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[maddoc05]

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[maddoc05]

Canon, but I make it worse fic. Spoilers for Final Reckoning and warning for major charactdr death and angst

That bittersweet dawn

Reassured, Benji closes his eyes. This time, he doesn’t open them again.

There’s a bullet lodged into his chest. The funny thing is, Benji only starts breathing again after Ethan leaves. He should be thankful the shock of it drowns out the pain. And it does. At first. He’s also aware it’s not really a good thing but the alternative isn’t much better. The thought barely crosses his mind, when the burning inordinance hits.

-

The sound that claws its way out of his throat is pathetically close to a whimper. He can’t help it and he hates himself for that, for the way Grace practically whips around with concerned eyes to track that he’s still breathing. Paris has a death grip, hah, on his shoulders as she hauls him into the server room. The lights of the bunker flicker, low red light entangled in growing shadows, and his palms are wet with his own blood. He clutches at the wound, willing it to slow. He doubts he is remotely successful.

He’s dead weight.

He thinks of Ethan. Then the impending doom of the world. And he forces himself to categorize the pain as trivial because that’s what it is compared to the scope of what they faced. They would figure this out together. They had to. 

Paris’s hands are careful as she places him down opposite the server and Benji sees in her expression a flicker of uncertainty. She’s afraid. He drags oxygen down into his lungs, reaching to give a reassuring squeeze, but that’s when something stabs hard in between the slits of his ribs. He stiffens in shock. The burning radiates to the back of his shoulders and across his back. That’s when he realizes that he can’t. Can’t. Can’t fully breathe. 

Oh bloody hell.

The bullet hit his lung. 

“Oh no, this is not good.” He says. Dark splotches crawl around the edge of his vision.

“What is it?”

“If I had to guess,” Benji says, strangely detached. It takes him by surprise, the fact that his voice remains even. “It’s a tension pneumothorax.”

“What does that mean?” Grace demands.

He falls back to what he knows. The cool logical stream of facts that he can pluck out of his mind. He pushes himself entirely out of the equation. All that mattered was taking care of the anti-god once and for all. The Entity. They needed to- need to trap it. “Pressure building in the pleural cavity.” He explains, and chokes on another gasp, scrunching to stave off his own terror. “My lung is collapsing.”

The next few minutes are a blur.

Every sluggish heartbeat is as tangible as the countdown on a timer, and God knows he’s seen a lifetime of those. Benji catches a glimpse of his fingers, the tips tinted blue. He switches between English and French, Grace and Paris, and it helps his mind remain sharp for those precious few moments of lucidity. The colloquiality paired with the technical bits keeps his nerves qualmed. Drifting in and out of consciousness, before he fully realizes what’s happened, somehow, they’ve done it.

That meant Ethan was successful as well. Benji knew with absolute certainty, in his heart, Ethan was alive.

There’s a brief moment of elation, like a snatch of the sun in between storm clouds. It leaves him giddy. Grace brims with it too, and the tension in Paris’s body loosens a fraction as she lets go from where she shielded his face during the explosion of loose dust and rocks. They all breathe a little easier. Well, except for him but hey, extenuating circumstances and all that. There is a pen sticking out of his chest after all.

His hair is sweaty, it’s so stupidly mundane, but it was driving Benji crazy. There are stray strands clumping down his damp forehead, mixing with smears of blood and earth, and it felt completely gross. He felt tired. Cold. In contrast, Paris’s skin is fever hot. She’s still propping up his body through the contractions of pain. His eyelids pull, drawn by gravity, but he fights it long enough to dig his fingers into Paris’s forearm to get her attention.

Because, at the same time, he knows.

He’s not going to see the sun again. They’ve won, but he’s going to fail Ethan one last time. It’s an unbearable thought but he’s rapidly losing the strength. He can't see a way out. 

His tongue bleeds over his cracked lips. He swallows, saliva and blood pooling thickly as it trickles from his mouth to join the puddle beneath him. He knows the moment Paris understands as well. “Non, non.” She sounds wracked as she places more pressure on the wound. Benji writhes for a moment before weakly batting her hands away. She doesn’t relent, fierce. Fits of darkness clot up his vision.

It feels like there is cotton in his mouth. His voice is slurred but it is important that he gets this out. He needs to. “Tell Ethan-” He coughs, and an involuntary spasm shakes him. He blinks, woolly, and Grace is suddenly there beside him as well. 

“Don’t you dare, Dunn.” She says. The light reflects oddly in her eyes, glittering.

“Tell Ethan…” He says again. “Not his- fault. I’m sorry.” His head sags against the crook of Paris’s neck, and the world dances in a terrifying vision of red light and shadows again. He wonders if Luther and Ilsa waits for him, somewhere. It’s a nice thought. He’s seen too much bloodshed and horror to ever believe in the concept of a peaceful afterlife, but. Maybe. They’d watch over Ethan together. 

He forms the rest of the words while he still can. “Tell,” He coughs again, “Tha- that I love him.” His voice hitches spectacularly with the last bit finally pushed out of his collapsing chest. Grace’s expression breaks in the next instance, as she leans to rest her forehead against his. Reassured, Benji closes his own eyes.

This time, he doesn’t open them again.

 

Grace stood, numb. 

The walk out of the server room was somber. Paris adamantly refused to relinquish her hold on Benji- on his body. She brought him back to the main section of the bunker where the gunfight had strewn dead men and pieces of machinery, and laid him down tenderly against the crates again. She had been sitting vigil ever since. There was a blankness to her gaze, only broken by a flash of something small and vulnerable as she brushed the hair out of his face. 

The relief of trapping the Entity faded. For Grace, it left a shell-shocked hollowness. There was silence around her even as Dunloe, Degas and Tapeesa made themselves known. She spared a surveying glance, just to reassure herself that they were alive and in one piece. It hurt beyond words that the same could not be said unanimously. It was Ethan’s reaction she dreaded the most. 

Grace continued to clutch the Entity in her hand, hating that it had cost such a price. All of Ethan’s other friends were dead. 

And now. 

She wished so dearly it hadn’t come to this. Benji had saved their lives and practically the world. Without his guidance telling her what to do in order to trap the Entity, it would have been over. His words echoed in her ringing ear. We’ll figure out a way . And he had. He had done it. It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t be here to see it. She curled her fingers into fists by her sides, still steeped in his blood.

Paris’s jacket was similarly soaked red, still draped over Dunn. Grace knew she would never forget the sight of his pale face and unmoving chest. There was no peace like some people claimed. It did not look like he was merely asleep. He was just… gone. Empty. Haggardly lifeless, with the spark that had made him who he was snuffed out in a single, cruel instant. 

It took close to an hour to remove the rubble from the cave-in.

Sunlight kissed her aching face. It seared deep beneath sore muscle and bone. She stepped out first, abruptly breathing in fresh air. She helped Dunloe out next, extracting what remained of the team one by one out of the bunker until- 

Helicopter blades whirred in the distance. It grew louder, the speck over the horizon coming into view and Grace nearly emptied out her stomach onto the rocks long before Ethan practically jumped out of the side, the blades still spinning. She was bare, vulnerable, covered in the blood of one of Ethan’s closest friends. Benji’s final message was ready, painful, as it clogged in her throat. 

At the very last second, she realized she couldn’t do it.

It didn’t matter. 

Ethan took one look at her face, scanned behind her, and knew when he couldn’t find the one person he was searching for.

The sound that came from him was animal. He staggered forward and his knees dropped out beneath him in the next moment. Grace was close enough that she surged forward in time to hold him upright. Beneath her palm over his chest, his heart was beating erratically and he was shaking with miniscule tremors. She couldn’t even recognize his voice when he choked out, “How?”

“The shoot-out.” She murmured into his ear, so low. “He didn’t want you to know.”

Ethan abruptly pushed himself away from her, like he’d been burnt. The mask settled over his face like stone. With strength she doubted he even had, he rushed past Degas and the others, barreling back into the bunker. He left her standing alone, empty, and shivering in the dissipating winds. 

She did not blame him an ounce. 

 

It’s only pain.

Over the course of his career at the IMF, Ethan had learnt to ignore it. He knew how to tamp down on the bruises and cuts, bullet wounds and burns alike. He was well-versed in ignoring the aches, to fade it to a dull sensation at the edge of his consciousness. What he could never bear was seeing the ones he loved getting hurt.

Luther’s death tore open something inside of him. It was a wound, festering and sharp, and it threatened to drag him under even as he went through the motions of his duty. During the bouts of sleep he’d gotten after that, he would wake up, chilled by sweat and the salted taste of tears in his mouth. It was his fault. Ilsa’s death too. He missed them both so much that it was sometimes impossible to breathe.

If Ethan could reverse their positions and etch every scar onto himself, he would have gladly done it in a heartbeat. But they were gone. And he… wasn’t. He kept wondering, in desperation, in guilt, why?  

It’s only pain.

He had been so focused on the mission. He had resigned himself to not making it out alive. It was nearly inconceivable that the reverse could be true. He’d reached out when the shooting had started, ducking beneath the hail of bullets, but he hadn’t seen the truth. Hadn’t known. And that was something he would never forgive himself for because now he understood the look in Benji’s eyes. He’d been saying goodbye. Not because he thought Ethan would die, but because he’d known he would be gone before Ethan came back.

“How could you?” He accused, then keened. How could I?

He kept stroking Benji’s cold cheek. The tears burnt down the side of his own face even as the light and noises from the outer world drifted past in a haze. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. It felt like someone had smashed Ethan’s ribcage open and pulled out his beating heart, leaving nothing but a hollow chamber behind. There was something so fundamentally wrong with the scene that he was tempted to retch. 

Luther had been his foundation. Ilsa had been one half of his heart. And Benji was the other. And all of them were taken from him, killed because of him.

When it finally hit him, that entirety crashed down at once. 

He shut down after that. 

In the month after, there are only three things Ethan Hunt remembers with any clarity.

One-

Brandt wrenching him out of a pool of glass, the bathroom mirror shattered beneath him and the skin of his knuckles flayed and split. Shouting, indecipherable, like code he could not understand. White flashes behind his eyes. Whisky burn and cigarette soot, ashen and stretched over his mottled skin. Every person’s face was nothing more substantial than rubbery masks.

Two. 

It rained during the funeral.

Three.

He quit.

The wind ruffled around him. The grass was damp, the earth compact and tighter after the passage of time. There were faint stains of rusted brown over the headstone where he’d caressed the rough surface, scraped his fingertips against the stone. “It’s my fault.” He said conversationally to the soil. “I’m so sorry, Benji.”

It hung in the air for a moment, impossibly fragile.

Ethan said, “I know you’re there.” He didn’t turn around. “Grace.”

She melted out from the thick copse of trees behind him. She had a dark cardigan pulled tight around her, wrapped flowers clutched in her hand. Her footsteps pattered like raindrops as she drew closer. She laid the white lilies to rest and then sat down next to him. She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “That’s not what he believed.”

“It’s the truth.” Ethan said.

Grace huffed a sad laugh. “He knew you’d think that. He knew you well.”

He froze. “What?”

“I made Benji a promise, Ethan.” Grace said, reaching out to press a hand against the headstone. “I’m here because I owe it to him and to you.”

Ethan didn’t breathe.

“One of the last things he did,” Grace said gently, “was to ask to tell you it wasn’t your fault. And that he loved you.”

He stared at her, searching for any crack or deceit. He found none. The sob when the realization hit startled him. He really thought he’d shed every last tear left in him, but Benji was always good at surprising him. He shook, with tears, with laughter, and sagged against the headstone. He was dimly aware of Grace rubbing circles into his back as he tried to catch his breath. 

“I loved him too.” He whispered, but all he had left was the regret and grief to comfort him. 

[maddoc05]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66064903

Summary: The first thing John Walker ever does is try to introduce Matt’s face to the floor

To say that the only warning Matt gets is the sudden hush all around him as he walked down the street isn’t quite right. His periphery was perpetually filled with the hum of voices, in tandem, mostly overlap. It added to the cacophony inside of his head. Stick taught him control but he drifts, on occasion. His cane tapped against pavement, the sound splitting, and the brush of the soles of his shoes against the tiles is the same. He breathed, and heard thousands of leaves rustling inside his chest.

The meeting with the client didn’t go so well. He was probably going to hear an earful about it from Kirsten. He welcomed it. 

Sometimes, he was aware she still walked on eggshells around him, mindful of her words, staring after him in concern like she could see the emptiness clawing inside of him. It’s a wonder he gets out of bed every day. How he still fixes his suits, leaves the apartment with a view he will never be able to appreciate but he knows Foggy would. It would be so, so much easier to let go.

He’s not Daredevil any more. It stops affecting him as much as it should have. Maybe because what’s worse is that he isn’t even Matt Murdock. He’s the ghost masquerading as him. Matt’s had his heart broken plenty of times before but there was no coming back from that night in Josie’s bar. After. After Foggy. After Karen left. After he surrendered the last pieces of his life, boxed up everything and abandoned Hell’s Kitchen. The shame burns as always, but he’s tired. 

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the woman pushing the stroller next to him freezes in her tracks. Matt is instantly alert, his senses vigilant. The baby sleeps, gentle puffs of breath inside, smelling of baby formula and fresh clothes. The child is safe. Yet there’s a sudden kick of adrenaline in the air, leaking a distinct edge of terror.

Then he realizes she’s looking up into the sky.

They all are. The whole city.

Oh goddammit, Matt thinks and starts to collapse the cane. Not again.

The scene plays out in his mind - a sensory trainwreck seconds before the collision as helicopter blades screech through the air. The crack of cement is thunderous, nearly a rapture, as the impact guts several floors open and sends down a hail of glass and debris onto the New York streets. Most around him are paralyzed to the spot, gaping at the sight although a few manage to snap themself out of the haze.

The shouting comes next. Screams, high and shrill, a blur of voices. The collective clamor swallows the noise even as a boy yells for his brother, a man for his wife, a child for his father-

Matt’s already moving. 

He picks his way through the chaos and his world on fire burns brighter, darker. He loses his senses to instinct as his heart beats like a war drum beneath his chest. The sweat pours down his neck and his muscles tense and spring as he pushes himself forward. He loses count. All he is cognizant of is hauling people narrowly out of the way of falling rubble and ordering them to run. He startles the first time he hears his own voice because it’s low, almost a growl, and it’s unrecognizable. 

Matt loses his glasses after a flailing elbow cracks the lens open and pushes it off his face. The wind ruffles against his bare skin and he’s too exposed, vulnerable. But he doesn’t have time to linger on that.

He’s on the intersection between the park and the office block when he hears it.

The fourth floor of an apartment nearby creaks ominously. He hears the ground shifting, unsettled, and it lurches like tidal wives over the scrape of metal piping and wires. It’s not empty. Two heartbeats stutter from inside. The girl is crying. She’s small, two or three, and her mother’s arms are tight around her, frantically whispering comfort in Spanish. The door’s jammed on the other side and the torn half slants dangerously onto the distant street. 

He doesn’t consciously think. He launches forward, disappearing into the alley as his hands scramble for hold and he scales the side of the broken fire escape. He switches his grip to jutting brick after it tapers off, throwing his body the rest of the upwards by manoeuvring through a squeeze in the collapsed roof tile and twisting at the very last second to pitch himself inside. His limbs slam unpleasantly against the ground. He ignores the bruising and staggers back to his feet.

They stare at him, afraid.

“Apresúrate, no hay tiempo para perder.” Matt says urgently. The mother startles. The words are barely out of his mouth when more of the floor breaks away onto the street. He switches language, lets the desperation bleed into his voice. “Please."

It earns him a short, shaky nod. 

“Marie.” The woman says and hands him the child. She repeats, her voice breaking, “Save my daughter.

“What’s your name?” He asks. 

“Isla.” She says.

Marie’s tiny arms are around his neck. She’s shaking. She’s pressing her face into his shoulder and her tears are warm as it soaks into the back of his shirt. It’s grief that he feels. He knows exactly what it’s like, that anguish. He uses his left arm to support her weight. “Marie, hold on and don’t let go, okay?” Then he turns to Isla and says determinedly, “Come with me. I’m not leaving you behind.”

It’s a stroke of luck that the third floor directly below them extends just enough. He calculates the route and realizes there’s a tight window of time before the base loosens entirely. With Marie clinging to him, Matt guides Isla to make the drop safely, clasping her arms until her feet touch the ground. Then he does the same, covering Marie’s head as dust pours down on them. Isla races for the door and it opens. They pour out into the hallway, coughing, and emerge onto the streets barely a minute later.

Matt holds onto the two of them, instinctively using his body as a shield when the rest of the floor collapses. Isla doesn’t say a word as she holds her daughter again but he feels the tremors rack over her body as he herds them towards the direction of safety. Part of his cheek is split, the blood sliding gently down. 

The sun burns into his chalk-streaked skin.

And then it doesn’t.

For a moment, Matt wonders if he’s died.

It slams into him in a single instance - the absence of all of his remaining senses. He hits the ground, and the silence burns into his eardrums. He thinks he’s panting, screaming and desperate to hear a reply echo back but it never arrives to reply. The only frame of reference he has is his own body, limbs taut and clenching. He’s kneeling, in supplication or surrender, palms outstretched and grated over coarse ground. 

It doesn’t last long. The fire crashes into him, visuals pulsing a searing crescendo in his head.

“Dad?”

He knows this. 

He knows-

The acrid reek of sewer juice and blood, bruises and leaking tissues, fills his awareness. His body lurches before his mind fully caught up, primal and afraid and very much unwilling to be here. He’s gasping, a strangled whine pouring pitifully out of him, seeping through the cracks in his ribs, as he clutches his head. His back hits the brick wall. There is nowhere else for him to run. 

“Daddy!”

Tears, salty and sharp, linger in his mouth.

The boy cries.

Matt does too.

It repeats. 

The crack of the gunshot. The small tap-tap-tap of his cane against pavement, the pounding fear of little Matt’s heart. Then the sound of it breaking over and over again, as his hands stain in blood, as he weeps over his father’s cooling body. 

It takes a minute, an hour, an eternity for Matt to accept that he’s in hell.

The alley collapses, a grand cascade that tumbles inwards upon itself like the crashing of a thousand piano keys, and it deposits him back in Midland Circle. Elektra’s blood is a sharp tang dripping between his teeth even as the bitter iron of his own injuries tides over him. He stands, hollow, as he’s crushed once more beneath the rubble of his own failures. 

Wake up. He doesn’t.

Wake.

He can’t.

“Matty.” Jack says.

“Matthew.” His mother says.

Battling Jack grunts in the boxing ring. Sweat drips, raindrops pattering in applause. The throng of the crowd suffocates Matt and he doesn’t need to hear the commentator to know exactly where he is. The last victorious match his father ever had. Bone crunches, hairline fractures and creaking ships, wrapped in the swish of silk-soft fabric.

The countdown is ecstasy. He drowns in guilt. The pounding in his head is swollen by the cheers and disbelieving shouts, a thick cloud of excitement. But the ground breaks away beneath his feet as easily as handfuls of loose soil over a grave and it returns him to the inside of his old apartment. An animal scratches at the door. It grows louder and louder, until he’s electrified by the sound of Foggy calling his name.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Tears radiate, sea-salt sweet. “You.” Foggy chokes, devastated, when he pulls back the mask.

Matt tries to explain, defend himself again but this is not a court for him to persuade. There’s no amount of elocution or poise in the world that he can mask over the wretchedness of his own sins. The problem is that there is a Devil. Always has been. It’s stronger. He takes the name, the mantle, and it fits skin-tight over the blooms of blood it hides. The black tide of the sea washes over the shore of sinking sand but still he fights every grain to get back up again.

Get up, Matty.

Get up.

“Matt.” Foggy calls, distant and echoing. Matt chases after him, as glass splinters over his face, as cement crushes his bones, as the fire burns brighter and brighter all around. He finds him in their office, back when he hadn’t yet ruined everything between them. The shape of the smile Foggy gives him is beatific. He reaches out to squeeze Matt’s hand. “Hey, Matt. We’re gonna do alright.”

There’s knuckle burn over his fingers.

The front door opens. 

Karen laughs, tipsy. The alcohol is sweet on her lips. He stumbles into a different wall, in a different time. Someone’s playing pool, the cue held expertly with every lightning crack against the balls. Josie watches them all, content, as she pours a cup. Bubbles of malt pop at the top. She doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what’s lying in wait, that danger he should have seen. He should never have let his guard down and it is all his fault-

Foggy steps outside.

Matt is just in time to wrap their bodies together, holding him tight as he pivots and places himself in the direct line of fire. The hatred singes through his veins as he hears himself walk away to don the suit, leaving the last words between them stilted and unresolved. He sobs into the crook of Foggy’s neck long after Dex pulls the trigger and the bullet cuts right through both of them. 

It’s a kinder fate. He bleeds out with Foggy. 

Karen laughs, tipsy. Josie clicks her tongue from behind the counter. 

Karen laughs.

Matt pulls Dex off that rooftop and falls with him. It’s strangely peaceful. Dex’s fear is intoxicating, his heart pounding violently even as Matt breathes in gunpowder and metal, sweat and blood shared freely. He grips Dex’s head, arm in a stranglehold as they plummet to the pavement below. He can’t hear the beat of Foggy’s heart anymore. He can hear Karen’s. She’s hyperventilating. She’s gasping for air enough for the three of them. 

This time, he’s there to feel Dex break apart in his hands. The limbs are the weakest points. Fractures ripple like oscillating frost out on a frozen lake, brittle and absolute. The crack of the hips is next. The shards scrape against the metal rods at the base of the spine. Then his skull breaks open against the cement, leaking open a pool of blood.

It pours with no end. That blood widens, impossibly, into a lake.

It pulls him under. Hot, coppery blood pours through the cracks of his lips and submerges his chest. His lungs burn like it’s been scorched but the pressure keeps the desperate roar trapped inside him. He kicks and scrabbles for what he estimates is the surface. The lack of oxygen darkens his senses. And all of a sudden, he’s back to that night in the street - on his knees, face tilted blindly to the stars and arms outstretched, welcoming death with the swing of the pipe.

“You gotta get up, Matt.” Foggy’s voice. Earnest and painfully tender.

He tries. God. He tries but he’s so tired and Foggy was gone and there was no point left to it, was there? The moment Foggy stopped breathing and slipped away into the cold of the night, it was like someone had smashed Matt’s rib cage open. It could never stop being broken, never stopped hurting so much. 

Foggy, I’m sorry.

Arms around him. Downy wisps of hair nuzzling into his neck, across his chin, the crook of a familiar smile against Matt’s skin. “Come on now, Matthew.” Elektra chides. There’s no warmth to her hands, no pulse echoing in his ears. “Giving up so soon?”

He wants- he wants to stay. He tries to say as much.

Elektra was never that kind. She laughs at him, the tingle of a distant wind chime. And then she shoves him upwards. 

Gravity flips and he falls in reverse. 

The horizon yawns open, endless.

It takes him all of three seconds to suddenly realize he’s not alone.

 

The first thing John Walker ever does is try to introduce Matt’s face to the floor.

Matt crashes through wood. The panels splinter, a brief intense flash of pain clawing against his sides. He lands on his back with a groan. The air whips against the drying tears and blood against his face. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to crawl upright. The world spins inside of his head, leaving him dizzy from the tilt of his senses.

But Matt’s ready, the next time.

He's always been a fast learner.

He rolls himself out of the way, elbows chafing against broken glass and uses the side to pull himself up. His balance settles in. He cocks his head minutely, narrowing down onto the unfamiliar heartbeat. It thumps shallowly, quicker, not just adrenaline but something else - a scent that’s nearly chemical and fluorescent. Matt’s visuals creep in around the edge of his senses, and he’s bemused at the metal taco his opponent seems to be clutching like a lifeline.

He’s picking up something else entirely now. He pinpoints it as the distant steep of residue and military solvent. Dry arid desert air rolls over him. Grains of sand plaster across his clothes, scraping against the threads. 

“Who are you?” Matt demands. His voice is hoarse, sandpaper grated. He shifts his footing, holding himself lightly.

“I could ask you the same, jackass!” The man snarls. But his heart stutters in surprise and underneath all of that bravado, fear and guilt reek like a sour smell. “I don’t remember you.” He says accusingly. 

The costume attacked again. Matt blocks a blow to his stomach and his forearm explodes in pain. The kick to his knee narrowly misses shattering bone. Matt grunts sharply and ducks back, and from the deep recesses of his mind, Stick tuts in disapprovement. Apparently assured by his own strength, his opponent plants his feet solidly and throws another punch. It’s slower, sloppy.

Matt twisted and launched himself into the air, and pivoted his body at the very last second. He sprang against the side of the enclosure. Matt was spitting blood as his thighs wrapped around the man’s neck, the momentum yanking them both downwards. Strong fingers gripped into the sides of his head, the intent deadly clear even as Matt wheezed and rammed his knee into the soft mid waist and-

“Whoa.” A woman says. “You both look like shit .”

The man freezes. Matt doesn’t.

He slipped his arm from under the hold pinning him down and punched the man square in the face. His knuckles were already flayed, the rest of the skin splits open. The man cursed, pulling back an inch as blood poured from his nose. 

The woman gives a long whistle. “Nice. I’ve been wanting to do that since the start.”

“Ava.” The man sounded nearly reproachful.

Matt counts two, three others. He senses the hostility subside, replaced by something gentler. It’s relief that colors the man’s tone. Toned muscles shift, relaxing a fraction, and Matt realizes there’s also more than a miniscule fraction of trust. Clearly, these people were acquainted with each other. And going by the wave of impressions he processed - more than one was armored or suited up in a way Matt was tragically familiar with. 

He takes the gamble. Daredevil bleeds through the growl from his throat, voice darkening, “Get off me.”

“Walker.” Comes the order from another man. His arm- his arm is… oh. The pieces click in Matt’s mind.

Walker gets up. Matt breathed a little looser, easier now there wasn’t a weight pressing down on his aching ribs. After a while, he took the proffered hand. He grimaced at the abrasive texture of the gloves. “Thanks.”

A heavily Russian-lilted man asked curiously. “Who is this man?” Then to him, “You have a strong fight in you, da?” Matt sensed him lumber forward and involuntarily took a step back.

Matt shoved the fire in his sides and the burn of his knuckles deep, deep down. He took a light breath, his bones protesting violently with even that slightest jostle. He was painfully aware of how alive he felt in that moment, his body singing with wounds and the anger in his blood satiated. 

He says evenly. “I’m a lawyer.” He’s clinging onto the only identity he has left, and he knows it.

Walker huffs. “Really? You sure as hell don’t fight like one.”

“Well, what did you expect him to do?” Ava argues. “Hit you with a lawbook?”

"What? No! Of course not."

“He kicked your ass.” The Russian informs.

“I was clearly kicking his!”

Bucky Barnes - Winter Soldier turned congressman, in the living flesh - turned to Matt. Matt had never been idle or ignorant of the past couple of years, especially where New York was concerned. He’d heard the rumors. The arm was a dead giveaway, Matt thought wryly. It was nearly surreal. The hum of an electrical current, serrated between nerves and metal, settled itself into Matt’s mind. 

“I know you.” Bucky’s gaze narrowed. “You’re that lawyer from Hell’s Kitchen.”

Matt twitched. The smile he tried for felt more like he was baring his teeth. “Matt Murdock.” He could guess what was coming next so he changed the subject smoothly. “What’s going on out there? What is this place?”

“Didn’t you see the black cloud covering all of New York?” Walker asked. He gave a shrug. “Yeah, that was Bob. He’s got issues.”

The silence hung.

Matt had no idea what to say to that. It seemed neither did anyone else.

The Russian broke it first. His voice was thick with emotion, and Matt didn't need heightened senses to hear the audible hitch, “We need to find Yelena.” 

“Right.” Walker said.

There's a hydraulic hiss as a mask closed back over the woman’s face. “Come on then. Let’s go save the world or whatever.”

And then they’re gone just as quickly. He hears several gaits break into a run, the creak of a door that wasn’t there a second before, before the relative quiet of the room settles back down, a thick layer of dust. 

Matt laughs. The swirl of confusion and grief goes right down the drain, and he’s left shaking with laughter, with tears, as it dawns on him he isn’t dead. He’s alive. He has no idea what was even going on, stuck in that cross between hell and purgatory. His life was so surreal and ridiculous that nothing felt real anymore.

He’s still in the midst of that minor breakdown when the sun shines over New York once again. He stands in the rubble of the streets, bitterly conscious of the whirlwind of chaos around him, plunged back once more into that fiery tapestry. The longing burns inside of him. The itch, the urge, to give in other half. But it doesn't matter.

Someone else picked up the mantle. For today, the world stands.

It's more than enough for Matt.

[maddoc05]

Genuinely distraught over Peter "Parker" Yang. This rough-n-tumble guy who, while physically intimidating, has a heart of gold. A working P.I. who was on a case and just happened to stumble into this drunkard in Jack's Bar, who seemed morose, who seemed like they needed help. And Parker helped him, easing him out of his shell, became his friend, and worked with him. He pulled Arthur Lester out of his self-hatred to help people, and in doing so, helped Arthur Lester himself.

He loved the guy. Brought him to his parents' house. ("They love you!") He's two thousand dollars deep in gambling debt and still bought his friend a piano because he knows he used to play. This man who sounds like he's inhaled more cigarette smoke than air wants Arthur to date his sister because it means they could be brothers. This man who tells Arthur that he's the brains of the operation, that once told him he was at bedrock, tells him to lighten up and not let the past drag him down. This man who knows Arthur doesn't like to be coddled, so he tells him what he needs to hear, but doesn't push too much.

This man who turned on the kettle to make tea for the two of them (how often did they do it? How often did they joke and laugh and start the day with a cup of tea before their first client?), who rushes to Arthur when he starts to shout, whose last words were, "Artie, breathe," who died trying to help his friend.

Parker Yang died from senseless violence from a being that did not yet have any humility or understanding of how precious life was, and Arthur followed him only a few seconds later.

[maddoc05]

I Would Fall in Love With You - but it’s Part 23 of Malevolent

Exactly what it says on the tin

[maddoc05]

Arthur lester with his new body armour but it's chapell roan's joan of arc

Is that anything?

oh it sure is. i drew this yesterday, put it in my drafts, and then straight up forgot to post it

[maddoc05]

MALEVOLENT PART 52 SPOILERS

I'm free for the first time

[maddoc05]

but the strength I always loved in you finally gave way

[maddoc05]

I Died For You [A Malevolent Animatic]

Voice acting and audio by @malevolentcast , who very generously sent me this audio file to use for this animatic. Thank you for creating such a beautiful show.

Background and details under cut

I began this animatic early last year after finding the audio on TikTok. Once I heard it, I was immediately struck with the thought of how those first couple of weeks in the Dark World would be for John immediately after Season 2. It seemed perfectly fitting, how John might be tortured by his guilt and uncertainty if Arthur was even still alive, and that torment would only aid his regression to his more… Kingly qualities.

I began to draft the thumbnails of the animatic in my sketchbook before transferring it to my digital workspace, which was incredibly intimidating at the time. This was my first independent animatic. In last year’s InvictusCon, Harlan popped into my stream as I was explaining my animatic thought process to my viewers, shaking with both excitement and terror. I was stunned when he offered to voice it himself. The next day, he sent me the audio file. To this day, I am still stunned he spent so much time and effort to create something. It was the encouragement I needed to finish a longer-form animatic. It may be only a minute and some change, but this is a whole year of my life condensed - my obsession, my adoration, my passion for not only this podcast but for art in general, both visual and audio.

It’s by happy accident that I finished this right at the cusp of the Season 5 finale. It almost perfectly slots in. So… let’s all pretend that this animatic took me a month to do rather than the year I spent sweating on my couch and complaining about the number of times I forgot Arthur’s wooden finger.

[maddoc05]

Don't make me pull out my Arthur Lester wound stats

[maddoc05]

Malevolent Big Bang 2025!

[ID: A banner with the words "Malevolent Big Bang 2025" in the middle in a black and yellow serif font. Surrounding the words are orange and yellow tentacles with spiral patterns atop a black background with spiral patterns. /End ID]

Hello all! The mod team would like to formally announce that we will be hosting the Malevolent Big Bang again this year, 2025! We're excited to see what everyone creates this year, both new faces and old 💜

Here are the dates you should mark down if you are interested in participating in this event as a writer, beta, artist, or pinch hitter!

Writer signups open on May 1

Beta signups open on May 1

Artist signups open on July 14

Pinch hitter signups open on July 14

Keep an eye on this space as we get closer to those dates for more information, and make sure to check our FAQ and rules to see if this event would work for you! Note for returning members that there have been a few changes to our rules this year, including minimum word count for writers and clarifying expectations for artists, so please make sure to read them over.

If you have any questions, feel free to send us an ask and we'll be happy to answer them!

[maddoc05]

after months in the making. my tma-inspired tapestry is finally complete :’) designed and handmade by me, crochet with embroidered lettering <333 some close ups under the cut

excuse the dog hair lol. might try some more blocking to see if i can get the bottom to straighten out but i was too excited to see her finally finished not to share!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

+ bonuses of one of the sticky note doodles i made for the spiral panel when i first had the idea all the way back in MARCH!!!! and also the very first test panel!!!!! yes i did design and physically test how things translated to crochet entity by entity!!!!!

ok last thing i would love nothing more than to info dump about this whole project so if there’s anything you are curious about pls feel free to shoot me an ask and i will ramble 👉👈

[maddoc05]

another fun fact about my animatic of Scylla

originally there was a little segment after bandana guy (first guy to die) gets yanked off the ship. In the animatic he gets pulled by one of the eels and dies off screen, BUT, I used to have this idea that in this shot:

he would actually manage to hold on to this tall edge of the ship that Odysseus is right next to, only one hand struggling to keep himself into the ship as the eel behind him is trying to pull him away with it's mouth. The shot cuts and it's a close up of bandana guy's face, blood splatters all across him, as he looks up expecting Odysseus to help free him. Instead he sees this numb expression in Ody's face, kinda like he's disassociating throughout this whole thing.

so originally this shot of Odysseus looked like this:

from the pov of bandana guy right after he looses his grip and gets eaten alive.

I took this scene off because it was slowing down the action scene but I still kinda love it so thought I'd share it here

[maddoc05]

That's it. That's basically what the song is about.

[maddoc05]

SIX HUNDRED LIFES AT STAKE IT'S JUST ONE LIFE TO TAKE

[maddoc05]

Odysseus: “Then I’ll become the monster” 😔

The 43 Bois: “YASS KING YASS HE IS THE MAN-MADE MONSTER” 🗣 🗣 🗣

Odysseus: does something monstrous

The 37 bois: 👁👄👁