Mac has been in and out of prison for two decades, he's been locked up with mobsters before, but Fisk - god, Fisk - he's something else. It took him a month, maybe three (Mac don't always tell the passing of time so good anymore, that'll drive you nuts in a place like this), before he had everyone marching to the beat of his drums. Everyone whispered that it was the money, but enough time in the business and Mac has seen almost everything that cash can get you. Fisk has their fervent devotion, their fear, and that's worth a whole lot more. It's not just the other prisoners, it's the guards, it's the families on the outside - he says one word when news comes washing through the system like a wave that Daredevil's getting locked up, and everyone (even the guys he'd put in here, even Mac) steers clear. Nobody sneers at him about getting taken out by a blind man. Nobody questions his claim on retribution. Nobody.
They didn't let the lost little lawyer keep those glasses of his, they certainly didn't let him keep his stupid mask, and Mac thinks he looks a helluva lot smaller in the harsh fluorescent lights of the prison lunchroom than he ever did in that back-alley of the Kitchen where he'd kicked 10 shades of shit out of Mac. He looks-- terrified. Probably doesn't even realize it, those creepy sightless eyes swiveling around the room uselessly, doing a full body twitch when anyone walks past his empty table to get to another one, no matter how crowded. He's confused but he's trying to look angry and in control, tough. He doesn't eat, just pushes the food around on his plate until their time's up. No one steps in when he throws it all out, which is downright impressive, and just as much a testament to Fisk as any of the rest. Mac has seen boys shivved for much less than that.
It's not until lockdown that the devil gets his questions answered, in the form of his new cellie, who had been suspiciously absent from the population's eye all day.
"Fisk." There's a lot of bald hate in that one word, but even one cell over, Mac doesn't miss the tremor in his voice. Is it terror or is it rage? Probably both.
"Matthew Murdock." Fisk sounds like he always has to Mac. Calm, collected, idly threatening. Some people say he was plain shy, in all those press spots he did on the outside. Mac doesn't buy it. He speaks quietly here, but there's a bigness to him that makes its way even into his voice, unavoidable and omnipresent. "I've been waiting for you. You see now what our city does to those who try to save it."
The devil gives a choking laugh. It's nowhere near convincing. He's breathing hard and fast, it's loud against the concrete walls and open hall. "You-- you never tried to save them."
"Mm. I did. But I won't, anymore. I've had... a revelation."
"You've had a dry spell," the devil sneers, probably grasping at straws. It's supposed to be pithy, Mac guesses, but it was a mistake. He can practically see the slow smile that must be spreading across Fisk's doughy face. He gives a low, dark laugh, at least.
"It's coming to an end tonight."
In the silence that follows, Mac holds his breath. He can hear his cellie doing the same. Nobody on the whole block is making a sound, everyone is waiting for the explosion that they knew had been coming since Fisk had leaned against the bars of his cage the day Daredevil transferred in, and said conversationally to the warden I'd like a new cellmate. There was a betting pool on whether he wanted to kill the devil or fuck him - Mac (having seen the dark shape of his mouth before, the exceptional roundness of his ass when he walked back out of that alley and left him in a puddle of his own blood) put a month's worth of saved up commissary money on the devil becoming a prison bitch before the getting was even good, before the rest of the jail got their first close look at him and tried to change their bets.
"No." The devil's voice is cracked, strained, trying to be defiant and nothing has even happened yet. He's being crushed by the implications alone. Mac gleefully plans out how many cigarettes he can charge for retelling all of the most gruesome details tomorrow, out on the yard: he hopes there's tears, but if there aren't, he can just embellish. He's got a good imagination and a way with words. "Not unless you go fuck yourself."
That's when the fighting starts. It's loud, and it lasts for long enough that he's half afraid the devil might get himself killed just trying to avoid what's coming to him, flushing Mac's winnings down the drain on a technicality. They both shout, fabric tears, skin thuds into the floor and the walls dully, and the bunks give a mighty rusty creak as they're battered in the struggle. He thinks he hears the sink getting smashed off the wall at one point, but through all of it not a single guard comes running. He's almost sure that the time for nightly checks to start has passed, too. Nice touch.
It ends with a whimper, not a bang. A long, drawn-out whimper. "No. You can't--"
"I can do anything, if you hadn't noticed." Fisk barely even sounds winded. Or maybe he's just good at hiding it. He'd been making plenty of noises during the scuffle, and Mac is no stranger to just how hard the devil can hit. "The only reason you haven't been bent over in the showers yet is because I keep this whole place at bay."
"I'm not afraid of--"
"And the second I withdraw my protection, you'll be eaten alive." Fisk's voice is dry, matter-of-fact. Mac likes to imagine he's got the devil pushed up against a wall, wrists pinned above his head with one huge hand, thigh between his legs so he knows (so he can feel) exactly what's about to happen to him. He imagines those blank eyes zigzagging, trying to look for an escape without seeing. He imagines bruises just beginning to mottle beneath his skin, and that red mouth, stained darker with blood, opening in protest before he's cut off again. "Ah, yes. I do recall. You're stubborn to the point of being borderline suicidal, it's not what I'd call one of your more charming traits. Don't be tiresome, Matthew, you know you don't stand a chance against every man in this prison."
There's another silence, and after the din of the fight, it's practically deafening. Finally, the devil finds his voice. "Why stop them? What's in it for you?" He sounds so resigned that it takes Mac's breath away. Worn out, and defeated, barely managing to growl. Maybe Fisk's got him on the floor, instead, face against the cement all that weight bearing down on top of him, making it hard to breathe, proving definitively that he's got no way to escape. Maybe the hard curve of Fisk's dick is pressed up against the swell of his ass, maybe Fisk has his dark hair between those meaty fingers, twisting it enough to be painful without tearing any out. That's it, yeah, pulling his head back and baring his neck until his adam's apple bobs up and down, visible beneath the rasp of stubble. Mac palms himself through his jumpsuit, and imagines.
"I respect you." Daredevil croaks out a disbelieving God, and Fisk makes his own rumbling noise. "Your skill, your... devotion, misguided as it is. Useless and short-sighted as it is. But you took me away from Vanessa." There's a rusty squeak, and Mac stills, hand pressed down hard against his dick, not daring to move for fear of missing a word of it. Are they on the bed, then? Is the devil too weak to move, arms twisted purposefully in the sheets and held out behind him so he's defenseless? "And I won't go back to her dirtied." There'd been word of how hot she'd been, the Vanessa woman, when she hung off Fisk's arm on the news. (Gossip about Fisk had been big for awhile, before he put a stop to it when he really came into his own.) The devil's hardly a replacement to scoff at, though. Especially considering the limited selection available here.
Dirtied. Mac wants to scoff, laugh at the implication that he's too good for them when he's the scariest monster here, but his breath is trapped in his throat. He's a little afraid Fisk will hear it.
"It's your choice, Matthew." He sounds soothing. Generous. The tone of the encounter has shifted somewhere in that little pause, and Mac pictures him running his hands down the devil's sides, up under his clothes while he shakes, down and around to cup his ass. Just holding it, without squeezing: the picture of restraint. "Out there or in here. Decide." Mac half-hopes for a decline even though it'll leave him broke and frustrated tonight. He knows that with a deal like Fisk is offering to the devil, no one else in the entire place is going to get to take a crack. No one's going to get to tear him apart like he deserves, fuck him until he begs and cries and admits how sorry he is for putting them all in here. Fisk likes his privacy far too much, so he's never going to spread Daredevil out in the communal shower, beat him until his blood runs down the drains, make him choke on the cocks of every lucky bastard present until his body un-learns how to gag. The Kingpin's never going to share, so all he'll ever have are these little audio performances.
not-quite-fill? background piece? idk this comment like REALLY did it for me so
Jesus, it's practically pornographic.
Mac has been in and out of prison for two decades, he's been locked up with mobsters before, but Fisk - god, Fisk - he's something else. It took him a month, maybe three (Mac don't always tell the passing of time so good anymore, that'll drive you nuts in a place like this), before he had everyone marching to the beat of his drums. Everyone whispered that it was the money, but enough time in the business and Mac has seen almost everything that cash can get you. Fisk has their fervent devotion, their fear, and that's worth a whole lot more. It's not just the other prisoners, it's the guards, it's the families on the outside - he says one word when news comes washing through the system like a wave that Daredevil's getting locked up, and everyone (even the guys he'd put in here, even Mac) steers clear. Nobody sneers at him about getting taken out by a blind man. Nobody questions his claim on retribution. Nobody.
They didn't let the lost little lawyer keep those glasses of his, they certainly didn't let him keep his stupid mask, and Mac thinks he looks a helluva lot smaller in the harsh fluorescent lights of the prison lunchroom than he ever did in that back-alley of the Kitchen where he'd kicked 10 shades of shit out of Mac. He looks-- terrified. Probably doesn't even realize it, those creepy sightless eyes swiveling around the room uselessly, doing a full body twitch when anyone walks past his empty table to get to another one, no matter how crowded. He's confused but he's trying to look angry and in control, tough. He doesn't eat, just pushes the food around on his plate until their time's up. No one steps in when he throws it all out, which is downright impressive, and just as much a testament to Fisk as any of the rest. Mac has seen boys shivved for much less than that.
It's not until lockdown that the devil gets his questions answered, in the form of his new cellie, who had been suspiciously absent from the population's eye all day.
"Fisk." There's a lot of bald hate in that one word, but even one cell over, Mac doesn't miss the tremor in his voice. Is it terror or is it rage? Probably both.
"Matthew Murdock." Fisk sounds like he always has to Mac. Calm, collected, idly threatening. Some people say he was plain shy, in all those press spots he did on the outside. Mac doesn't buy it. He speaks quietly here, but there's a bigness to him that makes its way even into his voice, unavoidable and omnipresent. "I've been waiting for you. You see now what our city does to those who try to save it."
The devil gives a choking laugh. It's nowhere near convincing. He's breathing hard and fast, it's loud against the concrete walls and open hall. "You-- you never tried to save them."
"Mm. I did. But I won't, anymore. I've had... a revelation."
"You've had a dry spell," the devil sneers, probably grasping at straws. It's supposed to be pithy, Mac guesses, but it was a mistake. He can practically see the slow smile that must be spreading across Fisk's doughy face. He gives a low, dark laugh, at least.
"It's coming to an end tonight."
In the silence that follows, Mac holds his breath. He can hear his cellie doing the same. Nobody on the whole block is making a sound, everyone is waiting for the explosion that they knew had been coming since Fisk had leaned against the bars of his cage the day Daredevil transferred in, and said conversationally to the warden I'd like a new cellmate. There was a betting pool on whether he wanted to kill the devil or fuck him - Mac (having seen the dark shape of his mouth before, the exceptional roundness of his ass when he walked back out of that alley and left him in a puddle of his own blood) put a month's worth of saved up commissary money on the devil becoming a prison bitch before the getting was even good, before the rest of the jail got their first close look at him and tried to change their bets.
"No." The devil's voice is cracked, strained, trying to be defiant and nothing has even happened yet. He's being crushed by the implications alone. Mac gleefully plans out how many cigarettes he can charge for retelling all of the most gruesome details tomorrow, out on the yard: he hopes there's tears, but if there aren't, he can just embellish. He's got a good imagination and a way with words. "Not unless you go fuck yourself."
That's when the fighting starts. It's loud, and it lasts for long enough that he's half afraid the devil might get himself killed just trying to avoid what's coming to him, flushing Mac's winnings down the drain on a technicality. They both shout, fabric tears, skin thuds into the floor and the walls dully, and the bunks give a mighty rusty creak as they're battered in the struggle. He thinks he hears the sink getting smashed off the wall at one point, but through all of it not a single guard comes running. He's almost sure that the time for nightly checks to start has passed, too. Nice touch.
It ends with a whimper, not a bang. A long, drawn-out whimper. "No. You can't--"
"I can do anything, if you hadn't noticed." Fisk barely even sounds winded. Or maybe he's just good at hiding it. He'd been making plenty of noises during the scuffle, and Mac is no stranger to just how hard the devil can hit. "The only reason you haven't been bent over in the showers yet is because I keep this whole place at bay."
"I'm not afraid of--"
"And the second I withdraw my protection, you'll be eaten alive." Fisk's voice is dry, matter-of-fact. Mac likes to imagine he's got the devil pushed up against a wall, wrists pinned above his head with one huge hand, thigh between his legs so he knows (so he can feel) exactly what's about to happen to him. He imagines those blank eyes zigzagging, trying to look for an escape without seeing. He imagines bruises just beginning to mottle beneath his skin, and that red mouth, stained darker with blood, opening in protest before he's cut off again. "Ah, yes. I do recall. You're stubborn to the point of being borderline suicidal, it's not what I'd call one of your more charming traits. Don't be tiresome, Matthew, you know you don't stand a chance against every man in this prison."
There's another silence, and after the din of the fight, it's practically deafening. Finally, the devil finds his voice. "Why stop them? What's in it for you?" He sounds so resigned that it takes Mac's breath away. Worn out, and defeated, barely managing to growl. Maybe Fisk's got him on the floor, instead, face against the cement all that weight bearing down on top of him, making it hard to breathe, proving definitively that he's got no way to escape. Maybe the hard curve of Fisk's dick is pressed up against the swell of his ass, maybe Fisk has his dark hair between those meaty fingers, twisting it enough to be painful without tearing any out. That's it, yeah, pulling his head back and baring his neck until his adam's apple bobs up and down, visible beneath the rasp of stubble. Mac palms himself through his jumpsuit, and imagines.
"I respect you." Daredevil croaks out a disbelieving God, and Fisk makes his own rumbling noise. "Your skill, your... devotion, misguided as it is. Useless and short-sighted as it is. But you took me away from Vanessa." There's a rusty squeak, and Mac stills, hand pressed down hard against his dick, not daring to move for fear of missing a word of it. Are they on the bed, then? Is the devil too weak to move, arms twisted purposefully in the sheets and held out behind him so he's defenseless? "And I won't go back to her dirtied." There'd been word of how hot she'd been, the Vanessa woman, when she hung off Fisk's arm on the news. (Gossip about Fisk had been big for awhile, before he put a stop to it when he really came into his own.) The devil's hardly a replacement to scoff at, though. Especially considering the limited selection available here.
Dirtied. Mac wants to scoff, laugh at the implication that he's too good for them when he's the scariest monster here, but his breath is trapped in his throat. He's a little afraid Fisk will hear it.
"It's your choice, Matthew." He sounds soothing. Generous. The tone of the encounter has shifted somewhere in that little pause, and Mac pictures him running his hands down the devil's sides, up under his clothes while he shakes, down and around to cup his ass. Just holding it, without squeezing: the picture of restraint. "Out there or in here. Decide." Mac half-hopes for a decline even though it'll leave him broke and frustrated tonight. He knows that with a deal like Fisk is offering to the devil, no one else in the entire place is going to get to take a crack. No one's going to get to tear him apart like he deserves, fuck him until he begs and cries and admits how sorry he is for putting them all in here. Fisk likes his privacy far too much, so he's never going to spread Daredevil out in the communal shower, beat him until his blood runs down the drains, make him choke on the cocks of every lucky bastard present until his body un-learns how to gag. The Kingpin's never going to share, so all he'll ever have are these little audio performances.
Damn.