#thewhirlwind

anonymous queried:  so what're your thoughts on @fatherofmachine​ and @thewhirlwind?

// oh boy.  better take a seat here, ‘nonnie.  you’re in for a long one.  okay, collectively, they’re a cohesive unit.  they work really really well together and just, that’s the kind of dynamic i look for and am reminded of another couple of friends of mine---- actually, four, or well, yeah.  but it’s really, really enjoyable to see just how they’re both a part of each other, they’re like, it’s pretty obvious to me but then again i’ve known them both a while---- and i’m rambling.  

it’s really v cute to see them all excite an’ everything.

fact of the matter is, they’re both devoted to their roles and it more than shows.

OKAY BUT TRUTH BE TOLD, in the beginning i was hella intimidated by @thewhirlwind​‘s writing and this came from @anurbanlcgend and then i was completely and utterly mind blown by his depiction of wo fat, i don’t remember the url but by god it’s like, if anyone remembers my very failed attempt at adam noshimuri, was kinda inspired by that.  by just.  yeah, forsythe is a damn good writer and has been more than welcoming.

even with my shitty attempt at john reese.

FOA.  @fatherofmachine​ / @ephemeraltheory​.  okay this lil’ imp though.  it started out with me sending a rather RANDOM ask from john to finch.  and it kind of just, capsized thereafter.  FINCH.  our beloved birb.  foa has put so much, so so much into harold finch, it’s really awe inspiring.  like i’ve said, the dedication to the roles always leaves no surprise to me, but.  foa has been wonderfully supportive and HELLA patient with me and my spastic ass.

okay, they just, invest a lot of time and effort.  you’ll see dearest nonnie, you will.

ANYWAY, in conclusion i feel they’re both lovely and deserve a lot of loveliness.

(always want to hurt matt!)

(meme ;; accepting)

“No, no, no...no...no, no.” There was a bit of a scramble, a struggle as he tried to sit up and Frank tried to keep him laying down, before he gave up and laid back, “I can’t see!” That probably didn’t make sense to him, given that Matt shouldn’t be reacting like this to blindness.

Yet, not dissimilar to the first time he traded blows with Frank, he couldn’t hear shit, which meant he couldn’t see shit, which meant he was blind. Maybe it was temporary as it was before, but he didn’t know that and the interim was something to be fearful of. It had been a blow to the side of the head, face smashing into a dumpster. He could still feel the pain radiating from his jaw to his temple.

Really, he should probably be more concerned about the amount of blood he was losing, but that was just the regular. He couldn’t sense anything beyond what he could feel, which at the moment was the rough of the concrete, the cool night air, and the heat of Frank hovering close, alongside all the familiar blood and bruises.

@thewhirlwind | @rugini | @ciufuli

Ever since everything that happened with the hostages and the Hand and Elektra, Foggy and Karen had been trying to convince him to lay down the mask and let it all go, and he was considering it. The fact that they were even talking to him at all made him think that he should do what they said. He just...hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Sighing, he hopped over to his roof, plopping down on a brick ledge. He didn’t want to go in yet, didn’t want to return to being Matt Murdock, even as he pulled off the red mask. 

He may still be Daredevil, but it was good. Crime rates were down throughout the Kitchen. It was a distraction. He didn’t have to spend hours laying in bed and thinking. It worked for everyone. Everyone except his friends, who were worried. But he couldn’t give this up, not really. He couldn’t go be a regular lawyer and a normal person and ignore the sirens and the cries for help and forget the nightmares. It wasn’t who he was, but he’d try. Eventually, eventually he’d try for them. Just a few more nights, and then he’d put the red suit away and go back to a black one with a tie. 

Boots on the roof with him pulled him from his thoughts. He had been aware of the other nearby, but was honestly a bit surprised that he was actually approaching. For a moment he debated sliding the mask back on, before he let his hand drop. There was no way he hadn’t seen Matt on that rooftop. No point putting on the mask. “Frank.” he greeted, tone a healthy mix of friendliness and wariness. He hadn’t forgotten the rooftop, (god, how could he forget the rooftop,) and while he still didn’t approve of Frank’s methods, he appreciated the help. “What brings you back to Hell’s Kitchen? I thought your...justice here was finished.”

plotted starter for @thewhiirlwind​

It’s...not late in the day but also not early. Rising from the grave as he is he can’t much be bothered to care which it really is. Only that the suns up and he needs a shower. Something in his stomach. A smoke and a drink. Though not in that particular order. Heavy bones that lift him, stick and shift into place as feet are gained. The strike of a match, burn of paper catching fire, the plume of smoke that lingers after him into the bathroom. The twitch of an ear, cock of a head as if something in the silent house caught his attention. But it’s dismissed just as quickly.

A shower found and overly enjoyed. Clean in so much as he can ever really be, and not a scrap of cloth upon his person as he shuffles back into the bedroom. Toweling at his hair with only so much disinterest. Jeans stepped into pulled up. A t-shirt pilfered from an overly modest amount of others hanging in the open closet. And from there its a trail of another cigarette across the open house. Brunch found in the shape the steak he’d picked up from the butcher on the way home a few days earlier. It’s not fresh but he’s devoured worse. And right now he doesn’t have the luxury to be overly picky. And there’s another twitch of an ear, jerk of a head as the meat sizzles in the pan. 

         Feck be d’at noise?

His meal is plated in the wake of the silence inquiry. The stove switched off. Fork snatched from the drawer and he’s going in search of it. Food, and whiskey laced caife in hand. The front door battled with for a second before he’s toeing the screen door open, that’s allowed to swing back shut with a snap. The plate and glass set neatly on the simple table on the porch. Green and yellow squinting in the late morning light, as they scan the front green. Nose twitching against the quiet air. Looking for whateve--

A flapping sound. A clearly distressed chirp and a red crown is tilting to one side. Yellow narrowing a little more because...there’s something in the bush near the drive way. Something overly unhappy and--a sniff--by what he can gauge of the feathered variety and hurt. And there’s a full bodied sigh that escapes as bare feet carry him down the short steps of the front porch. Over painfully smooth stone work and into the grass, where he’ comes up a little short of the greenery. Crouching down and craning his neck down a bit to see exactly what it is.

Flashes of white and what he guess must be a bright pink. Angry chirps and screeches that punctuate the flapping sounds. And there’s only so much time that he waits before he’s shifting forward. Hands quick but gently firm in caging around the panicking bird. Working it free of the tiny thick branches it had gotten itself entangled in and pulling it out into proper view. 

                “Shh shh shhh.”

Sound like wheat in the breeze. Meant to calm and sooth the wee creature. It’s not just any bird. A sort of Galah if he’s not mistaken--been a few dozen years since he last read up on birds after all. But definitely not something seen in this part of the world as a free lancer. Most likely escaped a pet store in town or actually someone’s pet that jail broke out an unfastened window. And again the immortal is looking about, towards the road a ways away. But there’s no one in sight. No scent on the air of anyone but himself and the bird. The deer in the woods to the left of his property. And green and yellow return to the perturbed feathered creature in his hold. 

           “Easy ye wee shoi’te. Ye goin’ ta be hurtin’ ye self more d’an ye already be.”

@thewhirlwind | @theyxlived

I can hear the sound of your barely beating heart Pieces on the ground from the world that fell apart...