#refoot

[cloginthedrain]

rooftops and vigilantes (part two) (matt murdock x reader)

summary: reader pays matt a visit at his office, and matt invites himself over. banter and flirtations ensue.

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word count: 1169

notes: lots of banter, back and forth, and flirting. reader gets a little too confident. a bit of a shorter one, but only slightly. hope you like it, i do!!! i've really appreciated a lot of the lovely comments and support. i've been having a lot of fun writing this one.

comments & reblogs always appreciated! <3

—

You stand in front of the smudgy, glass door, and take a shaky breath.

Once you’ve mustered enough courage, you push the door open to the coffee shop, chest fluttering with excitement at the possibility of just seeing Matt. Built, rugged, but put together.

You approach the coffee bar, your usual guilty pleasure before your grocery run.

“Your usual?” Ellie muses, all smiles. Penning your name, this time with a winky face. Your eyes narrowed.

“Please,” you say graciously. You fumble in your hellish bag for the familiar feeling of your beat up, pleather wallet amongst the mess of your bag: apartment keys, wired earbuds, chapstick, lotion, and your expired lip tint. You might’ve left it behind. 

“No, that’s okay.” 

“Ellie. I’m paying,” you say firmly.

She grins. “No, what I mean is that Matt’s got it.”

“Matt?” You flush, shifting your weight. Your limbs suddenly feel heavy. 

“Yes, Matt, he stopped by,” Ellie starts, a gleam of (obnoxious) curiosity in her eyes. “He said thanks for the whiskey. Whatever that means. You just missed him.” 

Your features soften. Last night, sewing kits. Whiskey. Rugged, shirtless, sweaty. Late night, and hell, an early morning. 

“Right,” you said. “Can I have that to go?”

“He got you this too.” Ellie places one of her freshly-baked crumbly raspberry lemon muffins on the counter.

You flush beet-red. Horrific.

You dodge further interrogation from your favorite nosy barista by excusing yourself to your booth to wait for your drink. You’re yet again rummaging in your bag, this time for a book to pretend to read. To no avail, you had left it on your bed-side table.

Chairs were still upturned onto the tables, warm lights illuminating the café. You practically run out of there, with your raspberry lemon muffin to go, as soon as your dirty chai hits the bar counter.

Your eye glimmers as soon as you step out. Across the street, a shiny metal plaque reads: 

Nelson and Murdock. Attorneys at Law.

You figured some time to kill before you had to head back to hold your virtual discussion for a survey course in English Romanticism.

You languidly climb the steps, exhausted from the night before, and pushed the door open. You took in the poorly-lit room. A prim, freckled blonde woman clacking away at her laptop.

She looks up from her work with a soft, perfectly cordial smile. “How can I help you?”

“Uhm,” you interrupt, shyly. “I’m here to see Matt?”

“Oh, Matt? He should be here soon.”

The door slams behind you. 

“He’s right here.” His hearty chuckle is unmistakable, one you could grow quite partial to. 

“Right,” the blonde woman starts. “This is, erm—“ She stops short. She hadn’t gotten your name. 

“Y/N,” Matt finishes. “Y/N, this is Karen. Our receptionist.” 

“Nice to meet you, Karen,” You barely manage. The verbal thing comes and goes. Especially in the intimidating presence of a man, Matt, in a well-fitting suit. You never accounted for that in your streak of confidence. “Just came by to thank you for the muffin. And the chai. And for leaving me defenseless against our nosy, mutual barista. I, uh, saw your sign outside.” 

As you’re blabbering you wonder if you crossed a line, coming into his work. The ball is in your court, right?

“Right,” He refoots. “I heard you’re partial to a raspberry lemon muffin.” 

“Something like that,” you say. You sense some awkwardness. “Anyway, I’ll go. Thanks again.”

You turn to leave. 

“Wait,” Matt starts.

If it was possible, your ears perked up. “Yeah?” 

“I’ll see you tonight?” 

You pretend to think for a moment, but not for a second more— trying to play it cool. You fail. 

“You bet,” you practically beam.

As soon as you leave, Foggy stumbles past you through the door. 

“Hey Froggy,” you say kindly, not noticing your mistake. 

He turns his head to do a double-take as you walk out of the building. “Hey?”

Once he’s in the office, false-outraged, Foggy asks accusingly, “Matt, who was that?” 

—

You did see him that night.

“Maybe you're not a vigilante,” you muse, admittedly a little wine drunk. “You’re a criminal. You’re robbing me, depriving me of my sleep.”

You’re sitting on the couch, legs across Matt’s lap, cradling a glass of wine. Student papers long discarded across your coffee table. You’re looser, a bit daring. You’re wearing your comfiest pair of sweats, heat be damned. Air-conditioning blasting.

“Right, I’m depriving you,” Matt laughs, further encouraging your antics. “You sure it’s not the deadlines you have to meet to sift through hundreds of student papers?” He’d also add guzzling insane amounts of caffeine factored into it. 

“Nope, and I’m prepared to make my case.” 

“You realize who you’re talking to?” 

“I have a leg to stand on,” you proclaim, particularly audacious. You sit up. “I was an English major.”

“Meaning?”

“I also know how to argue,” you slur, tilting your head. A challenge.

Your face inched close enough that you felt his breath, short, tickle your skin. Saw the shadow of his stubble. His plump pink lips.

You lost any sort of nerve right then.

“Let’s get you some coffee, sweetheart,” Matt redirects, and then as an aside, says to himself, “Or get you to bed.”

—

You were horrified the next morning. You wanted to sink further into your bed, to be swallowed under your covers. 

You had woken up late. 10 am. A ceremonious first.

A god awful headache too. Being taken with a night owl had its consequences.

You reach for your phone, and magically it's connected to the charger. Phone battery green, 100%. You peek at the notifications.

A missed call. Could be work, you reason. Blah.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Matt.

“Blegh, stop that,” you groan. “How’d you get my number anyway?”

You wish you could say you were surprised, but Matt’s been a recurring theme in your life as of, well, these past few weeks.

“I have my ways,” Matt pauses.

You don’t say anything, but roll your eyes so hard.

“Let’s just say you really wanted me to have your number last night,” Matt practically gloats. 

“Awh jeez,” you cringe, sitting up. You had forgotten that part.

At this point, you’re upright, just barely, and in pursuit of some sort of caffeine. Then you remember.

“Nooooo,” you moan, helplessly, and you’re back in your bed.

“What?”

“Remember when I, uh, ambushed you at your office?”

“Vaguely.”

“Right, so I was supposed to go grocery shopping,” you babble. “There is nothing in the cupboards, including but especially coffee. There’s some decaf for my mom when she visits. I suppose I can try and microdose the trace amounts of caffeine… That’s a lot of coffee. Nothing I’m not used to—”

“Or, I can bring you coffee.”

“Oh, Matt, no—” you start. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“Already leaving.”

You slump further into your bed. “Suppose there’s no point in pretending that I’m not secretly pleased then.”

“Yep, see you soon, sweetheart."

The call clicks off, and you roll your eyes.

You really are pleased.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

B.Deutsch

* * * *

Preparing for a consequential week

June 24, 2024

ROBERT B. HUBBELL

It was a relatively quiet weekend on the political front as President Biden and his advisers huddled at Camp David to prepare for the presidential debate on Thursday. None of his senior advisers appeared on the Sunday talk shows, suggesting that they are helping in the preparation process or laying low to avoid creating unnecessary controversy before the debate. Biden is appropriately allocating his most limited resource—his time. He is, after all, also running a country as he runs for reelection.

Biden’s campaign is launching a pre-debate offensive in the battleground state of Georgia to coincide with the debate. See Atlanta Journal Constitution, Biden campaign launches pre-debate offensive across Georgia. Per the AJC

President Joe Biden’s campaign will hold more than 200 events across Georgia the week of his debate against former President Donald Trump, part of a mobilization effort aimed at rebuilding the coalition that powered his 2020 win. The Democrat’s campaign said Sunday the spate of events ranges from watch parties for Thursday’s CNN debate, grassroots mobilizing events, community barbecues, news conferences with national figures and visits from Padma Lakshmi and other celebrities.

Organizing 200 events suggests that the Biden ground game in Georgia is strong!

Jennifer Rubin of the Washington Post wrote over the weekend about the emerging role and strength of Vice President Harris. See Jennifer Rubin, WaPo, Opinion  A closer look at Harris shows how effective she’s become. (Accessible to all.) Per Rubin,

Harris told me her campus visits have been standing room only, with overflow rooms. “Students stood in line for hours,” she said, “not for a rock concert, but to have a conversations with the vice president.” Contrary to the impression that Gen Z voters are disengaged, she came away “inspired” and more certain that they will mark a “sea change” in politics. Guns, abortion rights and climate are not academic issues to this generation. “It is a lived experience. In the height of their reproductive years, the Supreme Court took away the right to make decisions about their own body. . . . They understand we need practical solutions.”

The campaign season is in full swing. From every objective indication, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris are running a professional, disciplined, and effective campaign.  Trump is not. Although I don’t traffic in polls, the trend from spring to summer has been one of growing strength for Biden nationally, in key swing states and key demographics—especially the youth vote. But the only poll that matters is the one that takes place on election day. So, let’s not take our eye off the ball: Historic turnout that will give Biden an incontestable victory.

But . . . if you watched any broadcast or cable news over the weekend, the coverage was all-Trump-all-the-time. Why? Remember, Joe Biden is preparing for the debate. Trump was on the campaign trail, repeating his stories about Shark-apocalypse and Hannibal Lecter. But he added new gibberish, talking about creating an Ultimate Fighting Championship league with “migrants” because “they are so tough,” complaining about dishwashers, which he called washing machines, bragging about his thick luxurious hair, and saying, “If I took this shirt off, you would see a beautiful, beautiful person.”

But the clearest sign of cognitive decline came in this clip, where he wondered aloud whether the correct pronunciation was “refuttal” (with an “oo” sound) or “refuttal” (with an “uh” sound). Of course, “refuttal” is not a word in the English language. Trump could not recall the word “rebuttal.” Just imagine the 72-point font on the front page of every newspaper in America if Joe Biden mused aloud about whether the correct pronunciation for a non-existent word was “refootal” or “refuhtal.”

Although the media ignored those mistakes over the weekend, they will not likely do so during the debate. This is why Trump's team is already spreading lies about the reasons for Joe Biden’s victory in the first debate. While that feels unfair, you would much rather be the guy they are making excuses about than the one they are making excuses for.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[motguernesiais]

Mot d'Ogniet Guernésiais

Guernésiais Word of the Day

22/10/2023 Caouche n. f. [kauʃ] (High Parishes), [koːʃ] (Low Parishes) "Stocking, sock"

Mes caouches saont toutes usaïes; i'm faut les rempiotaïr - My stockings are all worn out; I should refoot them

[crocgirl420]

I love how Louis has an entire album called Walls about building walls around yourself but he’s also the most radically vulnerable person in the whole world. Louis is more publicly vulnerable on any given day than I ever have been, collectively, in my entire life. he’s a vulnerability exhibitionist and I would die for him

[jensensitive]

happy for everyone tagging b*refoot!Jensen to be able to find that picture again, congratulations to you guys in particular

[daofeibutdead]

WTF WHY IS UR SQUIDLING B*REFOOT EW EW EE

HEKWJRKWJDKAJDKSJDKSKJD I WANTED TO MAKE FOOTPRINTS

[missunitwocents]

Deluge

It was there on the desk when I got home that night. D20.G756 2002. Ranajit Guha’s History at the Limit of World-History. Due for return 30 July 2018. An extraordinary little paperback calling for nothing less than the refooting of my discipline. A book which arguably had its genesis at the university at which I work. Saved.

Relief and grief twirled in me like an eddy, moving with the force of the black water that had turned reading desks into battering rams which punched holes in the walls. Punched.

The rain had been steady, but not too heavy, over the previous days. A blessing, no doubt, to the farmers who had been watching the kangaroos descend on their parched crops and herds. Then over 60mm of rain in an hour took shape in a wall of water that crashed down Sullivan’s Creek and burst banks on and off campus. The suburb of O’Connor under water. The city’s main road impassable, flooding the carpark of our Fenner Hall.

Water lapped into Toad Hall, turned benign by a community bound together by the Wind in the Willows edict that there is nothing half so much worth doing as messing about in boats. But it crept on, up and down hills, insinuating itself into Kambri in a pincer movement that buried the construction site under four metres of water and washed into the neighbouring A. D. Hope, Melville Hall and Chifley Library buildings.

Uncle Carl was right. Never underestimate the power of the creek.

People are not bounded by the limits of their bodies. You only have to look at a university office to know that. Machines, archaeological fragments, sofas, maps, and piles of paper are extensions of people. And books. Books are made by authors, of course, but they are sustained by readers in afterlives that stretch over millennia.

When you wash away a book, it seems as if you wash away a person, even if it is not the only copy on earth.

I knew early on that afternoon that my books had probably been drowned. D13. Low enough on the shelves to have copped the full force of the water. No mind, I will give the library replacements. It was the loss of other people’s books that smarted. Hayden White died this past week. His Metahistory, playful, gone. Greg Dening’s powerful accusation about leadership, Mr Bligh’s Bad Language, gone. And countless others in my twin fields of history and philosophy. Not singular copies, but singular people.

People cherish books as they cherish people. I repeat thanks over and again that no one was in the affected buildings when the waters washed through, and that no one made the choice between saving books and other objects, and saving themselves. That’s a non-choice. No object is more important than a person.

And I am also mindful that eucalyptus tree breaks its boundaries after a fire. Sprouts and branches break out in all directions, wilful, off piste, defiant.

Inspiration sprouts in CIRCLE, a project which over four decades has recovered over 20,000 copies and mentions of letters destroyed in the explosion and fire that obliterated the Irish Public Record office in 1922. The Chancery will never be replicated, but it will be reborn. In the last week, too, Katherine Bode gifted me a generous peek of her beautiful new book on Australian novels. She has found traces of over 16,000 nineteenth-century Australian novels that we didn’t know existed. She found them through a forensic examination of digital news archives. That we now have more Australian women novelists is due to the strong research boughs that she is building. We are gaining a stronger sense of ourselves from what might be lost.

And I think of Guha’s invitation to think differently about what a history is. Rebuild the field, he tells us. But don’t use the same foundations. They are more negotiable and more ephemeral than you think. He was right, just like Uncle Carl.

Hold your books tight for a moment. They are safe in your arms. Breathe deeply. Then loosen your grip and let the powerful minds who wrote them carry you to a place in which a branch does not sprout in exactly the same place. Chifley will not be exactly as it was, and it does not have to be. The borrowed books—the saved—will return. But they will take their place in a collection created anew, one that is not just necessarily different, but one that we can choose to be different.

This blog’s shout out is for Roxanne Missingham and our beloved librarians at ANU.

[raspbabie]

just found out the b*refoot bandit is in a relationship im so sad like im actually crying

[topchannels-blog1]

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[luluplaysova]

House Rule

If a character is stunned, they must refoot at the beginning of the following round.

This gives the players a way to try to get initiative on an enemy that's moving too fast for them. (Especially if it's just by sheer dumb luck.)