I do this?!' and have an answer. Before we go anywhere in a passion, there must be purpose.

In his seminal piece 'The Role of Deliberate Practice in the Acquisition of Expert Performance', K. Anders Ericsson wrote

'Only a few exceptions, most notably height, are genetically prescribed. Instead, we argue that the differences between expert performers and normal adults reflect a life-long period of deliberate effort to improve performance in a specific domain.'

Angela Lee Duckworth expanded on this topic by focusing on what makes someone practice a skill for a lifetime. In her book 'Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance', Duckworth points out many important aspects of grit, which she defines as the core of achievement. In her words,

“… achievement is the product of talent and effort, the latter a function of the intensity, direction, and duration of one’s exertions towards a long-term goal.”

But perhaps her most important point is summarized in an interview she gave on the Freakonomics podcast:

"One thing that I found about paragons of grit is that they have extremely well-developed interests. They cultivate something which grabs their attention initially, but that they become familiar with enough, knowledgeable enough that they wake up the next day and the next day and the next year, and they’re still interested in this thing. And I think that is something that we can actually intentionally decide: “I want to be the kind of person who stays interested in something.” And so that passion really does have to come first."

   Think about it in terms of our Golden Age heroes. Peter Parker didn't do a whole lot with those cool new powers...until his uncle's death gave him a reason.

And the best artist/writer in the world won't do much with their talent if they don't use it.

10,000 HoursNow that you're nicely inspired, let's get to work. A LOT of work. In his article 'How to Become Great at Just About Anything', Stephen J. Dubner writes " Improvement comes only with practice — lots and lots and lots of practice. You may have heard of the “10,000-hour rule”? The idea that you need to practice for 10,000 hours to become great at something? That idea originates from the research of Anders Ericsson and his colleagues. They were studying the most accomplished young musicians at a German academy. Turns out the baseline time commitment required to become a contender, even if predisposed with seemingly prodigious talent, is at least 20 hours a week over 10 years."

That's a LOT of work. Sounds intimidating, doesn't it? Sounds near impossible.

But this is the key: it isn't about what you do in ten years. It's about what you do every single day. The best creatives reach those lofty 10,000 hours by setting themselves a very simple goal: practice every day. And practice well.

Get To Business So what makes good practice?

Intent

Take a page out of Matt Murdock's book and practice like a boxer. Boxers who step into the ring with the wrong mindset get their lights knocked out. First off, know what you're fighting for.

Don't be like Foggy!

You're not practicing to be perfect. Perfection is an illusion, and it's one too many people hide behind to avoid hard work. 'Oh, I'm not that good' means you'll never GET good.  And all the excuses in the world won't make you any better.According to Duckworth, 'In general, gritty people don’t seek perfection, but instead strive for excellence.' In her Forbes article '5 Characteristics Of Grit', Margaret M. Perlis writes

'Anxiety, low self-esteem, obsessive compulsive disorder, substance abuse, and clinical depression are only a few of the conditions ascribed to “perfectionism.” To be clear, those are ominous barriers to success.'

Instead, get focused on excelling in your skill set. Improve on what YOU are doing. Focus on excelling YOURSELF. What the other guy is doing isn't important to you while you're practicing. The guy who gets distracted in the ring gets knocked out.

Focus Every study on improving skills states, in some way, that focus is key. Again, we can look to Matt Murdock for advice: set aside an hour of your day to work on your skills. I don't care when, but do it. No more excuses about not having the time. If yo care, you find time. Period. During comic time, you don't check Facebook, you don't zone out, and if you do, yo pull yourself back and work. Perelis said it best:

'it is important to commit rather than just show up for practice.  Or, to put it less delicately, it’s better to be a racehorse than an ass.'

Goals To get the most out of practice, set yourself specific, quantifiable goals. Goals serve two important functions: they help foster a sense of achievement, and break the work of improvement down into manageable tasks.  When setting your goals, keep these points in mind:

Define Your Skillset. Make a list of areas where you excel, areas where you need to do more work and areas you want to improve. If you have the means, ask another artist to help you with this. Seeing your work through new eyes can be a lot of help. Now you know where to focus.

Well Defined Goals Get Results. Say you want to improve on drawing hands. Drawing a page full of a hundred hands isn't actually going to help you improve; you're only repeatedly doing what you know how to do. Instead, get an anatomy book and set the goal of reading their chapter on hands and doing drawings based on one page a day. Or go to Drawing Lessons For The Young Artist and set the goal of working through one of their work sheets a week; every day, read the tutorial and draw its steps again. You'll be learning and you'll feel accomplished.

Ditch Guilt. Roll With The Punches Above all, keep this in mind: bad work isn't failure. It's learning. Our culture loves the concept of the 'natural talent' and the savant, but those concepts are deeply flawed. It's not 'talent' that makes a skill. It's work. Constant, quiet, hard work. It's getting knocked down and getting back up. You lose a fight? You figure out why. You miss a punch, miss a deadline or an update? Try again. You get a rejection letter, a bad comment, a down vote? Take every suggestion for improvement and work with it. I see too many people trap themselves in guilt. They start feeling so ashamed and frustrated by their project that they give up on it all together and go looking for something shiny, new and unencumbered by baggage. Don't. Do. That. And ditch shame. This is about your work, not about you. You are not a bad person because you are still learning. You need to accept that you will make mistakes, and you will grow better for them. That's how we learn.

Substitute Nuance For Novelty If you're feeling bored with your project, it's your responsibility to change it up, take it in a new direction, rather than giving up. Dubner put it like this:So rather than constantly moving on to a new thrill, you try to find another level, another dimension, of the thing you’re already doing, to make it more thrilling. Whether it’s a research project or an arpeggio, a breaststroke or a soufflé — wherever your interests lie.' In the analogy of hands, don't give up on practicing hands, just find a novel tutorial.

This is a Marathon. Not a Sprint Practice takes time, but daily work really is the only way to get to the level you want to be. THIS IS NORMAL. In fact, Ira Glass pointed it out beautifully:

It's Up To You. Roll Up Your Sleeves.To begin the year, I'll leave you with these words by the  great Teddy Roosevelt.

Sources

How to Get More Grit in Your Life

May 4, 2016 @ 3:23pm

by Stephen J. Dubner

Produced by: Christopher Werth

Grit: Passion, Perseverance, and the Science of Success, Angela Duckworth

Psychological Review

1993, Vol. 100. No. 3, 363-406

The Role of Deliberate Practice in the Acquisition of Expert Performance

K. Anders Ericsson, Ralf Th. Krampe, and Clemens Tesch-Romer

Freakonomics: How to Become Great at Just About Anything

April 27, 2016 @ 11:00pm

by Stephen J. Dubner

Produced by: Greg Rosalsky

Drawing Lessons For The Young Artist

SilverFox's Comix Pintrest Board, For Inspiration