#Muse: HM Murdock

[iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether]

@avictimofthejazz based on this post X 

[avictimofthejazz]

“Let’s start simple. What’s your favorite color?” Amy x Face -- but also a Murdock x Kelly one too?

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether

“Oh, blue.” Kelly answers the question promptly as she sets her teacup back on its saucer, “And purple blue… periwinkle I guess it’s called?”   HM’s admittedly simple question is, perhaps, not the most refined way to start this conversation but Kelly hardly cares. It is a way to start one at any rate… and an option that is far better then anything she could think up. Unfortunately, most of her questions are mentally tinged by months of half the people she knows trying to terrify her that she is getting a madman for her husband. She knows HM has some issues (that seems to be the nicest way of putting it), and that his service in the war left him troubled, but she cannot see anything that indicates he is insane. Not in a dangerous way, anyways. In fact, though she has not known him for long, when things get serious, he is almost too sane. HM is a puzzle… and she has a feeling he is not nearly as simple to understand as people have suggested. They all told her to accept him as insane, and simply pacify his whims when she has to spend time with him. What she has found in their few short meetings has been someone entirely more complex, and likeable, then everyone else claimed he was.

Setting her teacup back on the table, she clasps her hands, and leans toward Murdock. “Now, to be fair, you have to tell me your favorite color too.”

[thereismoretomylifethenice]

From this Ice Age meme Here

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether (For Murdock)

“I don’t really think it’s that serious a threat, Captain.” Elsa dubiously eyes the racoon trundling through the hallway of the psychiatric hospital around Murdock’s shoulder. “Isn’t he from that…. pet program they were testing? The one that you sabotaged by opening all the cages so you could slip out in the commotion? It seems they didn’t find all of the animals again.” Until now. While the trail of subterfuge and lies that landed her in the American Veterans Administration hospital’s psychiatric wing is a long and very complicated one, Elsa has to admit meeting Captain Murdock is an unexpected bright spot. Also, a rogue raccoon on the loose is quite possibly the most interesting thing that has happened here so far… The raccoon pauses in the hallway to examine some crumbs she assumes fell from food trays the orderlies take to patients too disturbed to leave their rooms. The animal picks a few up and starts sniffing them before putting them down again, and looking around. “So, what do we do?” She whispers. “Do we call one of the orderlies? Try to catch it ourselves? Or just leave it alone?” If it is from the failed pet program, she can assume it is a fairly tame animal that is not carrying any diseases. However, if it is some wild raccoon that wandered off the grounds, and into the hospital, she cannot make the same assumptions. Taking another step back when Murdock does, she glances around the hall for anyone who might be able to help them. For once, the halls seem suspiciously empty of staff and other patients… but ‘murder by bored raccoon’ is too ridiculous a plot to even consider. If she took that thought seriously, she might really need to be in this hospital.

[itwasthereaminuteago]

|| Stray ||

Gif by @briefcasejuice - full set here

Matt Murdock x gender neutral reader

Tags/warnings: fluff.

He enters through the living room window, careful to avoid knocking over the array of knick-knacks perched on the windowsill. He has a key of course but he just prefers this way. He knew from blocks away that you were deep in sleep, a smile hooking up his lip when he could hear your little snorts and snores.

His body is remarkably free of hurt and bereft of bruising for once, it had been a rare quiet night. He slides both his mask and shirt off, sitting on the edge of your couch to unlace his boots. He strips down to his black silk shorts, moving quietly on his bare feet as he pads into your kitchen to the fridge. He opens it, feeling along the containers on the shelves. Sure enough he finds there's a braille label that reads 'Matt' on one. He takes out the container, placing it on the counter and opening the lid a crack to investigate its contents. Tomato, garlic, basil, olives and oregano fill his nose before he puts it into the microwave for a few minutes to heat it up. You'd always leave some dinner for him if you thought he'd be out late and he loved you for it. Your pasta was the best.

He sits at the table eating straight out of the tub, more famished after patrol than he realised. He'll wash everything up in the morning but he walks around your apartment picking up and folding your hoodie over the back of the couch and tidying away some other detritus, putting his own clothes in a neat pile before heading to the bathroom to quickly wash and brush his teeth. You always left everything where he can easily find it, including a pack of Tylenol just in case.

When he slides into your bed he smiles softly as your arms immediately seek him out, wrapping around him as you snuggle your warmth into his cooler skin to equilibrate. You reply with a small hum when he kisses your forehead gratefully.

"Thanks for dinner sweetie." He whispers, and you mumble something half incoherent about lizards and he has to really stop himself from laughing at you.

Your fingers sleepily find his and he gently squeezes your hand, kissing the top of your head again.

"You're like a stray." He hears you murmuring into his arm.

"Hm?"

"... someone should adopt you." you continue, and he does let himself chuckle at that.

You feebly shove at his chest, waking up a bit. "M'not joking. Come 'n live with me."

Matt strokes his other hand down your arm, breathing in your sleepy scent. It's true that he could get used to this but you were just babbling.

"Shh, go back to sleep."

He can feel the brush of your eyelashes on his skin. "Matt, I wanna wake up every morning with you here like this."

His heart swells with the thought that you'd really want to take him in.

"What's there to talk 'bout? You don't wanna?"

"Let's talk about it in the morning sweetheart." is what he says.

He hears the small measure of hurt in your grizzly voice as you blink open your eyes in the dark. He puts his hand to the side of your face, thumb smoothing over your cheek. Then he captures your lips, slow and soft.

"Yeah I want to." He assures, and you smile and kiss him back.

"Good. S'settled then." And you nuzzle back close against him. "I love you Matty. I'll keep the sill clear."

Okay, his heart was definitely going to burst.

"Love you too, sweetheart. Thank you."

Matt tags: @saintmurd0ck @mindidjarin @castlesnchurches @peterman-spideyparker @pastafossa @mattmurdocksscars @mattmurdockspainkink @marvelswh0re @munsonownsmyass @hellskitchenswhore @pedrito-friskito @sweetieswiftie @briefcasejuice @shedaresthedevil @freshabogados @e-dubbc11 @father4giveme @idrinkcoffeeandobsess @imperfxctly-me @stress--relief @murnsondock @stupidthoughtsinwriting @whistle1whistle @tea-and-wine @emiemiemii @imherefordeanandbones @m0nster-fvcker @creatingjana @echos-muses @lazyxsquirrel @messymissy @evilbubu @chvoswxtch

[talesofesther]

a devil's safe haven

Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: Matt comes back home after a hard night out on the streets of Hell's Kitchen, luckily, you're there to catch him if he falls.

A/N: I'm finally watching Daredevil and it's safe to say that Matt has won my heart, so naturally, I had to write for him. Idea given to me by my dear @iamnicodemus.

Masterlist

He should be home already.

It was a little past 3 AM, you were curled up on Matt's couch, your third coffee cup warming up your hands and chasing away the winter's cold air. The window was always left open whenever Matt wasn't home, it was easier for him to get back in, you told yourself. You also told yourself to try not to worry, that he was more than capable of taking care of himself. It didn't help, but you liked to remind yourself of it.

You already memorized all the advertisements displaying on the huge billboard right outside Matt's window, now it only served as a source of light to his otherwise dark apartment, the colors of it highlighting the raindrops that hit the window. What started as a light drizzle earlier that night had evolved into a full-blown downpour.

Matt would need a warm bath, you mused to yourself. The thought of him being out there all alone in the rain wasn't pleasing at all. To be fair, you would offer to accompany him, but he'd die before allowing you anywhere near danger. So you stayed, you made him coffee if he wanted, or offered a shoulder for him to lean on if he needed, most of all you just stayed, though; he'd tell you himself that was more than enough.

Maybe another fifteen minutes of you sitting in the dark and listening to the rain passed, then the sudden sight of a dark figure moving on the fire escape snapped you back to reality and you were on your feet in record time, half-drank coffee cup forgotten on the coffee table.

Matt stumbled back inside his apartment, his dark clothes were dripping wet and clinging agonizingly to his skin, instantly forming a puddle underneath his feet. He stood still then, you could see his lips hovered open yet no words came out. You knew he was accessing the room, focusing his hearing past the sound of rain hitting the pavement outside and in search of your heartbeat. When he finally found you, a huge sigh escaped him.

"Hey," you greeted quietly so as to not disturb the calmness surrounding the room. Coming to stand in front of him, you reached a hand out, your fingers found his arm. Matt was worryingly cold to the touch, even through the fabric of his shirt you could almost feel the goosebumps on his skin. Slowly, your fingers slid down his arm until you found his hand; he had already rid himself of his gloves.

Matt's hand closed around yours with something akin to desperation. He took half a step closer to you. The obnoxiously bright lights of the billboard were shining against his face, you could make out little bits of blood coming from a cut on his lip and another on his cheek, but nothing too major, thankfully. He was shaking, however, violently; you felt it in his hold. You couldn't tell if it was because of the cold or something else.

With your free hand, you removed his black mask, finally revealing to you his warm and kind eyes—you've always loved his eyes; how, as sightless as they were, somehow they always managed to find yours.

"You're freezing, Matt," you squeezed his hand, thumb ghosting over the bruises on his knuckles, "Why don't you take a shower to warm up, hm?" You refrained from asking if he was okay, from his silence and unsteady hold on himself, you already knew the answer.

Matt's lips turned up with a faint yet gentle smile at the sound of your voice. He nodded, running a hand through his drenched hair. "Yeah, that sounds nice."

His shower didn't last longer than ten minutes, and when you heard him turning off the water you already had a warm mug of hot chocolate waiting for him.

You couldn't help the swelling of your heart upon seeing Matt walking out of the bathroom in nothing but a comfy hoodie, sweatpants, and the fluffy slippers you'd gifted him on his birthday—seeing him this relaxed and comfortable always made you smile. And it was almost as if Matt could feel your affection from the other side of the room, what with how his cheeks turned a soft shade of pink and he fiddled with the cuffs of his hoodie. Maybe he did.

Holding his mug in one hand, you walked up to him. You didn't say anything as you easily reached a hand behind his neck, fingertips grazing the hair there while you pulled him down so you could place a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth. He smelled like a mix of your coconut shampoo and faintly of his aftershave.

Matt leaned against you then, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in what was one of the only moments he allowed himself to be held, to be comforted. He pressed into you, half a sob being muffled against your neck.

Sometimes he needed saving too.

You pulled back slowly, reluctantly. Cupping his cheek with your free hand, you took only a moment to properly look at him with the extra illumination of the kitchen light; his face was a little bruised and battered, his red-rimmed eyes looked far too tired, and a pained frown lingered on his lips. You raised the mug between both of your bodies, silently asking him to take it.

Matt grinned as he closed his fingers around the warm mug, "Hot chocolate?"

"Yeah, I'm not giving you coffee at this hour," you quipped back, tugging on his hand and leading him to sit on the couch with you.

"But you drank it." Matt raised an amused brow at you.

You hummed as you snuggled closer to him, no space left between you as you draped a thin blanket over both your legs, "That's not relevant."

Matt naturally leaned closer to you, his head coming to rest on your shoulder. He hummed appreciatively when your hand found his hair, your fingers disappearing between the brown locks. "Do you wanna talk about tonight, love?" You asked quietly, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Quietness lingered for several beats, all you could hear were the drops of rain hitting the window and the unsteadiness of Matt's breathing. He took a big sip of his hot chocolate before speaking; "there's nothing to talk about, sweetheart. It was just a normal night," but his voice was strained, tight, as if each word hurt to be spoken.

"I know you, Matt. I can tell something is bothering you." You kept your voice soft, twirling a strand of his hair between your fingers, "There's no need to tell me if you don't want to, but just know that I'm here, okay? You don't have to go through this alone."

Matt took a deep shuddering breath, eyes closing at the words. He dug his teeth into his lower lip when he felt a tear rolling down his cheek, and then another, and another. Slowly, he crumbled, his heart thundering against his ribs when he lost any remaining composure he was fighting so hard to maintain. But you were there, somewhere along the way you'd taken the mug out of his hand and placed it on the coffee table; you encircled both your arms around him, pulling Matt closer to your body as you whispered sweet nothings in his ear.

He, in turn, held onto you as if you were his only lifeline, head buried between your neck and shoulder. Matt could feel his tears dampening your pajama shirt, but before an apology could stumble past his lips, you spoke.

"It's okay, baby, I got you."

Sometimes he thought you were an angel, tailor-made just for him, sent from the heavens to keep his soul pure and whole.

"It was a robbery," Matt started, a few syllables cracking in his voice. His fingers bunched up your shirt and he squeezed you tighter. "It was supposed to be just a simple robbery. Three guys. I was fighting two and then- then the other started shooting..." Matt hesitated, words caught up in a lump in his throat.

You felt tears prickling in your own eyes, your heart breaking in half for the man in your arms; who was so, undeniably good, and yet suffered under the claws of the worst of humanity.

"And there was a girl, she- she didn't-" a sob cut him off then. "I wasn't fast enough..."

"Shh, it's alright," You tightened your arms around Matt, quietly crying with him, feeling the pain and hurt leaving him in waves. You turned your head so your lips were pressed to his temple. "It wasn't your fault, Matt. It wasn't your fault," you sealed the promise with several kisses to his skin.

"But I should-" he started, yet you cut him off.

"No buts," you pulled back then, urgently, just enough so you could hold his face with both your hands. Thumbs brushing away the stray tears still falling from his eyes, "You can't blame yourself for other people's sins, you can't, because it's not your fault okay?" You said like a mantra, a prayer you hoped he'd understand.

Matt leaned his forehead against yours, falling into you because he knew you'd be there to catch him. "Okay."

You were both basically lying down on the couch now, with Matt resting mostly on top of you, his arms securely around your waist keeping you pressed to him at all times. You hugged him too, one arm around his shoulders while your other hand found his hair again. Having him in your arms was your idea of peace, all warm and secure—a safe haven for both you and him.

Several minutes went by, you thought Matt had already fallen asleep, snuggled with you. But he whispered; "Can we stay here tonight?"

A genuine smile came to your lips, and you chuckled, "Yeah, we can."

You felt the shape of Matt's own smile against your skin.

When morning came the next day, it would be with soft rays of sun shining in your eyes and making you hide yourself into Matt.

He'd place gentle good-morning pecks on your lips, all goofy smiles and heartfelt laughs; before you got up to make coffee for you both. And Matt would wrap his arms around your waist and sway clumsily with you around his kitchen, while you halfheartedly scolded him for spilling a bit of coffee on the floor.

Matt would kiss you again, again, and again. Whispering confessions of love between each kiss as you watched the golden sunlight dance in his eyes. It would be one of those mornings that are simple yet special; that look like nothing yet are everything because it was one more morning where you had each other.

Most of all, it would be the calm after a storm.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Matt’s taglist:@milkiane @v1ci0us

[sleeplessinspace]

one hundred and twenty seconds - murdock x gn!reader

in true basic bitch fashion, i've returned to my roots because a certain somebody gave me ideas after some recent scrunkling. @meloncalic this your fault you little fiend /aff

so here we are, murdock's perspective of the first part of two minutes with slightly changed dialogue. might be missing some tags, i'm rusty T_T

warning(s): nsfw, semi-graphic description of violence (not directed at reader), knife mention/usage (not used on reader), non-descriptive death mention, descriptions of blood

Muffled yelling, nearly coherent despite the amount of blood the piece of shit has surely lost by now, draws Murdock's attention back up from where he was musing over what to do next. He lifts his hand and it arcs in a quick motion, embedding the serrated blade in the worm's upper thigh.

“You made me lose my train of thought. Why are you crying for help when no one can hear you, hm? I thought we went over this earlier,” Murdock hisses and rips the knife out at an unpleasant angle just to get the guy to stop screaming.

Unfortunately, it only seems to distract him for a moment and soon the worm is yelling again, this time telling someone to run for help and—

Shit.

There’s only one person that could come down here, but they’re supposed to be at work.

Murdock sighs, more than a little angry at the interruption—more so that he let himself get too comfortable, too lost in his head to pay attention to the perimeter alarms—and pushes to his feet, wiping the knife off on the side of the worm's face before turning to face them.

Well, don’t they look cute when they’re scared?

They make a little noise and he grips the knife tighter, a low thread of arousal starting to snake its way into the simmer of anger in his blood. Before this, they were reaching a breaking point with him, he knows it. Receptive to every bit of him, from the gift-giving to the cooking to the playful companionship they managed to get out of him somehow—his work, his true calling, had been the only part of himself that he swore he'd never share.

At least not until the right moment.

But they forced his hand, turned him right on his head like they always did, from the moment he meant them they would always make moves he could never anticipate.

Murdock normally loved and despised how much they liked to test his resolve but this was—

“You’re home early,” he murmurs, low and casual with a hint of threat in his voice that he’s sure they can hear. They jolt, foot knocking back against the bottom step in their shock.

But they’re still not running, still haven’t heeded that worm's advice.

Still staring at him with the strangest look in their eyes. Murdock is very well-acquainted with fear, knows the different types of terror and how they look on people’s faces but you… there’s only a fraction of that there.

Interesting.

They struggle to respond—and he can’t quite blame them, but he finds their plight amusing all the same—before letting one of their hands fling out to the side and back, grasping desperately for the stair railing. Off balance in more ways than one it seems.

He tilts his head, warning them silently to stay put and they suddenly seem to gain resolve, clearing their throat. Trembling a little, he can see the hand not on the railing shaking at their side and tries to keep from smiling.

Cute little thing.

“W-well, after everything that’s been happening this week, my boss thought that we should head home early. For s-safety.”

Murdock hums again, masking his wariness beneath a veneer of boredom and watches them take a step back, one foot propped up on the step as they angle their body in preparation to run.

Lovely thing, you’re almost making this too easy for me.

Instead of lunging himself at them, knowing perfectly well that because of their height difference he’d catch them before they even reached the top of the stairs, he reaches over to pat his neglected victim on the shoulder.

Neglected, but unfortunately not silent, as the piece of shit had been sobbing quietly in the background the entire time. Murdock digs his hand into the man's shoulder, aggravating the hell out of the wound he'd carved into the man a few hours earlier and shoots them a smile, one sharper than he intends.

“Ah, so that’s why you’re here. I should apologize on behalf of my friend here,” he growls and sees them almost flinch at the sound. Cute, he can’t help but think again and feels that fucking smile work its way onto his face again.

Christ, they did something to him that he almost wanted to study, brought out a piece of him he thought dead a long time ago.

“It seems that this foolish mutt got it into his head that he could copy what I do best. My work, my art, as it were… He thought he could replicate it and try to garner attention and credit where none belonged. Not only did he try to steal from me, he made a lot of fucking mistakes—the biggest one being that I never hunt where I live. Which, all things considered, made him remarkably easy to find.”

He lets them think he’s distracted by his monologue, pointedly ignoring the way they’re slowly inching up another step. His good friend decides to try using his words again, but Murdock shuts that down quickly with a quick flick of his wrist. Noisy and messy, low on his list of favorite ways to do things, but he needed that loose end taken care of.

Now he can focus entirely on them, and they know it. He wipes his blade clean on what’s left of the man's shirt before spinning the blade between his fingers. He won’t bother cleaning up beyond that, no, they need to see and they need to learn.

Speaking of learning—

Murdock watches them bite their lip, eyes darting down to his rolled-up sleeves and up to his face. Following the blood splatter, he realizes.

Again, cute.

But also stupid, he notes with a half-fond, half-exasperated sigh, not that he can blame them. Poor thing probably can’t think straight.

Murdock points his knife at them, tilting his head down so they can see his eyes over the line of his glasses. So, they can see he’s serious. He already knows they won’t listen, can see it in the way their body is slowly starting to tense in preparation for sudden movement, but no one can ever call him unfair.

He warns them. Gives them a chance to back down. “Don’t.”

And just like he predicted, they’re turning on their heel and sprinting up the stairs like the house is on fire and he growls under his breath, tucking his knife away before following them up the stairs, easily taking two at a time. They try to shut the door on him, and the keyword here really is try, they’re just so soft and weak, they never had a chance. It takes nothing for him to slam the door against the wall and stalk into the kitchen, watching them mimic his gait on the other side of the kitchen island.

The same island where he meets them after every trip, bringing a new present out of his bag that will soon sit on the shelf now dedicated to all his gifts for them. It feels almost right to have this happen here, he thinks, and plants his hands on the marble, leaning forward and looming over them despite the distance.

He sighs, tapping his fingers in a one-two pattern. “Be smart about this, little fawn. You saw how easily I closed the gap between us, felt how much stronger I was when you tried to shut the door in my face. You don’t honestly think you’ll get away from me, do you?”

“I know I can try.” Their response is immediate and only slightly shaky, making him chuckle darkly. “It’s not funny! You’re not nearly as scary as you think you are.”

“Oh? Is that right?”

Murdock pauses just long enough to give them a chance to reconsider, his smile growing sharper as they seem to wilt under his gaze.

That's what I like to see. Let’s break you down and put you where you belong, silly little thing.

“I'm going to be nice, since this is your first time and all,” and oh, the look on their face has him biting the inside of his cheek, pressing his leg hard into the handle of the cabinets in an effort to tamp down his growing arousal. He wants to fuck that expressive little mouth so badly. “A headstart. You get two minutes to get as far as you can, or hide if you feel like you can do it well enough.”

They open their mouth—presumably to challenge his rules and no, little fawn, we can’t have that—but he cuts them off with a glare, leaning a little more against the counter.

He wonders if they know he can very easily vault across it and pin them to the floor before they have a chance to even react.

“I wouldn’t call for help if I were you, sweetheart. This is just between you and me… so let’s keep it that way, hm? And trust that I will know if you try and know that I will be so disappointed in you. You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”

A bit of a glaze passes over their eyes as they shake their head before clarity kicks back in and they drop their gaze, clearly embarrassed. It soon lifts and darts around the room, clearly struggling to form some kind of plan and he grins, reveling in the confusion and hopeless fear in their eyes. After a moment they meet his gaze again and lick their lips, nervous.

Even more so after he fists one of his hands to keep himself from reaching over to yank them over the countertop so he can get a taste of them for himself. “What’s to stop me from driving off in my car? Or yours?”

Smart little thing.

Too bad he took the keys just after chasing them up the stairs.

Spinning the keys around a finger, he glances over at the clock on the kitchen wall.

“You’re welcome to come and try and take them from me, sweetheart,” Murdock purrs. “Either way, you’ve got two minutes. You should start running.”

They take his suggestion to heart and don’t linger, heading out the backdoor and into the forest behind your shared home. Once they’re a little out of sight, Murdock runs a hand through his hair and sighs, tossing the keys back in the bowl in the entryway before heading back downstairs.

He’s not happy.

He lashes out and kicks the leg of the cooling body in the chair, growling under his breath.

This shouldn’t fuck with his plans, this is just a slight misstep and based on the way they’d lingered for so long before actually running told him that they weren’t exactly scared, just… unsteady.

Murdock just needed to reassure them of their place—he had no intention of hurting them, at least not in any way they didn’t ask for.

He gets the body into cold storage, intending on disposing of it later. After he gets his little fawn back where they belong, before they can get far enough away to start getting ideas in their head. Back upstairs in the kitchen, he makes sure the house is closed up before stepping down into the backyard, already seeing signs of their sloppy escape.

Clicking his tongue, Murdock makes a mental note to teach them to hide their tracks better. He’s going to want to do this again, but he wants them prepared.

He wants them to give him a challenge—a proper hunt.

[anoseforrottenapples]

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether

Mary Woodhull and HM Murdock get a table for two in the “Last Person You’d Expect to Go for a Headshot and Almost Succeed” corner. 

[nashforhire]

✮☀♕回↓ ☾

✮ ━ top three favorite muses that you’ve played

Liz, Deadpool, and Kvasir

☀ ━ how long have you been roleplaying? how did you get into it?

I don’t know exactly. I’ve been writing fic for... ever? A long ass time. Actually RPing, probably for like 5-6 years, I guess. I got in to it by writing Deadpool and people wanting to actually interact with him. 

♕ ━ which fictional characters are your favorites?

Like... overall? Um... fuck... I am bad at this. A lot of them. Can you narrow it down? Like off the top of my head - Deadpool, HM Murdock, Tyrion Lannister, Dr. McCoy (both Leonard and Henry), Abe Sapien, Brienne of Tarth, Gamora, George Lass... um... shit... I don’t know... lots. LOTS. 

回 ━ what are your top four favorite shows?

Oh Christ... I am so bad at picking favourites. Star Trek, M*A*S*H*, Quincy ME, Columbo (I watch a lot of weird shit)

↓ ━ have you had any bad experiences with roleplaying?

Yes. One person nearly put me off it forever and destroyed everything I’d built over YEARS. I am still gunshy about a lot of things and I don’t know that certain anxieties will ever go away. To the point where I refuse to associate with anyone who is connected with them. At all.

☾ ━ how many pets do you own? if none, what kind of animals do you like?

3 currently. 2 cats and a dog. I don’t think I’d ever get a dog again, not that I don’t love her. Just that I find having cats much easier and they suit me better. I would like to get a bird though. Some day. 

[couchcushings]

5, 13, 14, 29

5. since how long do you write?

Oh lord like idk since I was 12 really?? But long before that little Chelsea was dreaming stuff up and telling herself stories at bedtime.

13. hardest character to write

*sideeyes bram van helsing* Uh well someone has been causing me writerly trouble lately but overall I have more trouble with my OCs because they start to get wildly OOC from how I designed them. The little bastards.

14. easiest character to write

I have this weird thing where if I listen to someone/read them for long enough I can hear the words with their voice. Which is apparently A Thing. But at one point the answer was Dr. Miguelito Loveless because he had such a unique dialogue style that it was hella east to just hear things in his voice. Right now? Golly, right now it’s probably one of my OCs but most recently it was HM Murdock.

29. favorite story/poem of another author

Right now I’m hella into Lovecraft like I’m literally typing out one of his stories so I can get the feel of his heady-ass unnecessarily purple-as-fuck prose. It makes my head hurt if I don’t hydrate adequately before I read it. Favorite story by him is, currently, The Statement of Randolph Carter because it’s so short and perfect and it has a gr8 ending. My favorite poetry is by Stephen Vincent Benet and I’m just going to link you to some because otherwise I’ll talk about it all night. And I’m leaving my favorite piece of poetry by him under the cut because it’s hella long.

INVOCATIONAmerican muse, whose strong and diverse heartSo many men have tried to understandBut only made it smaller with their art,Because you are as various as your land,As mountainous-deep, as flowered with blue rivers,Thirsty with deserts, buried under snows,As native as the shape of Navajo quivers,And native, too, as the sea-voyaged rose.Swift runner, never captured or subdued,Seven-branched elk beside the mountain stream,That half a hundred hunters have pursuedBut never matched their bullets with the dream,Where the great huntsmen failed, I set my sorryAnd mortal snare for your immortal quarry.You are the buffalo-ghost, the broncho-ghostWith dollar-silver in your saddle-horn,The cowboys riding in from Painted Post,The Indian arrow in the Indian corn,And you are the clipped velvet of the lawnsWhere Shropshire grows from Massachusetts sods,The grey Maine rocks--and the war-painted dawnsThat break above the Garden of the Gods.The prairie-schooners crawling toward the oreAnd the cheap car, parked by the station-door.Where the skyscrapers lift their foggy plumesOf stranded smoke out of a stony mouthYou are that high stone and its arrogant fumes,And you are ruined gardens in the SouthAnd bleak New England farms, so winter-whiteEven their roofs look lonely, and the deepThe middle grainland where the wind of nightIs like all blind earth sighing in her sleep.A friend, an enemy, a sacred hagWith two tied oceans in her medicine-bag.They tried to fit you with an English songAnd clip your speech into the English tale.But, even from the first, the words went wrong,The catbird pecked away the nightingale.The homesick men begot high-cheekboned thingsWhose wit was whittled with a different soundAnd Thames and all the rivers of the kingsRan into Mississippi and were drowned.They planted England with a stubborn trust.But the cleft dust was never English dust.Stepchild of every exile from contentAnd all the disavouched, hard-bitten packShipped overseas to steal a continentWith neither shirts nor honor to their back.Pimping grandee and rump-faced regicide,Apple-cheeked younkers from a windmill-square,Puritans stubborn as the nails of Pride,Rakes from Versailles and thieves from County Clare,The black-robed priests who broke their hearts in vainTo make you God and France or God and Spain.These were your lovers in your buckskin-youth.And each one married with a dream so proudHe never knew it could not be the truthAnd that he coupled with a girl of cloud.And now to see you is more difficult yetExcept as an immensity of wheelMade up of wheels, oiled with inhuman sweatAnd glittering with the heat of ladled steel.All these you are, and each is partly you,And none is false, and none is wholly true.So how to see you as you really are,So how to suck the pure, distillate, storedEssence of essence from the hidden starAnd make it pierce like a riposting sword.For, as we hunt you down, you must escapeAnd we pursue a shadow of our ownThat can be caught in a magician's capeBut has the flatness of a painted stone.Never the running stag, the gull at wing,The pure elixir, the American thing.And yet, at moments when the mind was hotWith something fierier than joy or grief,When each known spot was an eternal spotAnd every leaf was an immortal leaf,I think that I have seen you, not as one,But clad in diverse semblances and powers,Always the same, as light falls from the sun,And always different, as the differing hours.Yet, through each altered garment that you wore,The naked body, shaking the heart's core.All day the snow fell on that Eastern townWith its soft, pelting, little, endless sighOf infinite flakes that brought the tall sky downTill I could put my hands in the white skyAnd taste cold scraps of heaven on my tongueAnd walk in such a changed and luminous lightAs gods inhabit when the gods are young.All day it fell.  And when the gathered nightWas a blue shadow cast by a pale glowI saw you then, snow-image, bird of the snow.And I have seen and heard you in the dryClose-huddled furnace of the city streetWhen the parched moon was planted in the skyAnd the limp air hung dead against the heat.I saw you rise, red as that rusty plant,Dizzied with lights, half-mad with senseless sound,Enormous metal, shaking to the chantOf a triphammer striking iron ground.Enormous power, ugly to the fool,And beautiful as a well-handled tool.These, and the memory of that windy dayOn the bare hills, beyond the last barbed wire,When all the orange poppies bloomed one wayAs if a breath would blow them into fire,I keep forever, like the sea-lion's tuskThe broken sailor brings away to land,But when he touches it, he smells the musk,And the whole sea lies hollow in his hand.So, from a hundred visions, I make one,And out of darkness build my mocking sun.And should that task seem fruitless in the eyesOf those a different magic sets apartTo see through the ice-crystal of the wiseNo nation but the nation that is Art,Their words are just.  But when the birchbark-callIs shaken with the sound that hunters makeThe moose comes plunging through the forest-wallAlthough the rifle waits beside the lake.Art has no nations--but the mortal skyLingers like gold in immortality.This flesh was seeded from no foreign grainBut Pennsylvania and Kentucky wheat,And it has soaked in California rainAnd five years tempered in New England sleetTo strive at last, against an alien proofAnd by the changes of an alien moon,To build again that blue, American roofOver a half-forgotten battle-tuneAnd call unsurely, from a haunted ground,Armies of shadows and the shadow-sound.In your Long House there is an attic-placeFull of dead epics and machines that rust,And there, occasionally, with casual face,You come awhile to stir the sleepy dust;Neither in pride not mercy, but in vastIndifference at so many gifts unsought,The yellowed satins, smelling of the past,And all the loot the lucky pirates brought.I only bring a cup of silver air,Yet, in your casualness, receive it there.Receive the dream too haughty for the breast,Receive the words that should have walked as boldAs the storm walks along the mountain-crestAnd are like beggars whining in the cold.The maimed presumption, the unskilful skill,The patchwork colors, fading from the first,And all the fire that fretted at the willWith such a barren ecstasy of thirst.Receive them all--and should you choose to touch themWith one slant ray of quick, American light,Even the dust will have no power to smutch them,Even the worst will glitter in the night.If not--the dry bones littered by the wayMay still point giants toward their golden prey.

[iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether]

A-team Incorrect Quotes

BA: You know that little voice inside your head that tells you not to do the thing? Listen to it next time, FOOL!"

Murdock: I have lots of little voices in my head. Could you be more specific--??

[avictimofthejazz]

she’s too perfect. she’s too talented, she’s too beautiful. she’s too sophisticated. she’s too everything--- *sighs* She'll never look in my direction. (murdock to Face about Kelly)

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether

A bemused smile crosses Face’s features as he listens to Murdock extol Kelly’s many virtues from his spot flopped over on the couch, his face buried in the seat cushions. It is an image worthy of any lovelorn 19th century poet… except Face is confidentiality sure that 19th century lovelorn poets did not wear De Nang flight jackets paired with Captain Bellybuster baseball caps while bemoaning their unworthy status compared to the woman who held their heart. “Oh come on, Murdock.” Face sits on the opposite arm of the couch, the other currently covered by Murdock’s dangling legs—the lanky man has no hope of fitting his 6’1” frame onto  a loveseat. “Don’t talk yourself down like that. You’re one the best pilots the miliary ever lost their hold on. You flew with the Thunderbirds before the war! You’re the only guy I know who has learned so many languages he forgets which ones he does and doesn’t know… and who can do an operatic solo while doing 360 barrel rolls. Now if that’s not a gift, I don’t know what is!” Of course, none of those things were really the kind of thing a man put on his speed dating profile… and Murdock has few career prospects thanks to a lengthy stint in the VA, and limited materially attractive features. The poor man is even losing his hairline. Somehow, though, Face suspects that none of those things matter to Kelly. The few times he has met the veterinarian, she is clearly besotted with the pilot. Her face lights up like a Christmas tree as soon as he walks in the room, and she always makes a beeline straight for his side. There is only one man she notices, even in a crowded room,… and that is Captain Murdock.   “In all seriousness, Murdock, Kelly doesn’t have to ‘look in your direction’. Her attention’s pretty much always there as soon as you walk in the room.  Haven’t you noticed that?”

[iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether]

Murdock doesn’t have a life plan! He doesn’t even have a day plan! I once found a note he wrote to himself that said, ‘Put on pants’ followed by a question mark.

Templeton Peck probably 

[iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether]

The concern in Amy’s Face at Murdock’s antics

[iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether]

When I've read the messages 5 times and still don't know what to reply:

[iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether]

[iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether]

Icons only Kelly tells Murdock he's going to be a dad