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momentofmemory · 5 years

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fictober - day sixteen

Prompt #16: “Listen. No, really listen.”

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe - Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Netflix Marvel (Daredevil)

Rating: T

Warnings: Sensory Overload, Explosions

Characters: Peter Parker & Matt Murdock

Words: 2279

Author’s Note: set somewhere between spider-man: homecoming and avengers: infinity war (but after DD s3). this was not meant to be as long as it is and i guess maybe i’m writing more of them now?? only time will tell…

>>I Hear, Said the Blind Man

A sword comes flying out of nowhere at his head, and Peter thinks that is this is exactly why he should never leave Queens.

The great thing about being a superhero in New York City is that the city is arguably huge, but patrolling never feels like it because of the sheer number of vigilantes in the area. Queens is his, but Harlem belongs to some guy called Luke Cage, the aptly named Brooklynite has, well, Brooklyn, and the Bronx has—

…Does the Bronx have anyone, actually?

Peter backflips mid-thought to avoid getting skewered by another very pointy sword, then launches himself at the ceiling as it’s immediately followed by a blast from the alien guns he’s been tracking all month.

Hell’s Kitchen is technically Daredevil’s place, and he knows the guy’s pretty territorial but he didn’t exactly have a way of contacting him, so.

Field trip.

“Do you even have a license for these?” Peter fires his web-shooters at the closest gun-wielding ninja, yanking the contraption away and slamming its wielder into one of the supports. “I know you guys are like, two hundred years out of date, but the DA tends to be pretty strict on enforcing unauthorized carry laws.”

Peter takes advantage of his perch in the rafters to remove the power core from the gun, then chucks the useless shell at its previous owner. A warning blares at the base of Peter’s skull, and he lurches to the side just in time to avoid a throwing star aimed for his chest.

“Okay, I get it, I get it, no one likes unsolicited legal advice.”

Peter’s hand snaps out and wraps around the wrist of the ninja trying to sneak up on him. “I’m not a fan of unsolicited murder, either!”

The ninjas are definitely way more skilled than he is, but what Peter lacks in finesse he makes up for in raw strength. He sidesteps the ninja’s sword (man, these guys are quiet), then throws him forcefully over his shoulder and into the last ninja.

They both go down and stay down.

Peter hops down to floor and dusts himself off—rafters are always disgusting—and nudges one of the fallen ninjas with his toe. There’s no sign of consciousness, so he slides around the black-clad figure to check on the box the guns were packed in. He peeks over the edge of the crate and notes only one is missing—the one he’d already disarmed. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Score one for the Queens kid,” Peter says, webbing the last gun and snapping it to his outstretched hand. “I hope you enjoyed the show but I will not be here all night, because some of us have calculus tests to study for.”

Peter slips his phone out of its hidden pocket, and is just about to call the police when his sixth sense lights up his entire spine. He whirls around just in time to see at least twelve more ninjas slip into the warehouse.

He’s surrounded.

“Listen guys,” he says, ignoring the warnings Karen’s blaring into his feed, “if this is your idea of a surprise party I gotta say, you need to work on your presenta—”

Peter’s cut off when a ninja materializes beside him, and he barely gets the gun up in time to block his opponent’s attack. He flinches when the blade still goes more than three-fourths of the way through the metal casing.

He shoves the man using more of his super strength than he’d normally be comfortable with, and the ninja flies across the room and lands in a soundless heap. “Not to go full nineties, but I knew I should have stayed home today.”

That’s the last quip or takedown Peter manages to pull off, because while he’d done pretty well against five ninjas, he is no match for a dozen. Peter tries his best to make offensive moves when he can, but for the most part he’s caught in an endless cycle of successful and slightly less successful dodging. He’s further handicapped by the fact that he’s trying to stay in the vicinity of the weapons container, certain that the second he loses sight of it, it’ll be gone. After the fifth sword swipe he’d failed to entirely avoid, Peter thinks maybe he should give up on that part.

In that moment, two things happen.

First, a red and black billy club comes flying from the rooftop and incapacitates the ninja about to turn Peter into a shish kabob, and Peter thinks holy shit I’m going to meet Daredevil.

Second, said ninja’s sword is redirected towards the weapons crate and slices clean through one of the power cores, and Peter thinks holy shit I’m going to die.

Then Peter’s world explodes.

Or at least, Peter’s pretty sure that’s what happens, because he doesn’t have any other explanation for how he goes from fighting for his life in a warehouse to leaning against a chimney on a rooftop.

“You all right?”

Peter turns his head towards the voice, but everything feels muted, like that one time the Vulture dropped him into a lake. Or like that one time the Vulture nearly got them both blown up.

That last one’s probably more relevant.

Peter starts to yank his mask off in an attempt to breathe easier before he remembers he’s not alone. Instead, he blinks a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus. Slowly, the blurry shape in front of him materializes into the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Then everything else materializes, too.

He doesn’t feel any injuries from the explosion per se, the suit having protected him from the brunt of it, but it’s wreaked absolute havoc on his senses. Sound comes rushing in as his accelerated healing repairs the damage to his eardrums, and it’s too much, too fast, too loud.

“Karen, turn the—turn the dampeners on,” he gasps.

He sees hears feels Daredevil tense across from him, but he doesn’t have the brain capacity to figure out reason for the Devil’s reaction.

“I’m sorry, Peter. The settings for limited sensory deprivation are not available at the moment.”

The blood drains from Peter’s face, and his already high-pitched voice jumps an entire octave. “What do you mean not available?”

“Some of my systems appear to have been damaged in the explosion. The suit will require manual repair in order to bring them back online.”

“Spider-Man?” Daredevil’s voice is too loud, too close.

Peter waves a hand in front of him, trying to get him and all the noise associated with him to go away.

“Your blood pressure appears to be spiking, Peter. Do you require assistance?”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “No, I’m fine Karen, I just—I—shit.”

It’s childish, and dammit Peter wanted to make a cool first impression on another superhero for once, but instead he presses his hands over his ears and whines because it’s just so much and it’s everywhere and it’s—it’s—

It’s his heartbeat thumping wildly out of control in his chest—

It’s the crunch of gravel under Daredevil’s feet—

It’s the wind skipping across the roof and over the air conditioning units—

It’s the cat stalking a mouse on the street below; the man rifling through the garbage; the hurried footsteps of late night traffic; tourists with cameras, car horns honking, brakes squealing, engines backfiring, locals yelling, sirens wailing; the sound of his breathing, the leather in the Devil’s costume, the drip of a drainpipe, the drip, the drip, the DRIP—

Daredevil squats down in front of him and Peter’s head jerks up.

“Can you hear me?”

Peter bites his lip so hard it bleeds, because he’s pretty sure Daredevil is whispering but it sounds like it’s being shouted through an air horn. “That’s—that’s kind of the problem, Mr. Daredevil, sir, I’m really sorry—”

“It’s okay.” The cat hisses on the street, and Daredevil lowers his voice even further. “Can you listen?”

Peter thumps his head against the chimney, because he just said that’s all he can do right now and the cat’s just caught that mouse and—

“No,” Daredevil says, interrupting his spiral. “Really listen.”

Shit, does he have mind reading powers?

“Pick one sound and listen to that.” The Devil keeps talking, and somehow Peter hears him over the rest of the noise. “It’s okay if you still hear the others—but only listen to one.”

Peter slowly lowers his hands from his ears and tries, but there’s just so many of them.

A window slams shut two buildings over at the same time Daredevil clears his throat. “There’s a grandfather clock with a second hand that skips every third tick, in an apartment building four blocks from here.”

Four blocks what the hell—

“I uh—I can’t go quite that far,” Peter stammers, cautiously opening an eye. “But there’s a drainpipe across the street that keeps dripping.”

Daredevil tilts his head to the side, then smiles. “In front of Dahlia’s Flower Shop.”

“I guess so.” Peter closes his eyes again.

Peter hears Daredevil back away from him, just a few feet, to keep from crowding him. “Tell me about it.”

His concentration slips when a tourist stops in the middle of the sidewalk and someone starts berating them. “It’s… a drainpipe?”

“Is it metal? Concrete? Plastic?” Daredevil takes out his billy-club and rotates it between his hands. “What does the way it echoes sound like?”

Peter searches the dripping noise out and tries to focus on the water and the wind.

“…Metal,” he decides.

“Is the water fresh, or dirty?”

Peter doesn’t know how to distinguish between the two at first, but then he imagines the way dirty water sloughs through pipes as opposed to the way clean water glides, and when he realizes he can isolate the smell, too, he says, “Dirty.”

“And how high is the pipe when the water drops out?”

Peter listens to the water separating at the mouth of the pipe, waits for how long it takes for the splash as it hits the ground. “…Two feet?”

“Good.” The smile is still in the Devil’s voice. “Last question: what is the water landing on.”

Peter tilts his head in the same way Daredevil had, and strains his hearing to pick up as much detail as he can. The water coming out of the drainpipe feels hard, like the metal encasing it, but when it lands the splash is muted—like it’s sliding to a stop instead of hitting a flat surface. There’s also an almost bouncy quality to it, so it must be something that’s not rigid—something delicate, or fragile.

He remembers what Daredevil had said about the shop the pipe was connected to, and his eyes fly open with a grin.

“Flowers!”

Daredevil nods and sits back against one of the air conditioning units. Peter keeps listening to the sound, wondering what else he can figure out about it.

After a few minutes, Daredevil slides his billy-club back into its holder. “How’s your hearing?”

“Wha—?” Peter jerks his attention back to Daredevil, and suddenly realizes the world has gone back to sounding like Normal-New-York, instead of Acid-Trip-New-York. His eyes widen.

“Whoa, thanks! It normally takes forever to go back to normal when this happens. How’d you learn to do that?”

“Not in any way I’d recommend,” he says, propping his elbow up on his knee and letting his hand hang down. “Now, at the risk of sounding needlessly overbearing, what’re you doing in my city on a school night?”

“Oh, uh, well I didn’t really mean to come all the way out here, but I’ve been trying to track down this weapon’s deal for like a month and—” Peter chokes as he registers the end of Daredevil’s sentence. “Wait, school night? Why would uh, why would that matter?”

“It’s your heartbeat. Too fast to be an adult’s.”

“I was panicking!”

“And your voice?”

“…Also panicking!” He clears his throat and attempts to drop a half step. “Not that I am anymore. Because I’m a superhero. Adult. Adult superhero.”

“Hearing people’s heartbeats also means I can tell when they’re lying.”

Peter freezes, then drops his head into his hands. “Shit.”

“Are you old enough to say that?”

Peter’s indignant. “Yes!” Then he pauses. “Wait, if we’re here does that mean the ninja guys got away?”

Daredevil shrugs. “The blast took out all of the weapons. The Hand wasn’t interested in sticking around after that.”

“The Hand?”

“…Stick to Queens, kid.”

Peter flinches and draws his knees in to his chest, which probably doesn’t help his image, but. He’s really tired of being a disappointment.

Daredevil gets to his feet and for a second, Peter thinks he’s just going to leave him. Then a gloved hand appears in front of his face.

Peter looks up in surprise.

“You’ve got talent, Spider-Man,” he says, and Peter notices he doesn’t remove the man part.

“Really?” Peter’s mood lifts almost instantaneously. “I mean—yeah, yeah of course. Talent. You too.”

Daredevil shakes his head, but pulls Peter to his feet without commenting on his exuberance. “Give me a call if you hear anything else about weapons—or ninjas—in Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe we can work something out next time.”

“Whoa,” Peter breathes, his feet rooted to the ground as Daredevil walks away. Daredevil’s already reached the edge of the roof before an important thought occurs to him. “Hey, wait, I don’t have your number!”

Daredevil smirks. “You don’t need one.”

With that, the vigilante flips off the roof to the next building, and disappears behind its slope. Peter stares at nothing, and wonders if he should try to chase him down.

Then Peter hears water dripping out of a drainpipe, and thinks four blocks down.

Peter grins.

#fictober19 #mcu fanfic #peter parker fic #daredevil fic #peter parker #matt murdock #daredevil #fanfiction #tw: explosion #tw:sensory overload #whumptober19 #memsfic

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regalbutterfly86 · 6 years

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Stolen Angel Sneak Peek

A/N: Here’s a glance at a story I’ve imagined for a few years now. Maybe one day I’ll actually get enough written to start posting it. Until then, enjoy this little piece that @mysterious-song asked me to post.

The night’s rush finally settles, leaving a manageable crowd for Robin, John, Tuck, and Mulan to serve. Robin checks the time on his phone before sending a quick text to his babysitter. He hates that his Halloween night with his son was cut so short due to Will’s lack of control. Tomorrow, they will talk, and perhaps, a trip home to see their mother will do him wonders. He puts his phone back in his pocket, wiping down the counter and scanning the room for the others. His eyes move to the door when the noise of traffic increases. He stops at the sight of the new patron.

A lovely woman with unruly brunette curls and wide eyes stands in the doorway, searching the room urgently before settling on an empty seat at the bar. She makes her way across the room, ignoring the way her crumpled, torn wings bump into people as she passes. His curiosity peeks the closer she gets. He can notice burn marks in the short, shredded white dress that clings to her body. He wonders for a second if she’s been attacked. Then again, it’s Halloween and she’s probably dressed in a costume.

He approaches slowly, taking a minute longer to observe her and her attire. He notices an ash tint to her skin and the smoky black smear around her eyes. He stops in front of her, waiting until her brown eyes find his before speaking. “Would you mind explaining your costume? I’m quite intrigued by it.”

She scoffs, folding her arms on top of the bar. “I’m not one to talk to my bartender.” Her voice is husky, and he would take the time to soak in how much he likes it if it weren’t for the guarded, yet, wounded quality it holds.

“I’m not the bartender,” He responds casually, and he can tell it snatches her attention. He smirks at her furrowed brow.

“Then why are you making drinks?” She straightens, narrowing her eyes. He leaves his body open, not wanting to scare her away. It seems he’s curious about more than her costume now that he’s started talking to her. He finds himself with an urge to know her story.

He shrugs his shoulders, moving closer to the bar and fiddling with a few items within reach. “The owner, who should be doing this, is my brother, and unfortunately, he’s wasted.” He pauses, lifts his gaze to hers, and then continues. “I’m helping until his other bartender can get here.”

She only responds with a quiet “Oh.”.

He gives her time, changes the subject long enough to get her drink order, then motions to her costume. “So your costume?” He watches as she looks away, sighing as her fingers tap against her glass. She returns her gaze to him, letting it linger for a moment before answering.

“I’m a stolen angel.” She lazily waves one of her hands, leaning back in her seat and taking her first drink. She finishes it quickly setting the empty glass down and pushing it towards him.

Robin makes her another one without question. “Interesting. And, what exactly is a stolen angel?” He sets the fresh drink in front of her, ignoring the call of another woman at the end of the bar. He’s too invested in this conversation, and he figures leaving would allow her a mysterious escape. He finds he needs to know her answer. It’s a bit unsettling how fast she’s entranced him, but he sees no harm in her charms yet.

The woman looks into her drink, takes a sip, and almost mumbles, “That would require a stronger drink.”

He’s anticipated her answer, sensing her desire to drift away from the moment she entered the building. His brother calls it a Locksley gift - how easily they could sense a soul in need. He plops a shot of tequila next to her other drink, shrugging a shoulder and briefly tilting his head. “On the house.” He watches as she bites her lip, studying him with eyes so deep he fears he’s found Alice’s rabbit hole. He wonders what adventures and tragedies await him once he’s fallen.

She takes the shot, chasing it with a swallow of her whiskey. He frowns when she barely flinches at the burn. Perhaps, giving her tequila was a bad idea. She leans forward onto the bar, tilting her head and lowering her voice enough to pull him in closer to her. “A stolen angel is one that was drug down to Hell,” She lingers on the last word, her voice dropping to a lower octave, and he knows without a doubt that the rabbit hole has claimed him. She continues, holding his gaze. “An angel that didn’t want to fall,” She shakes her head as she finishes with tears building in her eyes. “But didn’t have a choice. Forgotten and ripped,” Anger flares in her eyes and strengthens her voice, “of her halo and left with broken wings, unable to fly, unable to return to Heaven.” She pulls away then, settles back in her chair as she swirls her whiskey before drinking the last of it.

Silence rests between them as he takes in her description. Her pain and bitterness didn’t go without notice and it spurs an odd feeling in his gut - not quite nausea but not butterflies either. He catches enough of his composure to keep the conversation going. “That would explain the burns and the... well, broken,” He motions to her wings, and she glances over her shoulder. “But in my experience, broken wings can heal. Only clipped wings can never fly again.”

She rolls her eyes, annoyance filtering throughout her body. “If this is a hope speech, I do not want it.”

Robin shakes his head. “Nothing of the sort. I wasn’t aware you were in need of one.” She’s narrowing her eyes at him again, lifting her face enough to bring light to the faint tear tracks on her cheeks.

She pushes her glass toward him again. “I’m not, so either serve me another drink or leave me alone.” He does as she requests, deflating when she grabs the drink and slips out of her chair to find her way onto the dance floor. His gut churns with nerves and a protectiveness he can’t explain. He sighs, shaking his head as she finally disappears into the crowd, and he returns to the other customers, barely aware of the complaints they shout his way. He no longer questions Alice’s choice to follow the white rabbit; the restless creature is hard to ignore.

#outlaw queen #oq fanfic #regina mills #robin hood #Sarah writes #outlaw queen fanfiction

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