daredevilkink | Prompt Post #4

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Prompt Post #4

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yeah, like. the concept's interesting, and I'm not gonna lie, storylines about brainwashing and/or possession, stuff that involve loss of bodily autonomy? that is fucking catnip to me. just sucks that the execution wasn't as good as it could've been.

Author!anon is sorry. I didn't mean to hurt any hearts.

I will be doing so! I just spent some time away but once I'm back into the swing of things at home I'll be uploading this to AO3. =)

Thank you!

Sorry!

OP here. This was INCREDIBLE! Thank you so much for writing it!

OP wouldn't mind that at all! Sounds like it would be very cool!

James Wesley had been a special case: dedicated honor student, dutiful son, a very successful, and very bored accountant when he had graduated university after two and a half years of study. He was remembered by his peers and superiors alike as a quiet man, always pleasant, always polite, always startlingly efficient.

That wasn’t how his mother remembered him: always secretive, always sly- skulking about the house like a viper in the grass, neatly dodging her whenever she tried to speak with him. Between the drugs, alcohol, and long periods of attempted withdrawal punctuated by violent fits and rages, Matt thought the boy had been right to distance himself.

He cared for her, so much so that he had not reported it when the money that should have gone toward his schooling went to her addiction instead, so that when she threw that bottle at his head he had never once mentioned to her when she sobered up that it had actually connected. There was no police report, he had assured all the nurses that he had been rough-housing with friends and there was a surety in his manner that prevented them from asking twice.

His father had been wise enough to leave when he first discovered that black temper, but not brave enough to take his son with him.

James Wesley had wanted nothing more than someone who would accept his loyalty and return it in equal measure. Religion was not the answer for him; after so long without, Wesley needed something he could touch, who would speak with him face to face. He didn’t seek a cause to occupy his time, neither recognition for his gifts; it made him the perfect ally of a man like Fisk.

Wilson Fisk craved the glory and recognition that had been denied him all his life, desperately sought something-or someone- worth protecting. He had found it in Hell’s Kitchen; having struck his own deal, Matt could not quibble with his methods, but Wilson’s soul was a shriveled, wizened thing that still sparked with brief flashes of wild fire. Wesley kept that alive, that final spark. His pride in Fisk, his willingness to make the man’s mission his own was what sustained them both.

He had not known at the time what a gift Fisk would give him, but the Devil was glad he had caught these souls- without them he might never have lured Nelson so near. It was all Matt could do to suppress his instinctive distaste, knowing that had he remained entirely mortal this might well have been him. He was no longer sure whether it was their methods that so disgusted him or their halfheartedness. Fisk’s resolve was beginning to waver- not in a way he could sense, not yet, but Matt could see new life coursing through him and he knew it came from that woman- Vanessa.

How was it that all the broken souls drew each other? No similarities between them but what they lacked, and somehow they beckoned each other like moths to flame. It hardly mattered, he supposed, all that remained now was to collect his due and watch from a distance as Fisk either prospered or failed. It was in him to be great, but Matt was torn on whether he wanted the man to succeed, mostly because he could sense the Devil wished it wholeheartedly, and he knew the spirit fed on the suffering of the innocent as easily as the wicked.

Matt counted it his duty to ensure the guilty paid a heavier price, but that came with the understanding that even so, the innocent would pay some price, usually in their blood.

Wesley was the one to greet him when he allowed the shadows to melt away at last. The man had an uncanny knack for sensing where it was the Devil would appear; more often than not he was ready and waiting by the time Matt put in an appearance, thoroughly bored with the whole affair. To look at him, one would have thought James Wesley conversed with Devils every day of the week, but Matt could hear the way his pulse began to fly, his breathing growing shallow and ragged beneath his eloquent speech.

He never flinched or stepped away, though. Wesley had learned young the only way to manage a predator was to stand one’s ground. They respected that in him.

Today what he offered was no more than a ring, silver clear through and laden with the regretful wishes of three generations. It burned Matt’s palm as he slipped it into his pocket- silver had ever been a pure and holy metal; not since he was a child had he been able to wear one of the proper crosses most of the children in Hell’s Kitchen wore until they grew cynical and decided they had far more to fear from the devils they didn’t know than the one they did.

“Pleasure, as always.” Wesley’s tone was dry, as dry as his fear-parched throat. He was not born and raised in this city, the scent of it refused to cling to him, its meandering ways still escaped him from time to time. He was one of those that had never credited the idea of a ‘Devil’ before he had come face to face with him, a desperately lonely young man in a dilapidated bus stop venturing out into the darkness for one last glimpse of the night sky before the street lights swallowed the last of the stars.

It was where Matt had found him, unafraid of the dark, drawn to its peculiar comfort despite himself. Wesley had not believed at first what was offered or requested, but he had kept his word to a man he thought had only the frailest grip on sanity. Trouble was, Matt was the only sane one left in this damned city, the only one with sense enough to still distrust the being within him.

“Nelson. Is the name familiar to you?”

“Is it a part of our bargain?” Wesley arched his brow, knowing full well the answer. That was the trouble with him; an attorney without the benefit of schooling, only raw instinct to guide him. Matt would have struck that deal too, had he asked it, given him a comfortable office with his name on the door and a record to make even the top firms in the nation salivate with greed.

But that was the trouble with lawyers; they understood the idea of a contract a little too well and were as careful in their dealings as the Devil himself.

“No, but failing to answer could prove detrimental to future negotiations.”

Wesley considered for a moment, visibly weighing the cost and benefit of answering, wary because he could see none. “Cut-rate defense attorney-”

“I did not ask the details of the profession, it is the name that interests me.”

He would set Father Lanthom and Wesley on the same trail. They would clash; Wesley’s precious resources would be diverted to determining what it was that both the Devil and the priest saw in Franklin Nelson. Wesley’s methods were never gentle; it would not be long before Nelson was forced back to him, presented with a choice of forging another deal or watching his loved ones pay the price. Matt would keep him safe. Just.

“I don’t know anything more about him.”

No, but by day’s end Wesley would make sure he knew everything about him, and when even that proved too spare to make the connection between Nelson and Devil he would dig further still. Dig until Lanthom began to think perhaps it was less the Devil and more the mob Nelson sought to escape. He would leave them to their stalemate and steal the prize from beneath them, content to wait until their combined machinations drove Foggy Nelson into his waiting hands.

Slowly he allowed his shadows to devour him, twisting and warping until Wesley thought he stood alone, the light bent around him to conceal that which did not wish to be seen.

There was one final place to visit before he could begin his coup: The law office of one Franklin Nelson, attorney at law.

HOOOOLLYYYYY COOOOWWWW that was so heartwrenching and painful, but GORGEOUS! Oh, Foggy! Oh, FRANK. AHHHH, Matt!! ;___;

Thank you! Have some more! :)

Whew, that's a relief. Glad you're enjoying, OP. I'm loving writing it!

And more, as requested. ^.^

Awesome, glad you're enjoying! :)

And here it is- ASAP. :)

But seriously- thank you, I'm glad you like it! :)

Oh wowwww. Oh holy HELL, anon. This is jut gorgeous in all KINDS of ways.

Lovely Frank pov, lovely Foggy being brave even though he's scared half to death, lovely, AMAZING bit at the end when Frank realizes.

Please say you're going to put this on Ao3? I really, really want to bookmark it and hold onto it.

Ahh, thank you for the reminder to update it on the WIP post! I think I forgot to do it for part 4 as well, oops. -authoranon

Hey anon! Thanks for the lovely kind feedback.

You can find it on A03 here :) : http://archiveofourown.org/works/4296825

I started a full for this, which so will be mixed with the prompt about Jack yelling at ableist teachers etc. a bit, but Stick and his horrible methods will and an appearance.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/4295307/chapters/9732522

"I'm sorry you had to go through this again."

AGAIN? oh my gosh /FEELS

Plz do go on. My heart, anon. Love this so much.

Whatever makes you happiest in life. You deserve it, for this.

Love love love. Hashtag MattFoggy.

Note: I'm still working on this, but I've got the first part pretty much how I want it so I figured I'd post it to whet your appetite while I try to wrangle the rest of it into submission, haha.
_______________________________________

An Acquired Taste (For a Well-Made Mistake)

"I have to agree with you, Matthew. It really is quite stark in here."

Matt nervously clutches his cane in front of himself, mouth working to form words that refuse to move past his throat (such as: “What are you doing here?” or “What do you want?” or “Get the fuck out of my home!”). His heart is hammering in his chest and it's a wonder that they can't hear it from across the room.

They - Vanessa and Wilson Fisk - are in his apartment.

He had been distracted, worrying about the meeting at the gallery and the subsequent talk he'd had with Father Lantom at the church. So when Matt decided to stop back at home briefly before heading back to the office, he hadn't been paying adequate attention to his surroundings. If he had been, he would have noticed the sound of heartbeats waiting on the other side of the door. And now here they are, waiting for him in his apartment and he doesn't know what to do. God, why had he borrowed trouble by talking with her? He was so fucking careless!

Fisk is standing, still and foreboding like a monolith, at the large window in the living room. Matt hears his heartbeat pounding eagerly. Behind him, Vanessa saunters slowly through Matt's living room with a feigned nonchalance, her heels clicking loudly in the silence. Her heartbeat is also elevated. Matt swallows around a lump in his throat when he hears her come to a halt in front of the cupboard under the stairs.

"I think perhaps you should have chosen a better location to hide your... costume.”

A cold chill passes over him, and Matt stands in stunned silence for a split second, before he bolts past Vanessa toward the stairs leading to the roof access. He senses Fisk lunging toward him and he swings his cane at him, hoping to gain a few precious seconds needed to stay ahead of him and escape.

Matt makes it halfway up the stairs before Fisk captures him by the hair and pulls him backward. He attempts to elbow Fisk in the side, but the angle is wrong and all of a sudden he's being lifted up over Fisk's head and body slammed onto the bottom step. His lungs are paralyzed momentarily by the force of the impact - that's definitely cracked ribs - but he can't worry about that now because he's being dragged upwards again by the hair.

He growls and lashes out at Fisk's throat and gets backhanded for his trouble. He can feel his left cheekbone crack. A punch to the gut doubles him over, followed by an uppercut that sends Matt crashing onto his coffee table. He lays there stunned for a second, before Fisk grabs him up by the throat and flings him toward his bedroom, where he clips into the sliding glass panel that separates his room from the main room. He can hear the plexiglass panels shatter, and he crawls backwards as Fisk approaches him.

Fisk’s hands wrap around his neck like a vice, squeeze, and then —

_______________________________________

Matt wakes with a pounding headache and something heavy on top of him.

He immediately takes inventory of his surroundings. There's the familiar scent of his silk sheets and the voice of his neighbour across the hall talking on her phone, and the constant electric hum coming from the billboard outside. He's on his back, on his bed, in his apartment. His face and ribs throb in such a way that suggest he'd been in a fight recently. The last thing he remembers is getting strangled by Fisk and --

And now Wilson Fisk is sitting on top of him.

Matt makes an alarmed sound, but it's muffled because something is -- There's a cloth in his mouth that's sealed there with duct tape.

“You know, Figure Drawing and Anatomy were two of my favourite subjects in university.”

It's such a non sequitur that it momentarily stills him, just as he'd been tensing to try and shove Fisk off him. Vanessa's tone is conversational and light, as though she's sharing an inside joke with him. Matt hears her walk up to the edge of the bed, and then a hand strokes his face. He jerks his head to the side, growling: Don't fucking touch me! and hopes that at least the spirit of the meaning will come across even though the words themselves are stifled.

“Darling, pin his hands over his head.”

Matt silently berates himself for not realizing that his hands aren't immobilized until she mentioned it. He could have broken Fisk's nose or drove a thumb into his eye, or -- But now it's too late, because his hands are immediately pressed into the mattress by the wrists, and Fisk is only using one hand to do it. The other is lifting Matt's shirt to bunch under his armpits, exposing his chest and abdomen. It's then that Matt realizes what else is so odd about the scenario; they'd changed him out of his work clothes and into the black shirt and pants of his vigilante gear. But they'd left his hands and feet bare, and he's shocked to realize that it's his mask that's being used to gag him.

“With a body like that...” Vanessa’s manicured nails rake across the contours of his muscles. “You could have been a model.”

Matt tenses. Everything snapping into hyper-focus, and he is immediately aware of two things: First, he can smell how aroused she is, in an unobstructed way that suggests she's either nude or only wearing her undergarments. And second, a glob of pre-cum is leaking from Fisk's cock onto Matt's stomach.

His mind goes blank with raw panic, all rational thought overridden by the sudden, desperate need to get away. There is no opportunity to make use of finely-honed skill; he moves, and Fisk follows. He manages to pry a hand away, only for it to be caught again. He thrashes wildly and his body inadvertently rubs against Fisk's cock, hot and stiff and large, oh God. Fisk rolls his hips down on him in response, and Matt tries to yell Get the fuck off of me! but it comes out garbled from the gag, all nasal tones and sharp notes of fear from the back of his throat.

He doesn't know for how long he fights, but his muscles ache and his lungs burn and he can barely hear beyond his own heartbeat rushing in his ears. He collapses beneath Fisk's weight and lays panting for a long moment, feeling lightheaded from exertion and fear. Fisk isn’t moving anymore though. He hasn't even broke a sweat, and that would be galling if it weren't so terrifying under the circumstances, because Matt knows all he has to do is wait Matt out. But Matt isn’t ready to give up yet; he isn’t going to just lay there and let this happen to him. Even though the odds of someone in Matt's weight class getting out from under a heavyweight are next to nothing, there's always a chance Fisk will make a mistake.

Matt surges again, twisting and bucking as much as he can, which is not very much at all. He tries to bend his knee to get leverage to kick away from Fisk, but it's trapped. He might have had better luck if they were on the floor, but Fisk's weight is pressing him down into the memory-foam so thoroughly that Matt wonders if there will be a permanent impression of his body left there after. (Stick's voice, mocking him about soft things, echoes in his mind). He tires again quickly and lays shaking, sucking air through his nose as the adrenalin starts to wane. But Fisk still hasn't moved, and so Matt makes one last pitiful attempt to get away. He strains as hard as he can, arching his back until the unwanted feeling of defeat finally washes over him and he has to acknowledge that he's not going anywhere. He falls limply back to the bed with a whimper, hating the feeling of helplessness.

Matt knows that they know he's finished this time, because Fisk leans back off him and Vanessa's hand returns to trail down the length of Matt's body. He shudders when her hand comes to rest at the waistband of his pants. One of Fisk's hands obligingly moves to undo Matt's fly and he tries to shrink away, his brow furrowing in confusion. What was the point of going to the trouble of changing him into these clothes only to take them off him again?

As if reading the question in his expression, Vanessa laughs and says, “When staging a work of art the Devil is in the details, Matthew.”

A whine escapes his throat as his pants and underwear are pulled down to his knees. He feels, in a way that has nothing to do with his heightened senses, her eyes roaming over him. It makes his skin crawl. Her heeled steps are slow and measured as she paces around the bed to survey their work.

"It's a shame we had to cover your mouth, but at least I get to see your pretty hazel eyes this way.”

His breath hitches, and he closes his eyes against the tears that begin to form at her words, his face crumbling with the effort of keeping his emotions in. She clicks her tongue at him patronizingly, as though she thinks he's being cute by attempting to hide from her this way, and he seethes in silent protest. Not all blind people choose to cover their eyes. If asked, Matt usually tells people that he uses sunglasses because he's aware that his unfocused eyes can be distracting or disturbing. But the real reason is that there are always those who seem perversely delighted by the power of their gaze on someone who can't gaze back.

The tears spill out of his eyes and over his temples anyway.

“You've become quite a problem, Matthew.” Her voice is calm but her heart rate has increased. “So when this is over I want you to consider the price that interfering has cost you, and ask yourself if it was worth it."

:DDD WELCOME HOME. I hope your exhaustion ebbs soon and your trip was pleasant!

I enjoyed AoU as a fun, flashy action flick of neat fight sequences, but yeah, I disregard what they did with the characters and relationships from canon completely. :P

Oh, yeah, I figured it was Matt's POV, just with a lot of thought/perception-bleed going on. XD YAY FOGGY.

I just spent two weeks across the planet last month, which involved no less than five airplanes, so I definitely hear you. :P I don't mind the wait at all - I'm so happy you remembered the fic and are coming back to it!! ♥ REST WELL!

You are - officially - the best. Here's a medal that says so.

Pleeeease continue jfc this is so hot

YAAAASSSSS!!! @v@

OP here. Is today my birthday? It certainly feels that way :-D This is amazing! I love that they gagged him with the mask. Can't wait for the next part already!

"...want him to meet my favorite new sad puppy who is sad."

I love you.

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Page 170 of 209

Prompt Post #4

Re: [gen or shippy] aftermath of MCU!Shadowland

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The Devil's Due Part 1.4

Re: Fill: stand 1/1

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Re: Op here

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Re: The Devil's Due Part 1.3

Re: Fill: stand 1/1

Re: Fill: Foggy is going blind, 5/?

Re: Fill: stand 1/1

Re: AU, Jack Murdock lives and meets Stick

Re: FILL: Wesley/Fisk, Wesley/OMC, non-con, manhandling, carrying, h/c (2/??)

Re: [FILL] [gen] the French mistake [repost] [3/3]

[FILL] An Acquired Taste (For a Well-Made Mistake) - Part 1/?

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Re: Fill: You Don't Get An Opinion

Re: matt/foggy, vibrators kind of fill?

Re: [FILL] An Acquired Taste (For a Well-Made Mistake) - Part 1/?

Re: [FILL] An Acquired Taste (For a Well-Made Mistake) - Part 1/?

Re: Gen, Daredevil, meet DUM-E