It's a cold night, and the streets are as quiet as they ever get in New York. Karen's got her eyes wide open, reading her surroundings the way she always does when she walks at night; she tells herself that's the truth, that she's not looking for the busted window she saw in the background of the video, or the rickety fire escape. She's not looking for Matt.
If the Devil’s around, and if he wants her to see him, she'll see him. If he doesn't want her to….
Maybe Karen just wants to be seen.
Well. Heard. Felt. Maybe she wants his ear to turn her way, maybe she wants the thrum of her heart to follow him home tonight, keep him company as he peels off the suit, washes off the blood. Maybe she wants to be his lullaby.
(How long does his blood stay up after a fight? How long is it before he can breathe like a man who wears a tie around his neck, move like a man who sits at a desk?)
Or maybe Karen wants to keep him up. That night on her front stoop, behind the sweet kisses, beneath their clasped hands, the things her pulse must've told him… the things it could be telling him right now. Maybe this is what she wants: for his dick to rise and fatten, for him to fist his hands in his sheets and not touch himself because he didn't deserve her back then and he doesn't deserve her now. Maybe she wants him arching up over his stomach, long and fruitlessly hard. Maybe she wants him to ache.
Her heels ring quick and clear against the sidewalk; hearing them, Karen slows her steps deliberately. No reason for her to rush. It's a good night.
Steam billows from a vent in the sidewalk, and her breath clouds the air in front of her, puffy and white. Warmth, slipping out into the night. She leaves a trail of it wherever she goes, doesn’t she? For those with the means and the will to follow. How long do those breadcrumbs last?
Three blocks to go.
Karen doesn’t look into the shadows, or up to the rooftops. She just walks. At her building, she certainly doesn’t linger on the stoop; it's straight up the stairs, into her apartment, deadbolt sliding home. Her heart’s beating rabbit-quick, her breath is coming fast, but so what? That's life in a walk-up.
She kicks her heels into the closet, steps out of her skirt, hangs it up - she can probably get one more wear out of it, if she doesn't let it wrinkle. Still in her blouse and slip, Karen sinks down onto the edge of her bed, pulls out her phone, and presses play. No headphones. Volume jacked all the way up. Matt’s harsh breath and harsher grunts, the impact of this fists, the anger in his chest - they fill her little apartment, echo back to her.
It was only the ghost of the Devil’s presence in her old place that helped Karen stay there as long as she did. The memory of him making the Union Allied man pay. He came to this one the night the Hand took her; he told her so, when he told her everything else.
Only the walls know what he sounded like then.
She's feeling warm again. Karen wonders what tonight’s particular asshole did. What tipped Matt over that edge. It’s not that she needs to know, she’s not questioning whether it was deserved; it would just be nice to round out the picture, see it with all the corners shaded in. Life should always be like that. A tapestry laid bare.
Karen finishes getting ready for bed with a glass in her hand, two fingers of rum, two ice cubes. The rum came from a bottle with a kraken on it that she bought just because it made her think of drinking the eel at Josie’s. Dark liquor and creatures of the deep. Good times are worth remembering, even when the memories wind themselves around and around you, pull you low.
Turns out it’s not bad rum. Every sip sends more warmth flooding through Karen, right down through her core, till she's settled against her pillows with her phone in her hand and just a few swallows left.
She thought she was done with the video for the night. She’s not. One more time, before she sleeps.
[FILL] Matt/Karen, Daredevil's rage/violence turns her on [2/?]
If the Devil’s around, and if he wants her to see him, she'll see him. If he doesn't want her to….
Maybe Karen just wants to be seen.
Well. Heard. Felt. Maybe she wants his ear to turn her way, maybe she wants the thrum of her heart to follow him home tonight, keep him company as he peels off the suit, washes off the blood. Maybe she wants to be his lullaby.
(How long does his blood stay up after a fight? How long is it before he can breathe like a man who wears a tie around his neck, move like a man who sits at a desk?)
Or maybe Karen wants to keep him up. That night on her front stoop, behind the sweet kisses, beneath their clasped hands, the things her pulse must've told him… the things it could be telling him right now. Maybe this is what she wants: for his dick to rise and fatten, for him to fist his hands in his sheets and not touch himself because he didn't deserve her back then and he doesn't deserve her now. Maybe she wants him arching up over his stomach, long and fruitlessly hard. Maybe she wants him to ache.
Her heels ring quick and clear against the sidewalk; hearing them, Karen slows her steps deliberately. No reason for her to rush. It's a good night.
Steam billows from a vent in the sidewalk, and her breath clouds the air in front of her, puffy and white. Warmth, slipping out into the night. She leaves a trail of it wherever she goes, doesn’t she? For those with the means and the will to follow. How long do those breadcrumbs last?
Three blocks to go.
Karen doesn’t look into the shadows, or up to the rooftops. She just walks. At her building, she certainly doesn’t linger on the stoop; it's straight up the stairs, into her apartment, deadbolt sliding home. Her heart’s beating rabbit-quick, her breath is coming fast, but so what? That's life in a walk-up.
She kicks her heels into the closet, steps out of her skirt, hangs it up - she can probably get one more wear out of it, if she doesn't let it wrinkle. Still in her blouse and slip, Karen sinks down onto the edge of her bed, pulls out her phone, and presses play. No headphones. Volume jacked all the way up. Matt’s harsh breath and harsher grunts, the impact of this fists, the anger in his chest - they fill her little apartment, echo back to her.
It was only the ghost of the Devil’s presence in her old place that helped Karen stay there as long as she did. The memory of him making the Union Allied man pay. He came to this one the night the Hand took her; he told her so, when he told her everything else.
Only the walls know what he sounded like then.
She's feeling warm again. Karen wonders what tonight’s particular asshole did. What tipped Matt over that edge. It’s not that she needs to know, she’s not questioning whether it was deserved; it would just be nice to round out the picture, see it with all the corners shaded in. Life should always be like that. A tapestry laid bare.
Karen finishes getting ready for bed with a glass in her hand, two fingers of rum, two ice cubes. The rum came from a bottle with a kraken on it that she bought just because it made her think of drinking the eel at Josie’s. Dark liquor and creatures of the deep. Good times are worth remembering, even when the memories wind themselves around and around you, pull you low.
Turns out it’s not bad rum. Every sip sends more warmth flooding through Karen, right down through her core, till she's settled against her pillows with her phone in her hand and just a few swallows left.
She thought she was done with the video for the night. She’s not. One more time, before she sleeps.