stories-by-hails

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Coming Soon…

Giselle "Ellie" Mancini was supposed to be invisible - a well-dressed ghost in Wilson Fisk's empire, a silent asset with a dangerous lineage and secrets buried deeper than Hell's Kitchen's foundations. But when a deal goes sideways and she's sent to Nelson & Murdock on a mission she didn't ask for, her carefully constructed detachment begins to fracture. Especially under the watchful gaze of Matt Murdock - the blind lawyer who sees more than most.

As loyalties blur and old wounds reopen, Ellie finds herself caught between the family she was born into, the man she works for, and the vigilante she never meant to fall for. With lies piling up and the city at war, how long can she keep her past buried… before it burns everything down?

This story follows the Netflix Daredevil timeline, starting from season one, episode one, with my own little added twists. So obviously, the only characters I own are Giselle "Ellie" Mancini and her very messy family.

Warnings for this story: 18+, so minors please stay away. cannon level violence, Smut (It's Matthew "manslut" Murdock), Angst (Like so much angst), Fluff, terrible translations, and Matt Murdock.

No I DO NOT consent to my stories being reposted on other websites, or put through AI. (AI isn't cool) ~Hailey

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Okay so like… Hypothetically if I were writing a Matt Murdock fanfic would anyone be interest in reading it on Tumblr. It’s not an XReader the love interest is an OC of mine.

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Istg if I log on today and see ONE Thunderbolts spoiler-

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Hi Charles

🦔

This is Charles. He wants to go on a journey around tumblr. could you show him around?

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This is so random but I did research this and he used the blip to his advantage. He took advantage of the chaos that was happening and got himself and Vanessa out.

did i miss something or do we still not have a genuine explanation as to how fisk got out of prison after daredevil season 3. like i guess we’re meant to assume it was the blip but still… so weird that they never clarified that 😭

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OH MY FUCKING GODDDDD spoilers below the cut because wtf

Okay bro this episode holy shit. I don’t think I stopped saying “holy fuck” the entire way throughhhh.

For one thank god Poindexter is back I was kinda concerned her wouldn’t be. That prison escape just felt so well done to me. And also this episode is giving season 2 of Daredevil (The OG) in like all of the best ways possible.

I loved Heather until this episode because it kinda just felt like she was pushing Matt’s concern under the rug but that could just be me. Matt’s also back to being a dick to his friends and I am so here for it.

Jacques Duquesne. That’s it. Just him. I’m so glad he’s here.

AND THAT ENDING. WHAT WAS THAT ENDING?! IS FOGGY ALIVE?! AM I BEING DELULU?! (yes.)

On a much more serious note I’ve been trying to avoid talking about the show on Tumblr cause I’ve been trying to wait until the show was over to give my opinion but fuck it. This episode was a rollercoaster. I love this show. I think it’s the best one Marvel has put out since Wandavision. (Which also isn’t saying much because I love all of the shows but Ms. Marvel.)

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Lmao yes. Agreed. 100%

I think fisk would rather let maya shoot him in the face again than listen to “we built this city” one more time 😭

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MORE WRITING STUFF

Character Movements (Lips) Part 2

Smiling: The character's lips curl upwards at the corners, indicating happiness, friendliness, or amusement.

Frowning: The character's lips turn downwards, indicating sadness, displeasure, or concern.

Pouting: The character pushes their lower lip forward, often conveying disappointment, sulking, or a desire for attention.

Biting lip: The character lightly bites or presses their lips together, suggesting nervousness, anticipation, or hesitation.

Licking lips: The character's tongue briefly touches or moves across their lips, indicating desire, anticipation, or hunger.

Pressing lips together: The character's lips are firmly pressed together, indicating determination, frustration, or holding back emotions.

Parting lips: The character's lips slightly separate, often indicating surprise, shock, or readiness to speak.

Trembling lips: The character's lips quiver or shake, suggesting fear, anxiety, or suppressed emotions.

Whispering: The character's lips move closer together, and their voice becomes softer, indicating secrecy, confidentiality, or intimacy.

Mouthing words: The character moves their lips without making any sound, often used to convey silent communication or frustration.

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STEEB 🥺

A Touching Effort

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader Word Count: 678 Summary: No matter your subtlety, your actions don’t go unnoticed by Steve. Warnings: AU. Soft mobster!Steve. Boss/employee relationship. Newly established relationship. Reference to being touch starved. Fluff. Not a lot of dialogue, oops.

A/N: Just a small dose of happy sweetness for our Gentle Soul babies 🥰

It wasn’t so much a startling discovery as a surprising one…

The fact that Steve was touch starved.

Given that you wanted to climb him like a tree every opportunity that you got, it had never crossed your mind that it may have been a while since Steve experienced any real intimacy.

You’d had stray thoughts in the past, much earlier in your employment with him, that he didn’t seem to have many friends, at least not ones who frequented his home.

But now that you were in the early stages of your relationship and had a front row seat to Steve and his existence, well, it was obvious that this big, beautiful man was aching for touch and affection.

So obviously you needed to step up and make it right.

But you didn’t want to be showy about it. You didn’t want to bring up the subject to Steve and possibly make him uncomfortable or embarrassed. 

You would just amp up your physical touch and affection.

It certainly wouldn’t be a hardship for you. Any excuse to touch the living, breathing Greek god who was now a fixture in your life.

So you started with little things…

Like when you were cleaning his home office and he was occupying his desk, you’d make a detour to him and linger close for a moment, smoothing your hands along his broad shoulders and giving him a smile and a kiss to his cheek when he glanced up at you with that warm gaze of his.

Or how once you were done for the day and found him checking the mail in the entryway, you’d move close and hug him from behind, resting your cheek against his muscular back and feeling the way his big, strong body melted against you as he let loose the softest sight.

In the mornings when you served him his breakfast (which you still insisted on doing even though he told you you didn’t need to), you’d be sure to take a moment to play with his hair. And the way you had to bite back a laugh when he literally started to purr like a cat when your fingers weaved through the soft, golden strands.

Anytime you sat together at night or on the weekend, you snuggled as close to him as humanly possible. Hugging his arm and resting your cheek on his bicep, smiling and stealing a kiss when you caught his gaze on you, which is often.

Sometimes, you thought perhaps he was on to you. The way his eyes would linger on you, shining with something you couldn’t quite place, made your belly flutter and swoop and a warm heat wash over you each and every time.

And on those nights when Steve was extra quiet as you curled up together in bed, seemingly in his head–likely ruminating on something work related, something unpleasant–and you could tell he needed to be soothed more than ever, you’d hop to.

You’d disrupt his spooning of you from behind so that you could roll over onto your other side, press close, and hug him tight like a human barnacle as you snuffled against the crook of his neck, which never failed to earn one of his quiet laughs. 

Weeks after your discovery, although you still hadn’t said a thing about Steve’s getting-better-by-the-day touch starved state, he finally confirmed your suspicions, that he was just as observant as you and of course registered the way you had amped up your touch and affection as of late. 

One night, when you were just on the edge of sleep, clinging to Steve and letting the strong rhythm of his heartbeat lull you closer and closer to the Land of ZZzzZzzZZ, he kissed the crown of your head, murmuring quietly against you, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, knowing exactly what he was thanking you for as you shimmied closer and fell asleep with a small smile curling your lips and your heart glowing with happiness at Steve’s appreciation for you and your sweet, touching effort.

Please take a moment to drop a comment or reblog. Engagement is the fuel that keeps writers writing and sharing their work for your enjoyment, so do your part to keep our fandom alive. Serial likers will be blocked.

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

Please note that I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, or published anywhere other than my Tumblr. I also do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI platforms. Reblogs are most welcome and encouraged though! ❤️

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No seriously come get him now, he’s really egging it on

Marci get your Foggybear asap hes pretending to die on the sidewalk

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Listen, Matt when I said you needed a therapist I didn’t mean it like… That

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Marvel you’re gonna be paying my therapy bills after that start to a show. Goddamn.

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Omg same

HAPPY DAREDEVIL BORN AGAIN DAY!!! I am literally so excited I’m bursting at the seams.

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Excited to the point that I may just explode

TODAY IS THE DAY!!!

HOW ARE WE FEELIN, MATT NATION?

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HAPPY DAREDEVIL BORN AGAIN DAY!!! I am literally so excited I’m bursting at the seams.

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Ro, you’ve done it yet again. You’ve made me fall in love with yet another version of Steve Rogers and I desperately need more of him

Wide Open Future (1)

Steve Rogers x agoraphobic!Reader

Summary: Steve save you after the Battle of New York, but you don't want to be taken from your safe space.

Warnings for being self-indulgent, hurt/comfort that's not completed in this part, 'slow' burn (but it's not going to be super long in total), and none of those are actually warnings so much as content descriptions. Originally, this was a one-shot. Go figure. There are zero specification of male or female, ethnicity or size for this reader. WC ~2k

Life was fine until half of your apartment blew apart. In an instant, the whole outer wall evaporated, leaving you seven stories up, the floor (mostly) ripped out from under you.

Obviously, in the emergency, no one took the elevators, and through your front door to the hallway, you heard people run for the stairs. They passed you by, but that’s because you didn’t know any of your neighbors. You didn’t move though. You couldn’t.

The sound…the sounds got worse.

Unearthly shrieks from floating, flying whales. Explosions that rattled you to the bone. Human screams, outside and in. Rubble from the other two stories above you crashed down, chipping away chunks of your floor with it.

Your couch teetered for a while before it finally caved.

Your kitchen island peeled away in bits: countertop, dishwasher, and then the sink plumbing.

For some reason, the worst was your books cascading off the shelves like synchronized swimmers into a sparking pool of ash.

You didn’t move though. You couldn’t.

It grew dark. The sirens never stopped.

You got thirsty, then hungry, yet you stay so, so still.

This has gone on for hours now. Life as you know it is over, and you remain curled at the foot of your front door.

All the electricity is out. Your fridge is off and your food spoiling, but at least water stops shooting out of the destroyed sink. There are no working clocks. Your walls are bare, and your phone long since slid down the slanted rubble to god-knows-where. There’s no signal by then anyway.

You don’t make a single sound. You can’t. You’d rather die here than leave. The dusty air is taunting you. You’ve shifted from hyperventilating to holding your breath.

“I’ve got something. Hang on,” you hear just as a spotlight sweeps across your living room turned paper mache dollhouse.

“Jarvis, can you get me the tenant listing…yeah, looks like…apartment seven-four-three…oh.” The voice says your name. “I’m going to move this off of you, ok? Can you hear me?”

The gentle hand sweeps a thick layer of debris off of your head and back. You chance relaxing your hands to look at the face of your rescuer.

Him.

“No,” you dryly whisper. “I live here. ’S my home.”

“The building isn’t stable. We have to evacuate you.”

“No,” you try to scream, but it’s too hard to focus. You’re fighting to back up out of his reach, but rubble lies behind you. Your ankle slips into a crevice, stopped by strips of exposed rebar.

Captain America grabs your shaking arms. “I’m sorry,” he keeps saying, “I’m sorry. You can’t live here. It’s not safe.”

You repeat yourself, too. “I can’t leave. I can’t leave.”

He talks, but it’s not to you anymore. He checks that you’re the last they’ve found in the building. People got trapped in the stairwell beyond a point, and they’ve been handled. Cap announces he’s going to “see this one through and call it a night.”

You’d rather die than leave. Out there is not livable. Out there is unsafe.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

You don’t believe him.

“I need you to trust me, just for a little while, alright?”

“I don’t want to go—“

“Close your eyes for me. Please? Just close your eyes until we get there.”

“No, please, no.”

He has to pry your body a little straighter to get ahold of you, and your shaking becomes so violent he adjusts, using sincere force to pin you to his chest before getting a running start.

He jumps across the chasm of your building to land on what sounds like a metal ramp and calls for the Jarvis person to take him home.

Home? It’s not your home. 

“It’ll be okay, I promise,” he says against your temple.

You’re frozen, shaking so badly words couldn’t form if you tried.

“I swear to you it will be okay.”

You haven’t spoken since.

He set you down on a bed, but you promptly crawled to the smallest, darkest space you could find, a closet full of Converses and jackets.

Cap, in his filthy suit, tossing the cowl onto the dresser, simply asks if you’re injured since he can’t get to you. You won’t let him see. The most he can do is hand you a bottle of water and a watch from his nightstand to hold.

Time is still going, still moving, even when you won’t.

Steve is…tired.

What he knows from J.A.R.V.I.S. is very little and very simple: you rented that one apartment for years, it has a magnetic keycard entry for the building, a regular key for your unit’s door, and there is no record of you ever entering since your move-in day. Your utilities are 35% higher than the average in the area. Because you are there all day. Because you never leave.

Because, as you yourself said, you can’t leave.

Steve sympathizes, he does, but he had to make the tough call. He wasn’t going to watch you die. He couldn’t live with himself if he left you there. This is the next-best and now only option.

He’s exhausted and starving. Shawarma only goes so far when vaulting across sheer drops to help find survivors in spots too dangerous for regular emergency crews. Steve alone found thirty-nine men, women, and children. Tony, with jet-pack feet and metal-armor biceps, rescued somewhere in the range of eighty people.

Great. Give Stark a medal. Steve couldn’t care less right now.

That’s not true, exactly, but after back-to-back-to-back calls with shelters all at-capacity or worse, he’s in need of sustenance, a shower, and clean clothes.

First, he chugs two of the protein shakes his fridge gets stocked with. It’s never been by his choice—and he never thought he’d be quite this grateful for modern packaging,—but today’s the day. Next, he chances a sweep through his room, snatching up sweats and then barricading himself in the bathroom. Despite wanting to stay beneath the hot spray forever, Steve rushes, concerned that you’re hurt in a way that wasn’t obvious.

He brings you another water and one of the shakes. He has no expectation of you wanting it. At the moment, however, there’s no other food ready to eat.

He grabs another washcloth, warming it under the tap, and slowly wipes at your face and hands. You certainly look terrible but luckily have nothing more than minor cuts.

Lucky.

He doesn’t feel lucky, and he imagines you don’t either.

“I’ll find you some place better in the morning,” he promises. “I’ll be out that door—“ he points “—on the couch if you need anything. I know you don’t want to,” Steve adds quietly, lacing his voice with as much reassurance as superhumanly possible, “but make yourself at home. You’re going to get through this.”

Before he can push himself off the floor, you grip his fingers in thanks, and he hopes, he wishes, he prays for that to be true.

It doesn’t feel like enough. It never feels like enough.

It’s small.

That’s good for your purposes of adjustment, and the fact that he’s never there (almost never) helps, too.

It’s all his stuff, not your stuff, but your whole life doesn’t exist anymore.

Jarvis, which is actually an AI wired through the walls or something, arranges for you to see your therapist via video chat on an enormous projection in the bedroom.

There’s a bedroom and bathroom. Theoretically, there is a grand common room just outside the door but you can’t.

“I’ve been told they won’t move you until a permanent place is found,” Dr. Lucien cuts in. You were staring at the door again, wondering. “Temporary shelters are so crowded right now people are getting transferred back and forth to wherever there’re beds. I’m told it’s no trouble to let you stay.”

Would Captain America kick you out?

“That’s good." You try to be brave. "I can do that.”

You work remotely—that’s always been easiest—and it’s a weird time where you have both less and more to do because the city is still in chaos, meaning you’re at your computer when Cap knocks before entering his own room.

“Hey,” he says carefully, “I just need to clean up.”

“Of course,” you reply automatically. In your mind, you shrink the world down to just the yard-long desk and this rolling chair. You focus on your screen and everything is fine.

Hearing the shower is no different here than that muted, rushing sound that came from your neighbor’s place before. You’ve had people you know in your space without much incident for a long time; the problem is mostly out there.

Cap leaves immediately. You almost don’t notice at all until a plate is plunked down on the desk.

“I’m gonna rest here for a bit if you don’t mind.”

“It’s…” You can hardly look up, knowing that he’s watching, knowing he can see inside this tiny bubble world you’ve managed to illusion yourself into. “It’s your room.”

“Turns out the couch is not very comfortable longterm.”

You nod and shrug. From the list of tasks left to complete, you’ll be working for a while yet.

“You got everything you need?”

He doesn’t lean in to make eye contact, you notice. He’s patient.

With twitching fingers, you pull away from the keyboard and slowly turn, controlling your breath to not seem panicked.

“I do, Captain Rogers. Thank you very much.”

His eyes are…not full of pity like you expected. He looks like a host eager to please a guest, but that’s ridiculous when you are indefinitely trapped here, constantly invading his home.

“Call me Steve, and I’m glad to help,” he replies softly.

In situations like this, it would be customary to say ‘no, I’ll get out of your hair,’ ‘I’ll just leave you to it,’ ‘please don’t put yourself out on my account,’ but that’s the thing: you cannot get out. You cannot leave. You don’t want to. You never, ever want to, and in this specific case, it’s actually Steve’s fault.

He raps his knuckles on the wood. “Little though it may be…”

Steve chugs a glass of water on his way to the bed—which you’ve made diligently every morning and changed the sheets twice now—and stretches across the half closer to the door. You’re comforted by the fact you didn’t steal the exact spot he sleeps in on top of bogarting his quarters.

You use his desk, you have clothes in the closet which Jarvis had someone bring you, and you etched out a corner of the bathtub rim for wash products. You’ve for sure done enough to invade already, so you stay silent and work while Steve falls asleep, snoring lightly.

You deep clean the bathroom one day when extremely restless, and although he insists you did not need to, Steve beams with gratitude.

You do a little more around the room, and a little more, and a little more.

The single room and en suite bathroom become your oasis, and—as promised—a safe space that you thoroughly dread leaving. The dread includes leaving Steve Rogers.

You know that all of those things will lead to another tragic episode once you have to move again. It makes you do more in hopes of being essential, of being needed to stay.

Steve pops his head in.

"Would you...would you want to watch a movie with me tonight? I checked out a few--well, I guess you'd call them 'classics' now--from the library, and I thought...maybe..."

With one flash of a smile, your oasis grows to two rooms. Life just might be fine again someday, just as he promised.

[Next Part]

A/N: I'm probably going to regret not just completing this before posting.

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rogersideup (tagging you because this kinda reminded me of your series Late Night Talking which I love so much!) @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

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For anyone who needs this

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four