daredevilkink | Prompt Post #5

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Prompt Post #5

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as the author of a few of the aforementioned somewhat kinky pwp fills i'm seconding this bc i love me some super vanilla sex now and then provided it's tooth decayingly sweet.

idk why but my mind immediately went to a lot of it getting singed through criminals trying to hurt him and matt has to help him cut it off?

and i know, blind guy, but foggy's probably A Wreck over this and he can't bear the thought of calling anyone else to help him so that's the story of how he and matt end up on his bathroom floor at three in the morning with matt wielding a pair of hair scissors and hoping for the best all while apologizing to foggy.

Matt would fuck Steve up so bad. Like Steve'd have a better idea where a little fighter's weak points are, but he'd feel awful about hurting him. Bruce would be fighting to not Hulk out
On the other hand, Natasha and Clint would do what needed to be done (possibly to the horror of others)
Basically it would be a terrible time all around and I'm here for that

because i just love to fuck myself up, these are lyrics from sufjan stevens' "futile devices":

It's been a long, long time since I've memorized your face
It's been four hours now since I've wandered through your place
And when I sleep on your couch I feel very safe
And when you bring the blankets I cover up my face
I do love you
I do love you

And when you play guitar I listen to the strings buzz
The metal vibrates underneath your fingers
And when you crochet I feel mesmerized and proud
And I would say I love you, but saying it out loud is hard
So I won't say it at all
And I won't stay very long
But you are the life I needed all along
I think of you as my brother
Although that sounds dumb
Words are futile devices

just fic inspired by the scenario set up in these lyrics, i guess? i'm not picky. just fuck me up, anons.

DA

That was 3x1, "Anne". It was right after the whole Angelus mess, if you need the context for why Buffy's so traumatized.

What if Matt's horrified and angry. Killing them is one thing. Making a bouquet out of severed dicks is another.
Seeing just how badly Matt was hurt, clearly understanding that there's a difference between sexual violence and the almost routine violence they deal with every day, and then being able to go out and do the same thing in Matt's name... Talk about your 'am I the bad guy" conflict taken up to 11

Possibly cliche but, "You couldn't fucking wait to run out of here to hunt them down. You never stopped to think if you should, if I'd want that. I'm your excuse just like /they/ are.
It was so easy for you to become a killer, become a rapist. There's nothing you won't do.
How do I know there's anything stopping you from deciding to do that to me?
I'm showing my gratitude by not throwing you off this roof. Dont make me regret that.

Is the jig up when Foggy sees one of the picture messages, or does Karen accidentally open a filthy voice message while trying to put her phone on mute?

Queenpin

Matt had assumed that the humiliation of running away for exactly twenty-six hours would be the worst part of it. He didn't - he didn't want Wilson to think that he was looking for attention, or that he was so needy or clingy that he would - would act out like that, but that seemed to be the message.

Wilson had been home every night for a week, and he'd been cooking. On those mornings that he hadn't been able to ride in the car while Wesley drove Matt to school, he'd left notes in the kitchen, punched out with the communal slate and stylus.

(They were very simple notes, always, but the fact that he'd - it was easier to use a braille printer than a slate and stylus: it made Matt feel guilty and suspiciously warm, when he thought about it.)

Wilson had come home early, that Thursday, surprising Matt. He'd been skimming the history assignment while sitting in the windowseat in the dining room, because the window faced west and it got deliciously warm in the early evening. "Oh," Matt said. "I can."

"No, you don't have to -" Wilson said, and - touched Matt's shoulder, carefully. He'd been doing that more, since Wesley had brought Matt back home, and if Wesley had told Wilson about what Matt had done, he would -

- it was nice, though. To be touched. Casually. It wouldn't be nice if it was a sympathy thing, and Matt certainly didn't need it, but.

"What do you want for dinner?" Wilson asked.

"I don't care," Matt said.

"Good," Wesley said: "I want sausage and onions."

Matt made a face before he could help himself, and Wesley laughed, very quietly. Matt ignored him. "No," he said, "the whole house smells like onions when you do that, can we - do we have salmon? And rice?"

"Oh, you do have a preference," Wesley said; Matt threw a stylus at him.

"Will you help?" Wilson asked. "No - you have school. It's fine, you can - you can read there, if you'd. If you'd like."

"I can help," Matt said.

"Good," Wilson said.

Matt stayed quiet for a minute, and then said "can it be tartare, though?"

"Yes," Wilson said, immediately.

Matt got assigned the marinade, and for a minute he thought he'd be able to work in the kitchen with the two of them, because sometimes it was good, sometimes it was good to be around people he'd lived with for two years now, the same people, doing domestic things like that. He didn't mean to cause trouble, and he certainly didn't mean to start a fight, but somehow when he opened his mouth that evening, the first thing that came out was "how many." He couldn't quite get a deep breath, and he. "How many people have you killed?"

"Ah," Wilson said.

"That's a imprecise question," Wesley said. Matt didn't want to throw things, but he was tired of - of everyone who'd ever taken an interest in him after his father died, why was there always blood on their hands, it wasn't fair -

"I'm sorry, I - didn't," Matt said, because he hadn't consciously decided to shove everything off the counter, smash it to the ground. He didn't even make him feel better. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"It's just food," Wilson said.

"Get out of the way, I've got it, I'll - no, you go with him," Wesley said, which made Matt feel sick and anxious.

The comforting thing about Stick had always been that there weren't any gray areas: if Matt wanted to know what would get him hit, for example, or what would get him knocked down, well - he'd never had to wonder for more than half an hour or so. The thing about Wilson was that - that Matt could behave badly, be both really shitty as a person and also ask the kind of questions that - that got people arrested or disappeared, and Wilson never did anything to him.

He took Wilson's elbow to get to the living room, mostly because - well, sure, there were shards of glass and the rest of the puddle of soy sauce, sweet and nauseatingly salty, but that wasn't why. He took Wilson's elbow because he was weak and childish, and even though everyone in the house knew that Matt didn't need the help, no one said anything.

They went to the living room, and Wilson sat down, heavy and steady, like a mountain, on the couch. "I won't lie to you," he said, carefully; "so ask your questions."

"Why is it an imprecise - why are you like this," Matt said.

"I have killed three people myself," Wilson said. He didn't move.

Matt wanted to cry.

"The last one was - the businessman you encountered," he said. "I...made the decision to...alter...my business model, somewhat. After that. Steps were made to - to -

Matt didn't say anything - what was there to say? - and Wilson didn't move. "What now," Matt said, miserable and small, "do I get whacked too?"

"no!" Wilson said. "I. Am. I never expected," he said. "I didn't mean to keep - to keep you in the dark."

Matt heard him shift, the sound of his hand rubbing against his stubble. "Pretty used to it," he said. He wasn't trying to give Wilson an out, he wasn't trying to - to act like this was okay, it was all kinds of fucked up, but -

"I apologize," Wilson said. "I meant to protect you from the unsavory...there are things that I."

"You are both pathetic," Wesley said, calmly; he stood in the doorway, smelling like bleach. "Matthew, less so: you're still young."

***

Matt was sixteen, and Wilson met Vanessa. Matt hadn't met her yet: she's anxious to meet you, Wilson had said, earnestly, and I've told her about you, and Matt hadn't...quite been able to say "thanks but no thanks," but he'd made sure that he was sick or busy whenever Vanessa had come over. He didn't want - he didn't want to think of Wilson bringing home a genuinely nice woman: what if she was nice? What if she really was brilliant and kind and good and funny? Then she'd be a good person dating his - his guardian, and that would be.

Matt still didn't know how he felt about it, but the decision was taken out of his hands, honestly: Vanessa and Wilson spent a lot of time out of the house, going on - dates.

Matt didn't want dates.

Matt laid in bed, from early evening to late night, and listened to sirens.

One night, he -

- Wesley was gone, shepherding the two of them on their date, and Matt was angry and tired and lonely, surprisingly lonely, and angry about that, and he -

- someone was crying.

It was a kid. Little kid, small kid, close enough to hear. Matt didn't want to bother the staff, didn't want to alert a driver or a bodyguard, didn't want - didn't want anyone to look at him and realize that he'd been lying in his room alone listening to people for hours, but he couldn't. The kid was crying.

Matt listened to it for about twenty minutes, before it absolutely drove him nut and he went out the window, determined to - to find it.

OH GOD THE WATER SCENE OF FOGGY GOING INTO THE WATER, I'd actually managed to forget that heartwrenching scene, DAMMIT.

THE CARNIVAL BOOTH FULL OF TOY FOGGYS, OH MY GOD. Matt you OBSESSIVE CREEPER, I adore you.

ROLLERFOGSTER

HUG-A-FOG RIDE. WHY IS IT SO CREEPY.

MATT SEEING FOGGY

Oh lord the song about Foggy's hugs fucking hell goodbye heart

YES!!! All of this is win, especially the bonuses. Frank/Matt are my OTP, but even without shipper goggles, I can see this happening in canon. Frank and Matt may beat the crap out of each other, but Frank doesn't like it when other people mess with Matt.

I posted something similar to this awhile ago. I hope it gets filled! I think Matt would actually be a much happier guy if he didn't have powers.

I feel you so hard, anon

Matt performing a dramatic piece about having a disability because Foggy and Marci dared him

Foggy and Marci were partners and kicked some serious ass, but Marci decided to fly solo because of how much she loves oratory, and, okay, she'd be a liar if she said she didn't want Foggy and Matt to partner up with each other

Oblivious judges docking speaker/ranking points from Matt because lack of eye contact

Marci falling for the quiet but really fucking talented cutie named Karen with whom she's always flip-flopping between first and second with

A team flashing Matt and Foggy the wrong 1AC on purpose just to be mean, but our avocados kick their asses anyway (because that's happened to me, but it was my partner and I who got our asses kicked and I'm still bitter about it)

I thought of Wesley, too. Ultimately hopeful angst ensued.

AU where Wesley didn't die; instead, Fisk did.

________________

“What are you doing?”

Wesley looks up from his methodic folding, the organized chaos of his clothes laid on the dining room table. Francis stands in the doorway, head slightly tilted – how does this man manage to always look so much like a confused dog? – watching the motion of Wesley’s hands.

“I’m packing,” Wesley says simply. There’s more to it, of course. If Francis looked, he would see Wesley’s red-rimmed eyes and slightly shaking hands, but Francis never looks, and, for once, Wesley’s glad of it.

“Why?” Francis asks, as confused as ever. Wesley wants him gone; there’s no reason for him to be here anymore. Certainly, it was his house, too, at one point – Fisk made it so, ordered Francis to live with Wesley to watch over him at all times, once it became clear that the masked man was targeting Fisk’s organization specifically. It’s not Francis’s house anymore, though, not since Fisk…

“Why do you think?” Wesley asks icily. His expression is composed, as always, even though it feels curiously like he’s collapsing from the inside out. He closes his suitcase with a ringing finality, hoping that Francis will give up and go…wherever it is he has to go.

True to form, Francis (obtuse, stubborn, irritating Francis) does not give up, nor does he go.

“You can’t leave,” he says. “This is your home.”

“No, it’s not,” Wesley replies bitterly. “It’s just the place where I worked.” The past tense burns on Wesley’s tongue, but it would be foolish to flinch over it. His job’s done; he failed. He failed. He sets both hands on the table, palms down, to keep them from shaking. It also turns him away from Francis, gives him a chance to compose himself.

Because he’s looking down and away, he doesn’t see the anger flash in Francis’s eyes, doesn’t see him cross the room in three quick strides. Wesley just barely has time to look up before Francis has grabbed both of his shoulders, flipping him around, shoving him hard against the edge of the table.

“You fucking coward,” Francis snarls; he’s not as tall as Wesley, but he’s much stronger, and Wesley can’t break his grip. “Just because Fisk’s dead doesn’t mean you can just leave. Don’t you mean to finish what he started? Everything he worked for is going to shit and you’re sitting by doing nothing. Did you even care about him at all?”

Wesley feels something inside him snap. He snarls, forcing his heel down hard on Francis’s instep. Francis yelps in pain and surprise and Wesley takes his chance to wriggle out of his bodyguard’s hold. He forces Francis backwards, his hand around his bodyguard’s throat. Even in his anger, he feels curiously disconnected, like there’s a part of him watching the struggle dispassionately from outside his body. This part wonders distantly if this rage, this power, is how it felt to be Fisk. It feels good.

Wesley pins Francis against the wall, his hand still closed around Francis’s neck. Wesley can see the shock in Francis’s eyes and it gives him a dark satisfaction. He leans in and down, trapping Francis against the wall.

“Never say that again,” Wesley hisses, digging his fingers in hard before letting go and stumbling backwards. His ragged breathing matches Francis’s gasps, and he feels dirty on a level he doesn’t understand, but he finds it within himself to straighten his tie and fix his glasses, as though his little…outburst…had never happened.

“Jesus,” Francis manages, leaning back against the wall. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

He pauses, glancing at Wesley as though trying to work something out. Wesley watches him in silence. Eventually, Francis speaks again, quieter this time.

“He really meant that much to you?”

Wesley considers a moment before replying. “Wilson Fisk was the only good thing this wreck of a city has ever produced. There’s nothing for me here now that he’s…gone.” He still can’t bring himself to say it; he’s weak, and he should hate Fisk for making him this way, but he is – was – the one person Wesley could never hate.

“What about Ms. Marianna?” Francis asks, carefully, curiously. “Fisk would have wanted…he would have liked to know she was in good hands.”

Wesley laughs. “Vanessa doesn’t need me. Not in the same way Fisk did.”

“Yeah, but…sure, maybe she doesn’t need you like he did, but she could use someone who understands what she’s going through.” Francis rubs the bruises that are already forming on his neck. “That’s actually why I showed up here. She asked me to find you. She wants to see you, just to talk about…I mean, there wasn’t a funeral, and she wants…well, she loved him, you know, and when you love someone and they die…it’s good to talk about them.”

Normally, Wesley would be frustrated with Francis’s hesitation, but Francis’s words give him pause. Francis isn’t lying, that much is clear, and to think that Vanessa had actually asked for him, to think, even for a moment, that he’s still needed…it’s enough to make him regret packing the suitcase, at least for now.

He breathes in and out heavily, taking a moment to consider, to look at his suitcase, at Francis’s bruises, to feel the crushing emptiness that lies somewhere in the middle of his chest. Wesley is not a kind man, not a considerate man…but he can love. He can feel. He can care. It surprises him to realize that he does care about Vanessa, that he cares that she’s hurting in the same way he is. Fisk loved her, Wesley knows, and perhaps Wesley did too, if only because she made Fisk happy in a way that Wesley could never manage. At last, he nods, meeting Francis’s eyes.

“I’ll go with you,” he says, and Francis smiles hugely. “But the suitcase stays packed,” he adds.

“A compromise,” Francis agrees. “Very smart.” He moves towards the door, looking back over his shoulder at Wesley. “Well, come on! You’re needed.”

Wesley manages the shadow of a smile at Francis’s word choice. You’re needed. How often had he heard those words from another mouth? It hurts somewhere deep, but it’s strangely comforting, too. He takes a moment to straighten his glasses, out of habit, before following Francis out the door and onto the bustling New York sidewalk. The city feels oppressive, dirty; it tells Wesley to leave.

I can’t, he reminds himself. Not quite yet. I’m still needed.

And, for the moment, that is enough.

*CHOKES ON MY OWN HEART* OH GOD. OH GOSH. GOODNESS GRACIOUS, YES. Wesley. ;______;

Yes yes yes yes YES

YESSS THIS PROMPT THOUGH - I plan on shenanigans and fluff
------------------------------------------------------------

Foggy is finally done writing. Forty-two solid hours, four cans of Monster, eleven bags of Cheetos and two boxes of doughnut holes later, Foggy lies passed out on his bed after submitting his thesis.

Matt, as if he is holding something radioactive, disposes of the remnants of war. Seriously, Cheetos are slowly aerosolizing chemicals that are probably manufactured by the Devil himself, they play absolute havoc with Matt's senses. He sneezes a final time as he drops the contents into the bin outside.

Foggy is snoring softly with his mouth open and his hair plastered straight up where it hits the pillow. Matt can't help but quirk a smile at his best friend. Both of their theses are submitted. All these years of work, now the only step left is a waiting game.

Matt settles in his bed as well, still listening to the beat of Foggy's heart. After its energy drink-induced pounding had lessened into its resting rate, finally allowing Matt to calm himself after a long day. Not for much longer, though. They were going to be moving on. Depending on which internship actually accepted them, they could be continents apart.

Even Foggy's snoring has become soothing, Matt thinks to himself. Freshman year, he almost switched rooms because of it and now he couldn't imagine living without it.

Without him.

And the worst part is, it's the truth.

Foggy wormed his way into Matt's life just simply be being there in a way Matt hadn't felt since the days his father was alive. He's always supported Matt, even if he didn't always agree with him.

And if Matt lived in his own head, Foggy was the dreamer pulling him out of it. Doodling out their imaginary firm as if it could exist on a bar napkin. Matt allows himself to be swept away into that fantasy. Into Nelson and Murdock. Together forever.

But it isn't enough. It would never be the same after college.

Foggy wouldn't always be there, to coax him asleep with the assurance of his steady heartbeat pounding away. To pull him out of his head when everything seems like too much, when the burden of his father's death and Stick's abandonment and the disappointment of the nuns that he wasn't praying to get better hard eno----

His thought is cut off by a loud snore from the other bed.

Matt smiles at the ceiling, wide and bright, the way only Foggy can make him.

But these thoughts do not last forever. Eventually, Matt, exhausted from his own all-nighter, falls asleep.

Awww! Super cute start, nonnie!

Team Avocado's homes get used as safe houses during Civil War.

aw Matt having to go to Melvin after an accident to ask how to clean the suit or something and being flustered and embarassed but Melvin is just totally blasé about it. which would probably make him cry with relief, cause I imagine the reactions to that in an orphanage/by random people Matt has slept with would not be great aw

ohyessss

OMG HOT.

This!

Can I just say that I totally and utterly echo this sentiment? Cause I'm actually still working on a second fill for the prompt, and it's turning into a fearsome and all-consuming monster. Evil OP is evil!

Yes this. Ugh I really wanna read this now.

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Page 93 of 186

Prompt Post #5

Re: Matt/Foggy - romantic, tender vanilla love making

Re: Foggy - Gen or Foggy/Any - Foggy is forced to cut his hair

Re: BB!Matt vs an Avenger

mattfoggy, lyric inspired prompt

Re: Gen or slash, Matt leaves, Foggy falls apart. Karen is furious.

Re: Non-con: the Punisher avenges Matt

Re: Karen/Claire, sexting

Re: Wesley/Vanessa, Vanessa becomes the Kingpin

he draws a napkin battle plan 5

Re: [FILL] Hug-a-Fog (2/2)

Re: Non-con: the Punisher avenges Matt

Re: No Powers AU

Re: Mattfoggy high school Speech and Debate

[Fill] Needed

Re: [Fill] Needed

Re: Matt/Vladimir/Claire Angry threesome

Timing (1/3)

Re: Timing (1/3)

Civil War safe house, gen/any

Re: Matt still wets the bed

Re: Matt/Claire, mirror

Re: Matt/Vladimir/Claire Angry threesome

Re: Civil War safe house, gen/any

Re: Foggy disappears

Re: Matt still wets the bed