"You came back, Mr. Murdock." Her voice is lush and smoky, like good brandy, warm on his tongue. "I'm surprised, but pleased."
"I couldn't resist, your offer was just too intriguing." He smiles at her, and feels her take him by the arm, gently. He likes her touch, even though he knows to whom she belongs. Or rather, to whom she has given her heart, for a woman like her belongs to no one.
"I hoped it would be."
Matt can smell her perfume, which is something clean and light, juniper and crisp lime. It's not at all like he expected a woman in her position to wear. No lush florals for her, just something that smells like a crisp breeze on his skin. A contrast to her smoky, playful voice. She uses some kind of lotion on her hands, on her face; her dress is silk, and it whispers over her skin as she moves. He hates that he knows precisely why she is so alluring to Fisk.
"Come, let me show you."
They make their way over to the piece on the far wall. With his other senses he reaches out, tries to form an image of it: Linseed oil and turpentine, cotton, lead white. There's copper, not bloody but wiry, and with it, something earthy, grassy. He feels the corner of his mouth twitch up.
"Here we are." She says.
"Describe it to me."
He feels her pose shift, as she moves her hand down to entwine with his. "Why don't you see for yourself?"
His skin prickles with awareness, with fear and a hint of desire, at her touch. She is either bold or dangerous, possibly both, the way she is touching him. No pretense of gentle leading around the art gallery now, no favor to a blind man, just touch and pure sensation. Matt feels her lift his hand up, and he reaches out, and touches the piece on the wall.
There is a grid, he feels, comprised of thick waves of paint underneath his fingers. Then, to the right of it, the grid becomes finer and finer until all he feels are little ridges, like scales, or feathers. He lets his cane fall back against his shoulder, and raises his other hand, intrigued. And with gentle touches he studies the landscape of the artwork before him, reveling in the curve of the lines up and to the left. There, copper wire, he feels--that explains the scent--and it's formed into sinuous, curving line, comprised of tight loops of the thick wire. And there, following two sleek lines downward--the shape of a woman's waist, and a swath of burlap or muslin or linen--that's the grassy scent.
"Remarkable..." He says, and he means it.
"The Snake Goddess." Vanessa answers, and he cannot decipher whether her awestruck voice is a response to the piece, or to him. "Her arms are dark burnished brown. Her waist, there, curving down to the swell of her belly."
"It's beautiful." Matt's hands play lightly across the fabric of the goddess' skirt. "I've never... never encountered anything like this before."
"I suspected as much." Vanessa smiles. "That's why I acquired it."
"For me?" He turns to her, and lets his hands fall, reluctantly, back to his sides. Inside his mind is the image of the goddess on the canvas, a woman in movement, her head proud, her gaze direct, assertive.
"For someone who can truly appreciate it." She replies. "And it appears that you do."
"Yes." He says. "I... thank you."
"I didn't do it because I pity you, Mr. Murdock." She chides, tone playful.
Matt smiles. "Well, that's refreshing."
"I did it because I think perhaps I understand you."
The way he's responded to the piece, he has to reluctantly admit that she's right. And yet the implications of that--the fear that he stands alongside Fisk in any way, with any sort of similarity, sends a trail of ice-cold fear down his spine. And his hands remain at his side, although he longs to lift them, and touch once more.
[MINIFILL] Gen or Vanessa/Matt(/Fisk?) Braille Paintings
"I couldn't resist, your offer was just too intriguing." He smiles at her, and feels her take him by the arm, gently. He likes her touch, even though he knows to whom she belongs. Or rather, to whom she has given her heart, for a woman like her belongs to no one.
"I hoped it would be."
Matt can smell her perfume, which is something clean and light, juniper and crisp lime. It's not at all like he expected a woman in her position to wear. No lush florals for her, just something that smells like a crisp breeze on his skin. A contrast to her smoky, playful voice. She uses some kind of lotion on her hands, on her face; her dress is silk, and it whispers over her skin as she moves. He hates that he knows precisely why she is so alluring to Fisk.
"Come, let me show you."
They make their way over to the piece on the far wall. With his other senses he reaches out, tries to form an image of it: Linseed oil and turpentine, cotton, lead white. There's copper, not bloody but wiry, and with it, something earthy, grassy. He feels the corner of his mouth twitch up.
"Here we are." She says.
"Describe it to me."
He feels her pose shift, as she moves her hand down to entwine with his. "Why don't you see for yourself?"
His skin prickles with awareness, with fear and a hint of desire, at her touch. She is either bold or dangerous, possibly both, the way she is touching him. No pretense of gentle leading around the art gallery now, no favor to a blind man, just touch and pure sensation. Matt feels her lift his hand up, and he reaches out, and touches the piece on the wall.
There is a grid, he feels, comprised of thick waves of paint underneath his fingers. Then, to the right of it, the grid becomes finer and finer until all he feels are little ridges, like scales, or feathers. He lets his cane fall back against his shoulder, and raises his other hand, intrigued. And with gentle touches he studies the landscape of the artwork before him, reveling in the curve of the lines up and to the left. There, copper wire, he feels--that explains the scent--and it's formed into sinuous, curving line, comprised of tight loops of the thick wire. And there, following two sleek lines downward--the shape of a woman's waist, and a swath of burlap or muslin or linen--that's the grassy scent.
"Remarkable..." He says, and he means it.
"The Snake Goddess." Vanessa answers, and he cannot decipher whether her awestruck voice is a response to the piece, or to him. "Her arms are dark burnished brown. Her waist, there, curving down to the swell of her belly."
"It's beautiful." Matt's hands play lightly across the fabric of the goddess' skirt. "I've never... never encountered anything like this before."
"I suspected as much." Vanessa smiles. "That's why I acquired it."
"For me?" He turns to her, and lets his hands fall, reluctantly, back to his sides. Inside his mind is the image of the goddess on the canvas, a woman in movement, her head proud, her gaze direct, assertive.
"For someone who can truly appreciate it." She replies. "And it appears that you do."
"Yes." He says. "I... thank you."
"I didn't do it because I pity you, Mr. Murdock." She chides, tone playful.
Matt smiles. "Well, that's refreshing."
"I did it because I think perhaps I understand you."
The way he's responded to the piece, he has to reluctantly admit that she's right. And yet the implications of that--the fear that he stands alongside Fisk in any way, with any sort of similarity, sends a trail of ice-cold fear down his spine. And his hands remain at his side, although he longs to lift them, and touch once more.
(IDK THIS WAS JUST A GOOD PROMPT OK)