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crows-home · 5 months

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A little fic about Vince the day before things went to hell. Warnings for mentions of cannibalism, murder, blood.

It will go like this:

[Un]

“What’s this?” Rody will ask, surprised as he looks down at the plate you present him with. You will keep him late, after all the chefs have left for the day. Just the both of you, so you can savor the reaction, all to yourself.

“It’s-” for you. It’s a gift. It’s that ex-girlfriend you can’t shut up about, but who will now nourish you in ways you could never return. It’s all your love, neatly presented. It’s my heart, bared before you. It’s yours. Take it.

“-leftovers.” you will say instead.

[Also on Ao3]

[Deux]

Rody will take the plate, equal parts confused and curious. Tilt his head to the side and hum, like some mutt. He’ll eat it here, in the restaurant, he won’t take it home like he’s been doing all week. You won’t give him the choice.

He’s so stupid- too uncultured to comment on the presentation, but that’s not what you will focus on.

The fork will sink into the meat, into its pre-cut slices, nicely. You will note the way his lips wrap around the utensil, how his eyes will widen as the flavor seeps in. Pupils will dilate and his breath will catch, so clear and damning in the echoing kitchen. You’ll note the way his throat bobs around the swallow, and the way he will grin.

[Trois]

“Vince!” Rody will look at you. His eyes will shine, that warm honey golden brown that haunts your dreams. His gaze is admiring, reverent. “This is amazing!”

You won’t be able to stop the way your heart will thump in your chest, so loud you will wonder if he can hear it. You’ve never been able to so far. Maybe it will be more. Maybe it will beat so fast it’ll leave you feeling winded. How will you cope? You should prepare for that.

“I know.” you will respond, airily, after taking a deep breath.

He’ll dig in, clean his plate with a gusto, the way no one has ever done before. It will disgust you, the way he shoves food in his mouth. Uncultured pig. But beneath the disgust will be a bone deep satisfaction that you’ve never felt before, so you can’t imagine it now.

[Quatre]

While he eats, Rody will look up at you, every emotion clear as day on his face. Like it always is. He’ll be so clearly impressed and grateful and yes, happy. You will have made him happy.

And he would say:

“Whatever you did this time, it really worked. It’s so rich and the spices are blended so well! So moist and the baste is-”

Ah. No, not that. Rody’s not- he hasn’t got a sophisticated palate to have those opinions. He’d probably chew through half a boot without noticing anything wrong.

Maybe…

“They were so wrong about you,” he will look you in the eye. Trusting, honest, raw. Your mouth waters. “Those articles. The critics. You’ve always had it in you. This is just- it’s so good, Vince! I can taste the heart that went into this.”

Yes.

[Cinq]

He’ll ask if there are any more leftovers, desperate and hungry for more. You’ll say no, that’s all you had, just to delight in the disappointment that washes over him. Of course he will- it’s the best thing he’s ever had. He’ll be ruined, after this. He won’t be able to get the taste out of his mouth let alone settle for anything other than your cooking.

Now you know. Now you are able to- to touch people, like this. Touch him like this, in a way you will never experience. That’s a power that you’ll never give up.

So you will tell him no, sorry, that’s all that was left.

“What’s your favorite food, Rody?”

“Hm?”

I’ll make it for you next. There’s plenty of meat left.

“You never told me.”

“Still don’t have one…” He rubs his chin and looks up. Where will the two of you be then? Still in the kitchen? Or will you have this conversation outside, after the dishes are left and as you shut and lock the door behind you? Every thought about her will be so far from his mind as you both leave her- what’s left of her- in the freezer.

“Although,” he’ll smile at you, cheeks flushed and oh so happy. So alive. “I guess tonight my favorite is- whatever you make!”

“Shit!”

The knife slips out of Vincent’s hand and clinks against the tile floor.

He blinks back to himself, away from the daydream, and scowls. His breathing is labored and his face is flushed.

“Always distracting me, even when he’s not around…”

He bends down with a sigh and picks up the knife. He takes extra care to step around the puddles of blood to make it to the sink and rinse it off. Too much blood, so much more than he’s used to, is making things more slippery than he’s used to, but the general process is the same. Second nature for him.

It doesn’t disgust him- what he’s done. Who he’s done it to. Her eyes weren’t the familiar brown he ached for. Her hair was too light, too neat, not the wild, fiery ginger mess that’s been dashing around his dining room. Barely presentable for his job but- it’s soft. Vincent knows it’s soft. His hand remembers the way it felt underneath his skin when he dried Rody off.

Vincent shivers again, and realizes the tap water is still running.

Shutting it off, he makes his way back to the counter. There’s still much to prepare before the day begins.

—

The countdown doesn’t even begin; Rody just had to go snooping where he doesn’t belong.

Now there’s blood, his blood, that fills your mouth. His cartilage, soft and squishy between your teeth. You swallow it down. A piece of him, inside you.

Rody staggers and screams, his expression growing more horrified, pained, disgusted by the second. His eyes go buggy and he brings his left hand up to his wound, he’s crying. No. No, no, no, no-

You think about his smile. His kind, soft, moronic, naive eyes were supposed to be fixed on you, were supposed to find you. It wasn’t supposed to be this way-

He’ll never love you now.

It’s- it’s his fault. All of this. Here you were, trying to do something nice, and he spits it back in your face. It’s not like you were ever going to tell him what [who] he was eating. He could have lived in blissful ignorance. Happy, content, with you-. He would have forgotten about her eventually.

He calls you insane, and he might be right, but he doesn’t have to be so dramatic about it.

Ugh- now he’s accusing you of being a fucking cannibal, Jesus Christ. Imbecile. Your eye almost twitches in annoyance. Of course he’d jump to that conclusion, it’s not like he uses his brain to think for more than two seconds. You ought to take the other ear, for that. Or a finger. A hand.

…An arm. A leg. Your eyes trace his body, slowly.

Did- did his ear taste like anything, going down? You can’t remember. It- maybe it did. Maybe what you need is something meatier.

The girl never would have tasted like anything to you and in hindsight, of course she wouldn’t have. Maybe not even to Rody either. You never loved her, and she never loved you. Rody, though… Rody would be made with all your love. That’s what people talk about, right? That’s what you needed all along.

He comes to the realization at the same time you do. Your eyes meet. Honey brown. Alive, alive, raw.

He’s what you needed all along.

#my writing #dead plate #vincent charbonneau #rody lamoree #IM WORKING ON MY OTHER FICCS I PROMMY!!! i just needed this out of my system #anyway im obsessed. vince what the fuck #i dont see this as romantic but vince probably does #im tired i have work tomorrow morning. gn everyone #somewhat of a vince character study #not really tho bc i had to force myself to end it before i spiralled and this became 10 k words

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gardenoflupins · 11 days

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My wolfstar angel/demon au is so rule #34 coded

#the lyrics are jvdksbe #like his voice? the tone? so sirius bye #sort of loving the idea of sirius slowly corrupting remus #’Surrender your mind’ AAAA #‘You look so good there on your knees such a good girl knows how to please’#‘I love that you shake When I ravage your skin It's so easy to bite with your hands pinned’#bye i cant. the whole song is so—#I don’t need to make a long angel/demon fic #I don’t need to make a long angel/demon ficc #I don’t need to make a long angel/demon ficcc #😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫#would sirius be genuine in this au? or is it all part of his scheme?#remus wouldn’t stand a chance and i dont blame him

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ccarrot · 6 months

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Srry i was reading smthing and then it started going down a direction that was really really annoying and then i had to click away bc it made me mad

#why's it so rough being a chuuya bias skk shipper.#all i want is my guy to not be 1. pathetic and 2. an asshole AND YET.#hehh u should see the authors note this ficc i had to stop reading to see what annoyed me so much.

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thesalemwitchtries · 3 months

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Dreaming Of a Grave: Chapter 4

Word Count: 2,600-ish

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Named! Fem! Enhanced! Reader

Warnings: distrust of police/government, overuse of the series comma, general angst in the form of feelings of guilt and failure, I did not proofread this very well, so probably spelling and grammar mistakes

Taglist: @reblog-reblog666 (you're an angel, thank you for your patience, this chapter isn't very good, but I'm still dedicating it to you 🫶)

Masterlist

Sorry for the long wait, this chapter is short and not my favorite, but I needed to get it out so that I could finally move on with the parts of the story that I want to tell, that haven't been giving me awful writer's block. Thank you so much for reading! Any comments or feedback are much appreciated!

Elena’s apartment building had been worse than Karen or Foggy could have anticipated. Flickering lights, lingering draft, and battered walls built an ominous atmosphere, one that contradicted the sunny Tuesday morning that they had left outside.

Foggy wished that they could go back, but he and Karen had made a promise to do what they could to help Elena. This promise was only fortified by his first hand observation of the building; these weren’t living conditions that could wait for a court settlement.

He only felt more dread as Elena and Karen chatted about her neighbor while they climbed the stairs. It really seemed like Ms. Tanner didn’t want their help, especially if she’d been able to turn down his very persuasive partner. He hoped she wouldn't be too angry that they dropped by. Being yelled at would only ruin his day, and it was shaping up to be a long one.

Stopping in front of a green door —number 15 with the 5 upside down due to a missing screw— Foggy looked at the two women beside him, gauging their expressions to see if he was the only one that felt like he was staring at the gallows. Just him, as usual.

They stood there for a few moments, him and Karen silently arguing over who would knock on the door before Sra. Cardenas did the honors. Foggy plastered a smile on his face, one that he hoped said: “Hey, I’m trustworthy and positive, but still sympathetic to your pain and situation, you don’t have to let us help you, but please please do.”

Maybe it was a lot to have riding on a smile, but an assault charge would do wonders to move the civil case forwards in their favor. And of course there was the ‘justice for the innocent’ part of things too.

The door opened slowly, a woman about Karen’s age poking her head out, and then bracing herself between the door and the frame. Her eyes flickered over the strange collection of smiles, Karen and Foggy trying to project trustworthiness, Sra. Cardenas looking almost sheepish.

“Señora Elena, buenas días…” Ms. Tanner said glancing over the group with open curiosity.

To Foggy’s chagrin, Ms. Tanner was absolutely stunning. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Matt somehow knew, with his weird ability to pick out hot women and any secrets that Foggy didn’t want him to know. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that Matt had feigned surprise at every gift he’d been given through their entire friendship. This year he was thinking of giving him a Roomba, but he kept going back and forth over whether Matt might trip on it.

It was left to Sra. Cardenas to break the silence and introduce the less-than-welcome houseguests; “Charlotte, this is Señor Foggy, es mi abogado, él quiere ayudarte.”

Somehow Ms. Tanner managed to keep her expression respectful while still doing something that was very reminiscent of a petulant stomp. Her head rolled back on her shoulders, before popping back up with a fond shake.

“Elena…”

“Oye, estás herida, necesitamos hacer algo.” Elena insisted, her fist thumping down into the palm of her opposite hand, like her own imaginary hammer of justice.

She motioned insistently towards Foggy, who only caught her meaning when Karen nudged him with her elbow. Say something. Yeah, he could totally do that, just as soon as he was done nervously clearing his throat.

“Ms. Tanner, we can help you. I promise.” he said, the words falling flat after the long moments that it took him to gather his thoughts and begin. He could practically feel Karen rolling her eyes beside him as he was forced to watch Ms. Tanner’s polite expression harden into something that taunted his ineloquence. Every trophy that he’d ever won for speech and debate melted in the fire of her disdainful eyes.

Elena rushed to his defense, wrapping a hand around Foggy’s arm and reaching out towards her neighbor, “No lie, Charlotte. Foggy is a good boy, he means what he says.”

Foggy awkwardly shifted in place, trying to push back his shoulders and exude the confidence that Sra. Cardenas spoke of him with.

The posturing did nothing to change Ms. Tanner's stony look, like he’d kicked her puppy in front of her, and had just threatened to do it again. It was rage wrapped in caution, and he was sure that it was but the grace of God —by which he meant Elena Cardenas’ kind smile and determined stare— that allowed he and Karen to stand in her doorway this long.

After taking her time with her appraisal, ensuring that it went without saying exactly how unconvinced she was by their appeals, she turned to her well-meaning neighbor. Her movements were stiff, but the harsh light in her eyes softened into something earnest as she leaned in to speak.

“Señora, ellos son abogados, no son héroes.”

Sra. Cardenas’ shoulders slumped in defeat for a mere second before the woman had gathered her argument again; “Charlotte, please.”

“Estoy agradecida por eso,” Ms. Tanner said, giving a firm shake of her head and taking a step back into her apartment, “Pero no necesito ayuda, Señora.”

“Ms. Tanner, if I may,” Karen cut in, seeing the door about to close both literally and figuratively. “I’m not a lawyer, but I have a story that I’d like to tell you, if you’d just listen. I think that you might be able to help me.”

The door creaked back open from where Ms. Tanner had gotten it halfway closed, and Karen got goosebumps from the sharp, probing look that she received, cutting straight through to bone.

“If you’re not a lawyer, then who are you?”

“My name is Karen Page, I’ve been the secretary at Nelson and Murdock for a few weeks now.”

“So what, you want to ask about improving file management operations?” she asked, arms crossing over her chest and leaning against the doorframe.

While her tone was sharp, there was a distinct twitch in her lips that made Karen dip her head with her own smile. With a tut of her tongue and shake of her head, Karen celebrated her victory over Matt’s charm and Foggy’s experience. Take that, Columbia Law.

“No, not really,” Karen chuckled, “But I’m always open to suggestions, if you have a few.”

Ms. Tanner was unable to hide the wariness in her posture, but it only took her a moment and a silent exchange with Sra. Cardenas before she stood and opened the door all the way.

“A few? I practically live for data management, Ms. Page.”

Karen had chuckled as she waved Foggy down the hall, his expression of relief all too clear and amusing to resist, as he escorted Elena back to her apartment with a well-mannered offer of his elbow.

Now though it was difficult not to feel like she had been shut in the den of the beast as the door was closed and locked behind her. She was spending too much time with Foggy, his dramatics wearing off on her already.

She would remain optimistic, she and Ms. Tanner could help each other, and Karen had to have faith in that.

Ushering her ahead, Ms. Tanner stopped in the hall to try and straighten a framed painting, a piece that looked to Karen like it had been left out on the sidewalk, maybe for good reason. As it shifted, she caught sight of the hole in the wall that was being hidden behind it, and couldn’t hide her frown.

The apartment was much more cheerful than one might expect from the state of the hallway. In fact, ignoring the broken furniture and holes in the plaster, Karen thought that she might have even been a bit jealous. It was as small and battered as every other cheap apartment in New York, but didn’t feel cramped or rundown. Someone loved this place, in the way Karen remembered loving her childhood bedroom or her grandmother’s parlor.

She took a seat where she was directed to, in the least worn armchair in the living space, and when she shivered, Ms. Tanner began to brew her a cup of tea.

Sun drifted in from the windows, drawing her attention to the source of the chill: one pane broken and hastily sealed with a garbage bag and duct tape. Plants sat on the sill, ferns with broken stems and pots patched with more duct tape. There were succulents that Karen was pretty sure would be gurgling if they could, but she couldn’t attribute that to Tully’s men, more like systemic overwatering.

Rainbows played across the hardwood and her lap, and she smiled, tracing them back to the sun-catchers hanging before the glass.

The late morning faded into early afternoon as the two women danced around each other, exchanging pleasantries and stiff smiles, pretending not to be observing one another as closely as they were.

An olive branch was finally extended in the form of re-introduction, ‘Please, call me Charlie,’ and ‘Only if you call me Karen’ serving to thaw some of the formal air between them.

Still, the tea had long been finished and the sun began to heat up the day before Karen worked up the nerve to tell Char the story that she’d promised. Not that Char really minded, she was more than content to pretend that Karen was there because they were friends, not because she was operating on the behalf of lawyers whose help she could never accept.

“I used to work as a secretary at Union Allied Construction.” Karen began, weaving a story that shattered Char’s naive game of pretend, “A few months ago I opened a file labeled ‘Pension_Master’ and now four people are dead because of what I found inside.”

Throughout her story, Karen remained oblivious to the way that her hostess twitched in her seat, the way her overfed cat twined itself nervously around her feet, and most of all to the way that was most definitely not normal.

Glancing at her hands for each of her most shocking reveals, Karen always just missed the way that the woman across from her would seem to glitch. Her image flickering from side to side and up and down in random, quick bursts: like an infected computer trying to close a window.

The familiar email attachment had thrown Char off-guard, and things just continued to get worse from there.

Not only had she failed in bringing the Shadow to justice, she’d almost gotten the innocent woman that she sent the evidence to murdered, had gotten an innocent father killed, and 3 others were now dead as well. Char had hoped with each passing minute that her guest was done, that Karen would leave and allow her to wallow in guilt and regret. Both for sending that email and for opening the door at all that morning.

Still, the blonde persisted.

She thought that what had happened to her was connected to what had happened with Tully’s men, that if Char could just talk to her, tell her more, then she could help. Theories and hunches spiraled from her lips as Char's horror grew.

Karen could uncover the truth of what was going on in their city, because there was something more, something deeper at play, and she just needed Char’s help to get more of the picture.

All said, it was a rousing and passionate speech, delivered with all the force of Karen’s confidence in herself and faith in the power of the truth. Char just didn’t know what to say, usually in these situations she’d go with something as close to the truth as she could manage, but with everything that she couldn’t say, what was left just didn’t seem like it would cut it.

Hey yeah, uh remember how you were fairly satisfied with your life a few months ago, well I’m the one who ruined that with my good intentions. You know, that thing they say the road to Hell is paved in. I never got that expression until now, considering my idea of helping apparently comes with a body count.

She leaned forward into her fists, elbows on resting on her knees, subconsciously trying to defend herself from the blame of Karen’s testimony, of her earnest gaze. The only response that Char was able to muster in the end was weak and defeated, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Open and imploring, Karen leaned forward as well, “Please, just tell me what really happened to you that day, what Tully's men did to you.”

Her pale hand stretched out into the space between them, dropping before it could brush against Char’s forearm.

“I don’t want to press charges.”

“I know, and you don’t have to, just tell me the truth.” Karen insisted, nodding her head with only slightest restraint from her eager curiosity.

“Your bosses aren’t going to make me? They’ll keep my name out of whatever it is that they’re doing?”

“If I tell them not to, then they won’t. Matt and Foggy are my friends, and they just want to help, they’re not going to do anything that you’re not comfortable with, Charlie, I promise.”

The earnest expression on Karen’s face joined forces with the guilt of the ruin that Char had unknowingly brought to her life and one could only hold out for so long.

Soon she was spilling what she could to Karen, about how the two men had come in under the ruse of being handymen, how they’d begun smashing things. Ashamed, Char spoke of how they hit her when she tried to stop them from destroying her workbench, where she kept all of her research.

She dutifully provided details about the damages to her apartment, but remained vague over what exactly she had been working on that was so important that she had intervened for it.

Although Karen was pleased at what she heard, Char had to swallow the bitterness of what she really wanted to say. Holding another piece of Karen’s puzzle in her hands, and seeing the misplaced gratitude in her eyes, Char felt hollow and dirty, helpless and complicit in the web of darkness that her houseguest was trying to uncover.

Her story divulged the secrets that Karen wanted, but it wasn’t the confession of truths that Char needed her to hear:

"I’m worried that even if I knew where to start helping, that I wouldn’t. Too scared of losing things that I've suffered so long without, to do what I know is right. I’m scared that if I do try to help, that I’ll only make things worse. I’m sorry that I hurt you, and I’m sorry that I can’t say any of this aloud, that I can’t make amends.”

The silent apology felt like sand in her mouth as she led Karen back to the door, asking for time to decide what to do, Karen promising to keep in touch with any more information.

Char watched through the peephole as Karen made her way down to join Foggy in Sra. Cardenas’ apartment. There she stayed until it became clear that no one else would be passing through the hallway, and instead pressed her forehead into the peeling paint.

She felt somehow more crowded in her empty home than she ever had before, failures and memories puffing up to fill every available surface. So real to her that she expected they’d leave crumbs and used napkins behind as proof of their presence. A pity party tangible enough that she’d have to spend the next morning cleaning it up.

Turning to face the room behind her, Char’s eyes landed on her workbench. Tonight would be another long night of repairing the things that she could, just to try and lose the weight of all the things she couldn’t.

#matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x y/n #daredevil x you #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock fic #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x enhanced!reader #matt murdock x y/n #slim ficc #doag #dreaming of a grave

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topknotstrunk · 2 months

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Miochin Via TokyoFashion.Com

#other people's photos #street snap #street fashion #j fashion #alt fashion #Miochin #Kinji #Ficce #Chicago #Converse #Claire’s #stars #fashion inspo #fashion

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xiaoluclair · 9 months

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#i want to write something silly and fun and light #like thigh ficc!#but i cannot bc inspo is [shot in the face dot jpg] so the prompts i got sent Uh #have fun reading those :grinning-face: :thumbs-up:#xiao: waffle #waffle: fic writing

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marcogiovenale · 2 years

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premio cesare zavattini / aamod - archivio audiovisivo del movimento operaio e democratico

premio cesare zavattini / aamod – archivio audiovisivo del movimento operaio e democratico

PREMIO ZAVATTINI 2021/22: DOMENICA 30 OTTOBRE LA CERIMONIA DI PREMIAZIONE L’evento conclusivo della VI edizione del Premio Cesare Zavattini si terrà domenica prossima 30 ottobre 2022, a Roma, presso il cinema Farnese Arthouse (piazza Campo de’ Fiori 56), dalle 11 alle 13: saranno consegnati i riconoscimenti previsti dall’iniziativa all’autore e alle autrici dei tre progetti vincitori Lorenzo…

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devotedtosadpoetry · 6 months

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if i finish the project i can work on my fic if i finish the project i can work on my fic if i finish the project i can work on my fic

#IF I FINISH THE PROJECT I CAN WORK ON MY FIC #IF I FINISH THE PROJECT I CAN WORK ON MY FICC #IF I FINISH THE PROJECT I CAN WORK ON MY FICCC #IF I FINISH THE PROJECT I CAN WORK ON MY FICCCCCCCCCC

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ox1-lovesick · 10 months

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gonna speedrun through yerin and qiwi's masterlists prepare for spam reblogs

#✶ ─ radio static #on yawnflrtz acc #STARTING WITH THE SPEED OF LOVE KAI FICC

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thesalemwitchtries · 6 months

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Dreaming Of a Grave: Chapter Three

Word Count: 3,284

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Named! Fem! Enhanced! Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries sustained through physical assault (no implication of sexual assault at all, so maybe goons beat reader up in her apartment, but they weren't total pricks about it?), imagery/description of injury- metaphorical, distrust of police/government, Catholic Guilt written by an actual Catholic, so yk... its like organic or something, overuse of the series comma, thoughts of violence, Matt being so close to understanding Claire's points about personal safety.

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading! Any comments or feedback are much appreciated!

It wasn’t often that Matt had cause to doubt his abilities, but arriving at Tully’s apartment building had left him unsure if he’d be able to pick out the workmen amongst all of the other… possibilities. The first two floors were a mix of junkies and vacated apartments formerly owned by junkies, and each level after got cleaner.

Still, aside from the few apartments that seemed to have taken Tully’s deal, the building was full of families and people. On the fourth floor, three apartments had newborns, one of them a set of twins. The garbage chute had never been cleaned, and was clogged before it reached the trash compactor outside. The workers had destroyed the central wiring, leaving the hall lights to buzz overhead. Amongst the other smells, evidence of the lack of water struck at his nose.

How was he supposed to find the scents of two men buried under all of this? Beyond the grime of the street and the unfortunate living situations of the addicts, the building was full of the fragrance of so many lives.

Every person’s scent was unique. They were reflections of an individual’s humanity: body chemistry, habits, environment all mingling together into an olfactory fingerprint.

If Matt didn’t know Foggy by name, he’d know him by the way his love for garlic clung to him, the spicier scent of a nervous sweat, and how he’d gotten hooked on coconut conditioner from an old girlfriend. And especially by the way Matt could tell he loved to laugh, little hints of it hanging around as pheromones echoing in his ears.

Charlotte Tanner had a scent like Foggy’s and unlike any other he’d encountered. It was less chemical than most with subtle hints of cocoa butter lotion, she liked to use mint and rosemary, liked burning candles and giving ham to her very round cat. A mix of plants lined the windowsill and her skin, her ferns were thriving; the cacti bloated with overwatering. The scent of a computer, like plastic, metal, and dust all-in-one. Electronics and various mechanical components filled a corner of the apartment with their metallic tang. Then there was her: human, clean, healthy although over-caffeinated.

Above all of it, was a bright and citrus-y joy. Hope and positivity steeped into the floorboards, nearly hiding the more recents wisps of anxiety. Matt worried that may be the only lasting trace of the visit from Tully’s ‘handymen’.

His knock on the door inspired a wave of bitter panic that prickled at his nose. Ms. Tanner’s pulse raced as she looked through the peephole, before her heartbeat peaked and the fear ebbed. Matt assumed that to be the moment she noticed his glasses and cane, his apparent harmlessness causing her to unlock the door and drop the chain.

“Hello sir, this is apartment 15, can I help you?” Crisp, polite, and effective.

Something with wheels whirred up behind her, tucking itself behind her legs. It seemed to be about the height of a medium dog, and in terrible shape. On one side the hydraulics were running sluggishly and making a soft chugging noise, the thin metal casing was busted, paint scratched. Matt couldn’t decide what the machine’s purpose was. One of those robot vacuums probably. He’d been thinking about getting Foggy one for Christmas.

“Yes, is this Ms. Tanner?” Matt kept his expression clear, taking a deep breath to try and build a map of the apartment and the people who had been there. He could smell Brett and the stale cigar smoke that belied his mother, and Mrs. Cardenas had been there almost every day.

“Um, yes?” she replied. The door swiftly closed halfway, shielding her body from him now that she knew Matt wasn’t lost, that he was there to see her. The little robot zipped to her feet, humming OLED display eyes also peering through the crack in the door. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

“No, I’d guess not,” Matt shrugged, tilting his head to focus on her rising pulse and the groan of her injuries. His train of thought was derailed by the mystery of what had been done to her.

Filtering out the rest of the building and the sound of her brows furrowing in confusion, Matt tried to piece together what had happened. Across her side were hairline fractures on two ribs, a still dark bruise, and bean-shaped swelling. Then he caught it, almost drowned out by the scent of water from old pipes, soap, and lotion; there was a hint of rubber and the grime that lined the streets of New York. Have your face meet the pavement one time in a fight and you wouldn’t need senses like his for it to haunt you.

Pieces clicked together. She was on the ground when she was kicked, possibly stomped on. Fists clenching around the handle of his cane, Matt resolved to help her, before finally responding.

“Sorry, that was rude of me, I’m Matt Murdock,” he stuck his hand out gently, pleased when she only hesitated slightly before taking it. As they shook hands, he felt the mostly healed scabs on her knuckles. So she got a few hits in— he was strangely proud. Good job sweetheart, never make it easy for ‘em.

“Gr-greeetingss st-teeeameed gueeest,” the little robot said from between her feet, moving back and forth on treaded tires in way that reminded Matt of someone swaying on their feet. The voice was tinny and crackled— the speaker had been damaged, and its speech was drawn out and wavery. Matt had no idea that robots could slur their words.

“Igor, hush,” she said sharply, nudging it back with her foot.

“St-st-teeeameed gueeest! I-iii-i am Igooorrr!” the thing spoke again, ignoring its chastising owner.

“It’s 'eh-steemed' guest,” she emphasized, “You’re getting mixed up with steamed vegetables,”

“You are our e-esteemed-d guest-egetables,” was the loud and almost proud reply. Matt couldn’t hold back a laugh, feeling the warm rush of blood across Charlotte’s face as she finally managed to knock the robot back into her apartment. It zipped off in a winding path, stuttering something about getting a water-glass of waters.

“Sorry, he uhhh- he needs a few repairs.”

Matt nodded, raising his gaze so that it landed somewhere near her eyeline. “Yeah, I’ve been told that’s been going around lately,”

Her spine straightened, the sheepish smile vanishing in a second as the hairs at the back of her neck rose, and her voice was firm as she spoke, “I’m not sure what you mean, I think that you’re in the wrong place.”

“I’m with Nelson and Murdock, representing Mrs. Cardenas and other tenants in the building against your landlord, Armand Tully. She addressed concerns that you had been physically assaulted by—”

Hearing the strain of her arm, Matt slid his cane into the doorjamb, preventing it from slamming closed in his face. The wind ruffled his hair back, but his expression remained fixed. Ms. Tanner tried to hide a grumble, but Matt caught that too as she opened the door back up to his faux-innocent face.

“Ms. Tanner, is everything alright?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking. Leave.”

Matt stood firmly in place. The floorboards creaked under her shifting weight, hand resting on her cocked hip with a huff. Lot of attitude considering I am trying to help you.

“Now.”

“I promised Mrs. Cardenas that I’d speak with you, please, hear me out.”

Not entirely true, but the words had spilled out of his mouth as a frantic need rose inside him. Maybe it was the nature of being a lawyer, but he’d never had to fight someone else to just let him help them before.

People came to him, they asked for his help, and standing across from this woman, so reluctant, had him on the edge of his comfort zone. Matt already felt guilty enough for what had happened. Right here, in the city that he swore to protect. Now the only way to alleviate that guilt required her to help him to help her, and they were clearly diametrically opposed in that regard.

Another put-upon sigh echoed from the depths of her chest. It almost had Matt believing that he was asking her to spend an afternoon explaining email scams to the elderly, rather than offering her assistance. “Okay, alright.”

“Whatever you’re afraid of, my partner and I can help you. You were assaulted in your own home, you deserve to feel safe again, and the men who did this deserve to be punished.” Matt had both hands wrapped around his cane, unable to stop himself from leaning forward in an earnest display. The door creaked closed just a bit more, and Matt straightened again, pleading with her. “We can help you, we’ll go down to the station with you to help you file a police report if you’d like, to make sure that they take your case seriously.”

“I appreciate your concern, but nothing happened to me.”

His head tilted, the irregular skip in her heart telling him that it was a lie. Not that he needed to hear it, aside from the injuries slathered in a thick layer of makeup, Ms. Tanner was not a gifted liar. Everything about her demeanor told Matt that she’d say anything just to get him to leave.

“Tully, these men, they can’t just get away with what they’ve done.”

The sleeves of her sweater were being pinched and worried between her fingers, her thumb picking at a hole in the cuff. Matt heard the shift of her feet, the deep breath that filled her chest as she steadied herself. Abandoning any pretense of eye contact, her head slumped forward between her shoulders.

“They’re not getting away with anything, no one touched me.” Another lie, this one mingled with a heavy sigh. There was a desperate tone to her voice where before there’d been exasperation.

A memory came to mind, of the nuns at St. Agnes watching old movies after hours. The kind with pretty women and sad endings, dames looking for trouble and bad guys meeting the fist of justice. They never had particularly happy endings, but he didn't mind that too much, it felt more realistic. Matt had preferred listening to them over the more chaotic alternatives outside of the church grounds, imagining his dad as the down-on-his-luck detective until he fell asleep missing his hero.

Hearing her voice, free from the crackle of old television speakers, it almost felt too raw. Matt could only pray that Ms. Tanner’s story wouldn’t be another similarity, dread sinking into the pit of his stomach. Just because it felt like a portent didn’t mean that it was one.

“Going to the police can help.” Matt couldn’t help but repeat himself, as if there was some magic number of times that she had to hear it before finally agreeing. “Ms. Tanner, I will help you. I promise.”

Her head swung up to look at him, and Matt felt a prick of hurt when her head shook just the slightest bit. Obviously her disbelief wasn’t personal, but it stung nonetheless.

“No, police would just make everything worse,” she said, and Matt snapped to attention.

General fear of authority and the law was intangible, and in Ms. Tanner’s case seemed to be deeply ingrained. It wasn’t exactly in his wheelhouse to fight something like that. If she was being threatened though… he readjusted his grip, head tilting just a tick.

“Has someone been here? Did they threaten you?”

“What?” Ms. Tanner sputtered, and Matt’s focus narrowed in on her, ready to catch any sign of a lie as it passed by. “No, that’s not— just stop.”

The exasperation had returned with a vengeance, one foot twitching in a move just shy of being a stomp. Abandoning the door, Ms. Tanner’s hands gestured sharply in the space between them. Her pulse was raised in agitation, but remained disappointingly honest beneath her clipped tone.

“I told you: no one touched me, no one threatened me. Thanks for checking in, Mr. Whoever, now please leave.”

Matt suppressed a frustrated groan, why did this have to be so hard? Is this how Claire felt when he ignored her advice and pulled stitches? No, this had to be much worse. All that was at stake was her own safety, it was maddening how easily she dismissed it. Why couldn’t she just let him help her? He wished there was a way to just make her talk, to get her to trust him.

Even if she didn’t want help, she’d literally been kicked while she was down, and Matt was just supposed to let that go? Let it slide that a woman no longer felt safe in her home, and all for what? For whatever profits Armand Tully saw in evicting his tenants? Matt didn’t think so.

They both flinched at the sound of a crash from inside her apartment, the shattering of glass set Matt’s teeth on edge until the robot’s tinny voice cried out to the doorway.

“Nooo worr-ry-y! Ig-gor m-make mis-istake, but I-Iii-gor try agaaain-n.”

Ms. Tanner’s lips twitched into a smile, a fond huff of air leaving her even as she fixed Matt with the weight of her stare. A foot tap and the pointed clearing of her throat made it clear that his time was up.

“Right, it was nice to meet you Ms. Tanner. I’m Matt Murdock, if you change your mind or have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call.”

With that, Matt held out a business card, his casual and professional demeanor hiding the desperation underneath. He needed her to take it, he needed her to want his help. As the Devil he could swoop in and fight off any intruder, never having to ask permission to rescue people. Matt Murdock however, had rules to follow or risk being disbarred. It was almost enough to make him itch and whine like a flea-bitten dog.

C’mon, take the damn card, please.

Just when it’d become a concerted effort to stop his hand from shaking, her eyes finally stopped darting around in thought. Options weighed, Ms. Tanner’s fingers brushed against his again as she took the card. It left him feeling too light as she turned back into her apartment, multiple locks clicking into place between them. Accepting the card didn’t mean she was accepting his help, it wasn’t even a foot in the door, but it was at least something.

The fact that he happened to like the feel of her skin and the scent of her lotion was irrelevant.

Floorboards creaked, and Matt suddenly realized that it was weird for him to be hanging around the door. She had lingered too, a nervous eye to the peephole as she watched him turn towards the stairwell and leave. Matt could hear her press her forehead against the door and breathe, the small robot rolling up behind her.

“W-water for-or-r g-guest-egetablessss,” Igor declared proudly, a half-full glass of water balanced on the tray that it held above its head. Drips fell from the edge of the tray, several puddles of water barely contained by its lip.

“Good job Igor, but he’s gone,”

“I-Igor-r w-ill wai-ait.” More water sloshed out onto the tray as the robot bobbed once in facsimile of a decisive nod. Matt paused at the top of the stairs, unsure what exactly he was waiting to hear.

“Don’t bother,” Ms. Tanner muttered, grabbing the glass and mopping up the water, “It’ll be a good thing if we never see that guy again. I don’t care how pretty he is, he’s still a lawyer, that means he’s bad news.”

Matt was conflicted behind his smugly twisted smile. While it wasn’t his ideal descriptor, he could work with pretty. He couldn’t work with her having an innate prejudice against his career.

In her kitchen, the lid of a trash can opened, and she stood holding the card over it for a long time, tracing across the lettering. Matt’s shoulders dropped from around his ears when the lid closed, and she tacked the card up beside her refrigerator. It felt like a win, like some small acknowledgement that she didn’t have to be afraid.

He was also going to take it as a green light to let the Devil out, if she wouldn't involve the police these guys could go unpunished, Matt could fix that. When he found those guys, he’d be sure to get in the same hits that she had, from someone their size. When that was done he’d dole out their penance of twice the fear and pain that they’d given her.

It was dangerous and he knew it, this tendency of his to make things personal, yet he was unable to stop himself every time. Neither a conscious decision nor a slippery slope, Matt would just find himself devoted to mere strangers in the space of a blink. There was some innate need or urge inside of him that was tying himself to others without consideration, and Ms. Tanner was the latest victim.

Anything that happened to her from this point on would be Matt’s fault, a failing or an attack on him. It was personal before he even stood in front of her door, before she had invaded his every sense. He would help her because it was the right thing to do, but he needed to keep her safe because it would protect him too, in a way.

Failing the people that he cared about was like missing the step off of a curb, skidding across the pavement. Road rash had been collecting across his conscience and heart during the past few weeks as the Devil; last night’s failure to protect Claire was a face plant. Recovering from it felt like picking bits of asphalt out of his cheeks, burning and stinging in a way that couldn’t be ignored, only dulled.

Every night he listened as dozens of crimes were committed across the city, too many people to save at once. But, there was also the sound of college girls giggling on the streets, safe from the fate of a shipping container. There was a boy that slept sound in his bed, his father sleeping on the ground because he couldn’t bear being too far away from his son again. He could hear teens playing video games and mothers bundling their kids up to visit the park. People that he had saved, living their lives around him.

Matt needed to hear these things, to know that the Devil was doing something useful. That a drop in the bucket was still a positive change. Upstairs, Ms. Tanner was repairing her robot, talking it through the steps even while it was powered off. He wondered what she would be doing when he listened for her that night.

Like always, failure was not an option, and still felt inevitable. In an ouroborean way, he’d already failed, what happened to Ms. Tanner was his fault, due to his inaction. Matt knew about the window, the guy blackmailing that juror had told him. Was probably even scared enough to have told him more, like where the building was. Then he could’ve been at the epicenter, tracking people following Fisk’s orders, preventing things like this. Instead, his one track mind had gotten the best of him, and who knows how many people had been hurt as a result.

The sinking sun warmed his face, a contrast to the chill air that tugged at his coat as Matt exited out onto the street. He just had a stop at the station, and then it'd nightfall, where he’d have another opportunity to do the right thing for Hell’s Kitchen.

Thanks for reading, have a good day <;3

Next chapter is Karen's turn, and we all know that one of her superpowers is people skills... Also I don't know if anyone's interested, but I lmk if you'd like and I'll tag people to chapters when they come out.

#matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x y/n #daredevil x you #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fic #matt murdock x enhanced!reader #matt murdock x y/n #slim ficc #doag #dreaming of a grave

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