daredevilkink | Prompt Post #5

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Prompt Post #5

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They're for emergency situations, like hypothermia or dementors.

I second this. This needs to happen. I suddenly have the image of Foggy calling in Bruce after he punishes Matt, and asks him for some cool gel/ ointment to help sooth Matt's rectum.

The humiliation of having a stranger (Bruce) essentially "lube" him up is making me shiver in glee right now....oh god! What if Matt hadn't gotten off this whole time, but the second Bruce assists, he cums so hard and then starts sobbing! Shiiiiiiit I need this!

I've heard claims that guy pubes are always dark. Guys/people who are actually interested in guys/people who don't mind having that in their google history forever pls confirm or deny

Well that's 10 minutes of my life unexpectedly devoted to the logistics of keeping the lawn mowed while blind.
This meme is just full of surprises

Cis girl!Matt gets dragged into a shower, stripped and has the shower head pressed between her legs. She tries really, really hard not to get turned on, but she ends up a sobbing, overstimulated wreck after having multiple orgasms.

You can choose who does it: Vanessa? Wesley? Fisk? Stick? Vladimir? Anyone, really.

*climbs back into the dumpster*

This is wonderful!

OP: YES THESE ARE BEAUTIFUL. Both posts. (Can I consider these a minifill? They make me so happy!)

Except, isn't Sam a PJ? So he'd know the first aid stuff anyhow, I should think, as part of his paramedic training. (But imagine this: Sam and Claire meet at a continuing education-type thing. That's geared toward first aid after a superhero-level disaster. No? Just a thought.)

Now I want to do an art fill of the laughing with salad part. Except that I've never had any artistic talent. So sad. :(

ahaha perfect! :DDD

Pubic hair is like the rest of your hair: its color is dictated by melanin. Our bodies are inconsistent with melanin distribution and it isn't uncommon for pubic hair to be darker than the hair on our heads because the melanin concentration is darker there.

I will say from personal experience that vivid gingers like comics!Matt will have red pubic hair, it'll probably just be darker. If hair is darker, like mcu!Matt's auburn, or brown, or straight up black, then pubic hair color becomes harder to distinguish, although it can most likely be done if the partner was very enthusiastic about it.

Honestly, mcu!Matt might try to conquer that bright ginger look because the other kids made fun of him for it. :\ I had a friend in school who hated her red hair because the other students called her "soulless." And since Matt internalizes so much, he just didn't want the reminder so he just dyes it himself and calls it a day.

Matt worships Claire, even the things she doesn't like about herself.

this is great! i join the love for foggy using punjabi for incantations, and also for his whole 'family curse' background and antagonistic relation to the wardens. that would definitely give him a reason to be an enthusiastic defense attorney. (the white council fails HARD on respecting the 'innocent until proven guilty' principle, and also on fair trial procedure in general.) i also love that foggy tells karen the truth before he tells matt, both because they spend a lot of time together during the events of the show and because there is no way karen would let that kind of weirdness go until she gets to the bottom of it.

i would love to see more in this world if you ever feel inspired in that direction!

Oh damn, growing up in a Catholic orphanage would present a lot of opportunities to make fun of another kid's supposed soullessness.

Any time the nuns said something about souls, or the afterlife, some mean kids would snicker "Except Matt. Everybody knows he doesn't have a soul."

There is a fic of this (sans Frank) but I don't have the link.

.... Is there anything people DON'T do as a sex thing?

*sets up camp and waits patiently*

Steve and Foggy complaining about their besties is my jam

Are you sure you aren't on the official writing team? This is so perfectly Foggy that I'm speechless. I had a full minute of sadness over the fact that this (probably) will not be canon.

Now the question is: Did Foggy ever try to get Matt to do Baby's part?
Did Matt refuse out of fear that he'd give away his secret?
Did he accept and give Foggy all of the feelings with his trust? (I mean come on, the Peanuts specials were on well before Matt went blind. He knows about the football scene.)

YES. I actually read that comic recently and now I want the MCU-style Saga of Guts Nelson.

unf thanks for sharing this. helps take the edge off of waiting for the next installment of this fill :)

[cw for… basically everything noncon-related, violence, torture, head injuries]

**

"You're Murdock's second in command."

"We're partners," Foggy says, but he can't not trip over the words because it's fucking cold in here and his tongue feels swollen in his mouth. Maybe he's got a chipped tooth. "That's how lawyers work, we're partners."

This guy knows about Matt. He fucking knows.

The bored-looking goons have filed off into the hall, though they probably haven't gone far. Neither of them is the guy with the glasses who came in to unsubtly hint that Murdock & Nelson, Nelson & Murdock should take up with his employer's incredibly shady organization instead. Talk about sharks and skin suits. That guy probably made the call that Foggy was on his way back from work, alone. That he was looking at his phone and not at his surroundings. Distracted, like a dumbass.

The chair beneath him is cold metal, institutional quality. If he had Matt's crazy kung fu moves, he could probably make an okay weapon out of it, but his right hand is cuffed to a table leg, and the table leg is bolted to the floor. The extent of his data-gathering tells him they're in an office block somewhere, which makes the bolted-down table kind of incongruous -- but Foggy's eyes are refusing to focus, and his vision swims too badly to pinpoint any specifics. There's no helpful street view out the window, mainly because there's no window. Matt could probably pinpoint where they were just by vibrations from the street, because he's the auditory equivalent of Captain America, but Foggy can't -- there's a dull buzz in the air that might just be a ringing in his ears from getting clipped on the side of the head when they pulled him out of the car.

Beige carpet, beige table, pockmarked plaster ceiling made up of the same kind of tiles that are in the offices of Nelson & Murdock. For all he knows they're in the same building as the office, one of those neighboring suites he hasn't been able to charm his way into yet. For all he knows they're in Jersey, it certainly looks bleak enough. There's nothing like a convenient fire alarm to pull (to evacuate all the armed guys in suits or what?) or a window to fling himself out of after heroically picking the lock on the cuffs and scampering to safety. On the far wall, there's the bleached outline of where a bulletin board used to hang -- maybe a whiteboard.

There's nothing here to really work with, except the knowledge that Fisk is there and he hasn't killed him yet.

Fisk comes up to him from behind. Foggy stays very still.

"I had," Fisk says, "a very good friend, who had a run-in with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. He was shot seven times in the chest. I'm told he died more or less instantly."

One of his hands dips into Foggy's shirt, grazes against the cotton undershirt next to his skin, presses with a fingertip. Like the trajectory of a bullet, or the phantom presence of a wound. Fisk has big hands and blunt fingers; the sensation of them probing at skin raises the hairs on the back of Foggy's neck. That's the kind of thing that he was really better off thinking was just a saying; the disturbed prickle makes his breath hitch, and Fisk seems amused. Or enraged. Hard to tell.

Foggy really doesn't want to get shot.

If he doesn't turn around, he can pretend it's not Fisk, the asshole from TV. His voice is worse in person, it's got all these weird hesitations and pauses but it's even deeper, even bigger. It's everywhere.

"When they showed me the body, I was... shocked. He looked much the same as he had alive, apart from having been shot seven times in the chest." Which isn't supposed to be funny, but Foggy gasps back a horrible snicker of inappropriate laughter anyway. Fisk does not seem amused. "And there was a remarkable amount of blood."

He's not going to look at his face. He's not going to look at his face.

"I'm sorry, but why are you telling me this?"

Fisk grabs him by the collar like Foggy is a kid and pulls him out of the chair like a squirming rabbit. The chain rattles, carving a crescent of clear pain into his wrist, and Foggy is terrified for a split second that he's going to throw him down on the ground and start kicking. He's a really fucking big guy, okay. But Fisk's preposterously strong grip does not release, and he instead drapes him over the edge of the table like a dry-cleaner bag full of shirts. This is easy for him; he doesn't seem bothered, like he does this all the time.

"I'm not going to tell you anything." Not about Matt. Not about the guy in the mask. Not about their cases. Foggy's a lawyer and Wilson Fisk is a major-league criminal, those two things aren't going to change. If this is the part in the script where Fisk makes him an offer, tries to get him on board, he's not going to leave happy. It's way too late for that. Maybe a couple years ago when they were both desperate interns, and Fisk was nothing but a completely anonymous shadow on the horizon, but not now. Definitely not after having him abducted.

Foggy's cheek presses against the cold metal tabletop. Maybe he can twist over onto his back and ninja-kick this guy in the face.

"I wasn't planning on asking you any questions," Fisk says, almost affably, "but it might help to be forthcoming."

What's the worst he can do? Break some bones? Foggy's had that happen before; it sucks, but it's not fatal, and he can always tell the girls he got his legs busted standing up to a psychopathic gangster. This guy could beat the ever-loving shit out of him, go all Reservoir Dogs, and Foggy still won't tell him anything about Matt's dumbass secret identity.

Unless Fisk knows about Matt already (he does) and plans on blinding him as a matter of dramatic irony. Which would suck, but he won't die.

Unless Fisk doesn't care about dramatic irony and is going to shoot him seven times in the face.

Basically the only thing he does not want Fisk to do is kill him. Anything short of that, Foggy reasons, he can handle. Matt's made of sterner stuff than he is, as categorically proven by upholding the whole double-life thing so long, so maybe Foggy won't make it out with such a stiff upper lip, but he won't die--

The proximity of his body is a horrible thing. Wilson Fisk is a man with a presence, and it's been a long time since Foggy has ever felt small next to anybody, but his skin is crawling. It's honestly a minor miracle that he hasn't pissed himself yet.

Anger surges at the core of him, a little reservoir of pure and total hatred buried deep in his gut -- he's pissed about Elena Cardenas and all her neighbors, he's pissed about whoever hurt Karen so bad, he's pissed about the state of this whole damn town and the one guy who's still lording it over one shitty neighborhood like he's the Second Coming despite persuasive evidence to the contrary. Fisk thinks he's got him scared, when really he's just got him mad.

Foggy shuts his eyes hard enough to see yellow spots. With luck he can martial enough willpower to sound confident, if he can just stop shivering in the A/C.

"You know, I wouldn't fuck with me if I were you. He's going to come after you and he's gonna nail your ass to the wall. You're a dead man."

He, him. Matt. The guy in the mask. Heat prickles at the back of his neck, down his spine, weight shifting and chain slinking against metal.

"I could crush you like an insect," Fisk rasps against his ear, and Foggy shuts his eyes tighter. "But then I wouldn't have anything to turn back over to your friend."

The worst thing Fisk could do? What's the worst thing Fisk can do to him, now, before he goes for Karen or for Matt or for the people in the office next door to theirs -- or maybe he's done all that already and that's why nobody's been returning Foggy's calls and that's why him, just because everybody else is already dead. He starts to protest, an awful animal treble that escapes his throat before he can stop himself, and Fisk slams his head against the table.

Foggy feels something crack, or chip, or something, and the pain starts to blossom from the corner of his eye socket all at once. A sound escapes his throat that is a scream.

Fisk strikes his head against the metal again. It's not as hard this time, and Foggy's gone slack so it's easier. Everything's gone kind of gray.

With one sweep Fisk knocks the chair aside. Foggy lashes out at him but his dizzy impreciseness means he manages exactly nothing but making himself black out. Reality strobes out like a broken lightbulb.

His shirt's untucked, his pants are down, he doesn't know when he went from being fully-dressed, albeit trussed to a fucking chair in a murder basement, to feeling the cold air on his naked legs and feeling Fisk palm in his underwear. His hands are warm, and the edge of the table is freezing cold. His thumb digs into the softness of Nelson's stomach.

"You're soft," he says, with blistering contempt.

The cloth of Fisk's suit brushes the backs of Foggy's thighs.

"So what? What are you going to do to me?"

Is he going to say the words? Is he going to say the actual words, stuff Foggy can remember for later -- he knows all the words for this, chapter and verse, just in case, the stuff like physically helpless and forcible compulsion and if he's really unlucky tonight foreign object. Or is this guy too macho to say he's raping him?

Fisk doesn't answer the question. He tugs on a fistful of Foggy's hair and twists, pulling his head back so sharply for a moment Foggy thinks he's going to snap his neck. "Look at me," he says, "you're worthless to me. I ought to break you apart."

He's an animal, there is no way this is a person, Foggy's vision is edged in black and Fisk's monstrous face is framed impassively in the kind of staticky dimness that probably means brain damage.

"I'm looking. I get it. I see you."

His head is grudgingly released, allowed to drop. Fisk smooths his hair back into place with weird conscientiousness; Foggy can only grunt his distress through a sudden sweep of nausea.

"Tell him what you've seen."

He's still got one hand free. He's not totally spread-eagle here. He balls up a fist and drives it back, twisting around to drive it full-force somewhere in the vicinity of this guy's solar plexus --

--and Fisk twists it right back, presses it into the table's edge with a rolling motion and crack. The world shutters out like a camera lens. When it wells back into focus again it's harder and colder; the lights are so bright he can't see a difference when he shuts his eyes.

Foggy screams. Wilson Fisk undoes his belt.

There's a plasticky rustling sound from somewhere behind him. Foggy knows it from dorm rooms and extra-long twin beds, from office bathrooms and lots of other places he would really rather be right now. Fisk is unwrapping a condom, because just because he's fucking him up the ass is no reason not to be polite.

This is going to suck. This is going to be so bad.

Foggy reflexively hugs his ruined hand to himself, gasping huge breaths, like pressure will mitigate the blinding pain -- it won't, Fisk pulls his arm away from his side and wrenches it up behind his back. His thigh presses apart Foggy's legs; his dick is brushing against his ass as he fumbles for an angle. His dick's already hard.

There's a deep ballpoint-pen gouge in the tabletop, like somebody scribbled there, and Foggy tries to focus on that. But the sensation of somebody else's dick touching him makes it impossible not to struggle, not to twist around protesting while his chained-down arm shoots out in pins and needles. Fisk makes an annoyed sound and leans against him, hard.

They're beyond talking now. The first hard press is like nothing else -- it trips an involuntary sob, and the heel of Fisk's hand presses into Foggy's back, to hold him in place or to press the air out of his lungs. He doesn't feel him up lasciviously or waste a whole lot of time being theatrical about what he's doing, because it's pretty obvious. But he takes his time. It's not like either of them has anywhere else to be.

This part Foggy's not even trying to fight. He can't. He's not like Matt is, he's just a guy. Fisk exhales in annoyance when he's breaching him, not even exertion. Foggy will remember that sound maybe, forever.

(Soft, he says.)

By the time an actual dick is inside him, Foggy is trying not to cry or throw up or both. Nothing else hurts like this, not the cotton-padded ache in his head or the bones in the back of his hand, or the press of the table's edge against his stomach. His shoulder feels as if it's about to be wrenched from its socket by the strain, the position he's in is all kinds of unnatural, but Foggy can't even focus on that splintering patch of pain without being reminded of each splitting thrust. It can't be easy.

Fisk's size would be enough to keep him in place, but he braces him there for better access, front and back. He doesn't bother touching him really, after a cursory grope that feels more like a mistake. The pressure of his hand is nightmarish now, an infinitely worse bracketing restriction than the otherwise minimalistic restraints.

Maybe the low-budget ambiance and the stuff about Matt and Fisk's dead friend is just the set-up to getting bent over like a twenty-dollar hooker, getting fucked in silence with nothing but the strike of flesh against flesh, not even that, Wilson Fisk's cufflinks digging into the shallow flesh over his ribs through cloth. Now he knows what this guy sounds like having sex and he sounds like he's having sex with somebody else, somebody who knows to shut up, not Foggy who can barely breathe.

Something in him is broken apart now, maybe something small but he's bleeding badly. He's starting to black out before it's done, stuttering shortages in his vision like a buffering video. Throbbing in his head like a blood vessel -- where the fuck is Matt for all this? Where the fuck is Matt?

Foggy regains consciousness to the feeling of a massive hand clasping his throat. Not even hard, though it elicits a shudder of animal panic, just the sweaty folds of the inside of a hand waiting to grip and press. Waiting.

He keeps waiting for Fisk to tighten his grip and press the life out of him, but he hasn't done it yet.

("Soft," he says.)

*

The second time, he doesn't even cuff him to the table. The third time, he must get bored, because he uses a gun to do it.

*

Foggy doesn't notice when he's done, or when he leaves him there on the floor like dirty laundry. He doesn't leave him there naked, but it wouldn't matter if he did.

Afterward, after the last time, the guys in suits come in again -- one of them has a glass of water, Foggy remembers that with weird clarity and basically nothing else. Some nameless mook has a plastic cup of water in his hand and an ugly class ring on his finger and he holds the cup up to Foggy's lips while the other guy lifts his head.

It doesn't occur to him, what if it's drugged or something like that because they didn't bother chloroforming him or whatever to take him here, they just hit him over the head. He's so pitifully grateful that he drinks, but he can barely swallow; his throat is one long raw patch.

He can't keep it down for long, and he has to lie there in the consequences of that until he passes out again. Here it goes, this is him dying -- this is how he dies, fucked bloody on the ground and puking. His shirt sticks to his back between his shoulder blades, it's adhered to his bare thighs with sweat. He's dirty, bleeding, concussed, near-dead already. He's done. He's ready for giving up, even if it means having it happen like this.

It happens like this, and he still doesn't die.

Yes perfect
They must appreciate the all the time+ energy+ materials+ Potential accessory charges that she provides. She and Helen Cho would be great friends. They could also collaborate with Tony on new medical equipment.
Those conversations are frequently littered with the phrases "Tony, that's illegal" "there's more laboratory testing that needs to be done before you can send that shit home with random people so they can try it out on injured vigilantes that crawl through their windows at night" "Hypothetically, could this 'skin graft gun' be used to graft someone's mouth closed" and "Next person to crush my dreams gets Dum-E assigned to them for fire extinguisher duty."

Foggy doesn't have relatives, he has 'the Nelson clan'. Surely he's been called on for babysitting duty

Let's see our avacados (including Karen) babysitting a few kids. (8 or younger preferred)
Are there tea parties? Dinosaur battles? Matt herding the little fiends with his cane? The mysteries of life discussed and advised on over storybooks? (Or Fractured Fairytales . You know Foggy had the whole collection to watch while stoned)

Any combo of Karen/Matt/Foggy is fine, but not necessary.
Don't fuck me up. Warm my black little heart

Don't fuck me up. Warm my black little heart
- LMAO

Awww, cute! Matt would tell such terrible fairytale... He's not allowed to do the honors anymore after making little Lisa and Billy cry. He does epic dinosaur fights, though, even if he can't tell who's hosting the utahraptor versus the plesiosaur versus the pterodactyl.

Not specifically written for this prompt, but I guess it's as close as it can be to a fill: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4134474

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Page 110 of 186

Prompt Post #5

Re: Matt + Hypothermia

Re: Figging

Re: Gen or any, crack: Matt is secretly a redhead

Re: Gen or any, crack: Matt is secretly a redhead

Cis girl!Matt/any, non-con vaginal water massage

Re: he draws a napkin battle plan 5

Re: Claire/Sam Wilson, non-explicit preferred

Re: superhero logistics - matt's suit

Re: Gen or any, crack: Matt is secretly a redhead

Re: Gen or any, crack: Matt is secretly a redhead

Trans!Claire, Matt/Claire

Re: [Fill] String Theory 2/2

Re: Gen or any, crack: Matt is secretly a redhead

Re: Matt + Hypothermia

Re: Figging

Re: Gen/Any, Civil War AU: Daredevil doesn't fight

Re: Jealous Foggy

Re: Matt &/ Foggy - Matt is strong/this is completely silly

Re: Gen: "Guts" Nelson

Re: Matt/Foggy accidental D/s relationship

fill: "why ask politely, why go lightly, why say please" 1/?

Re: Avengers protect Claire, gen or Claire/any

Team Avacado Babysitting

Re: Team Avacado Babysitting

Re: Hyperthermia, gen/any