Prompt Post #1

[ddk_mod]

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Comments

fill: basically just going to hell

[(Anonymous)]

idek anon i think i'm about to have a period or something? fucking. idk.


(he woke up blind.

such a stupid thing to say, right, Murdock? because. anyone would say that he'd been waking up blind for twenty years: it shouldn't have been anything new, it should've been a funny joke. but he woke up blind, absolutely no idea of where he was, except his hands were cuffed - to a bedframe? metal, maybe, hospital cot, thin mattress, he could feel the frame through it. police procedure? but he couldn't get an idea of where he was, he couldn't get an idea of the room, so when someone put their hand on his forehead he kicked up and out to what felt - warmest? warmest, trying to aim for center mass.

Missed.

No hands on his body anymore.

Someone had put earplugs in his ears, which was when he had the first panic attack, honestly, because this meant that the whole night had gone so far sideways that he was screwed, screwed, screwed.

Wanted to clench his teeth, he knew - he could feel warm patches, blurry sort of warm patches somewhere close enough for him to pick up distinct areas of heat, which could be people or could be fucking lightbulbs or stoves for all he knew, open sunny window maybe, nothing was moving enough for him to pin down. He opened his mouth (the muscles in his jaws were so tight they creaked), trying to - trying to get anything, anything he could, and. People, yeah, the general soap-and-piss-and-deodorant-and-sweat smells of them, smell of old paint, smell of dirt-and-oil from shoes, focus, matt, get more, go deeper, focus -

- which is why the fist in his hair blindsided him so hard he screamed in shock, but that wasn't the worst: oh, he was fucked, because someone smeared - vaseline under his nose, every time he took a breath it was like getting shocked with the chemical burn of it, dizzyingly painful, he couldn't -

He rubbed it off once, twice, three times, but people keep coming back and putting it on, patiently, and matt was disoriented and sick and couldn't smell, hear, taste anything, he was done, he was gone, he couldn't get further than his own body, so he finally just gave up and laid on his back, panting in pain, breathing through his mouth as much as possible although with that much menthol goo anywhere near his mucus membranes there was no escaping it. Kept flinching every minute or two because he was lying on his back and he wasn't wearing a shirt. Blood from the bad cut was trickling down his side, but he couldn't hear it. All he could hear is his own heartbeat, monstrously, comically loud, echoing in his head.

Which was about the time he'd figured out that he wasn't wearing the mask anymore. He could hold it together - briefly, so briefly - by counting seconds in his head, counting in batches of sixty, thinking one two three four five six and letting each number bloom into all the space in his brain. Once he got it together for as long as ten minutes at once.

He didn't know how long he spent lying there before someone touched him again. Long enough to feel dizzy, to start holding onto the burn of menthol and digging his nails into his palms for points to focus on. He couldn't remember being this - blind, actually blind - since the day or two he woke up after the accident.

Pretty obvious why he curved into whoever's hand, though, just like any drowning man would grab onto a shark swimming by if they thought it would help: a hand, glove, latex, no fingerprints, he could feel that much, but warm, even though it was perilously close to the gash over his ribs. That should be reason enough to flinch away, but - but he couldn't see anything, and that idea had never felt so bitterly ironic before. One hand, one set of hands, human enough, warmer than his skin, and they were clearly not friendly but he didn't care, he wanted - it was a line to the world outside of his body, he wanted it, he was desperate for it, he -

- someone else put their hand under his chin, tried to push his jaw shut: he hadn't realized it'd been hanging open, that he'd been panting like an animal, trying to get - something, anything, trying to break through the cotton wool shutting him up in his own body, but when he felt that he tried to bite.

He didn't make a hit, of course, and then the hands went away. Nobody touched him. Just Matt Murdock, blind, couldn't smell anything, couldn't hear anything, couldn't -

the shaking was ridiculous because he'd been hurt worse than this before but he couldn't seem to make himself stop. had to clench his teeth around the noises that wanted to come out of his mouth. it was pathetic and he didn't know what to do.

He didn't know how much longer it actually was before the hands came back again. a while, probably. That time he shut his own mouth, shaking, disgustingly desperate for something, some outside stimulus. Fighting wasn't something he could manage. At that point, he mostly just wanted it to be over: whatever else these assholes had planned, it had to be less - less horrifying than this. somebody had to make a mistake.

The second time, though, someone's bare hands were on his face, prying at his jaw: he fought for a whole second before - no, no, he couldn't handle being left alone again, he needed to move this along while he still had focus to plan. He opened his mouth.

Two or three blurry hot places close to him, probably. Man's hands on his face, big enough to span from cheekbone to jaw, the coarseness of the skin: nothing tasted like lotion or moisturizer, either, which probably meant man, probably meant -

The man touching his face put two fingers in his open mouth.

Oh. It felt oddly disconnected from Matt Murdock, who he was inside his head: felt like something that was happening while he paid attention to it, but not - to him, exactly. His own pulse was deafening.

He didn't bite. It was close: partly because he was in that dizzy place where it no longer felt quite real. There were reasons, in the real world, why people would take his mask off and try to put their hands in his mouth, and he's seen some of those reasons, and he's heard some of them, and he knew what was most likely to happen, at this point. He couldn't stop hyperventilating, but he didn't feel afraid; it was very strange. He was taking dry shallow breaths through his nose, and he wasn't moving, and then as bad as everything else had been, it managed to get worse in about thirty seconds, counting slowly: the raw stimulus after nothing for so long was enough send some bizarre, terrible message to his dick. That was hard. It would be humiliating if he could calm down enough to be humiliated. That's a laugh: Matt hadn't been this legitimately fucking terrified and angry in twenty years, but also - not, quite, connected to his body.

Whoever it was, they rubbed a thumb over his cheekbone, over and over, in a slow, easy rhythm. It's - pride was for people who die young, Stick used to say, and Matt was terrified and overwhelmed: he started timing his breath to that thumb. Gasped in air like he was jerking a rope in tug of war; the thumb stroked his cheekbone again and he let that one gasp out. After ten or twenty breaths, it started to feel like whoever was petting him was in fact slowing their strokes, trying to slow down his breathing pattern.

It helped, when the pair of latex hands started stitching up his ribs.

Re: fill: basically just going to hell

[(Anonymous)]

This is awesome. Is this going to be finished? I want to know what's going on here!!!!

Re: fill: basically just going to hell

[(Anonymous)]

Wow, you can really feel the disorientation and horror of it all. The cleverness of the ear plugs and vaseline and whatever else they did to cocoon Matt from sensing the world, and the creepy, creepy final line.

More, please.