d e v o n
art blog(derogatory)
Peter Solarz
Stranger Things
cherry valley forever

No title available

oozey mess

shark vs the universe
KIROKAZE
macklin celebrini has autism
Not today Justin
trying on a metaphor
ojovivo
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
NASA
taylor price

tannertan36

Origami Around

No title available
seen from Kyrgyzstan

seen from Kyrgyzstan
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
@xdevilinthedetailsx
Best and worst parts of L.A. so far?
The best? The beaches, absolutely. Very nice. They remind me of Greece, a little. The worst would be the heat - summer’s never been my season. I’m more into sweater weather.
the sarcasm is astounding
The Horrible Crowes - Behold the Hurricane
i remember everything we had
every breath of this house creaking i'm familiar with the cold, and the windows and the doors and the sound of my heart beating, beating in and out of time
“and it's such a shame,” i heard the wind say, this morning be still my heart, i age by years at the mention of your name what a pitiless season. you remember me, my lover? i don't recognize myself, i'm not the man you loved behold the hurricane. i walk around these empty rooms, where we once moved like the morning silhouettes, they haunt this house, like your memory haunts me now, as if it were a dream. as if it were a dream...
Netflix Daredevil Countdown ((17 DAYS))
f thestarsarentsafe:
[pm] Ah- severely belated Merry Christmas, I suppose.
At least you are trying. If you- Maybe… Maybe that is something I could try as well. I am trying to work some things out, anyway.
You are in Malibu as well? Thank you, Matt.
Since you bring up the subject of homes I was not entirely honest about the place I took you to You should know
That place I took you to, when you first got here? That is my home. Just- in case you need anything. Or if you were curious. It is mine, I live there. So… yes. You are welcome to come by, if you wish. I would suggest dropping me a text first, so I do not try and attack to see you coming- which brings me to- well. Here: [number]. If you need it. Or want it.
[pm] Merry Christmas, El. Better late than never, right?
That’s on me, anyway. The lateness. You reached out, and I It’s my fault, and I’m sorry. Again. You’re probably getting sick of hearing that, from me. Or, maybe, you’re not. That would be understandable. Very.
I really am. It’s been good for me. So far. Helpful. It’s been helpful. 8/10. Would recommend.
Oh. Welcome to come by? Actually? Thank you, for telling me. And the number. I almost texted your old one, after I found the flowers. You have mine. I mean, I got the message you sent, on Halloween, about Thanos. Afterwards, after I made it back to the hotel. I would have answered then, but... didn’t think you’d want to be hearing from me. Considering what happened. With Deadpool. That was stupid. Stupid and I’m still not entirely sorry about hitting him, but Anyway. My number hasn’t changed, since then. So. You can get ahold of me that way, too.
Or just - show up, if you’d like. At the house, the office. That’s downtown. In the Bradbury Building. Either place, you.. you’re welcome, too.
We will only attain freedom if we learn to appreciate what is different, and muster the courage to discover what is fundamentally the same.
Thurgood Marshall
New Avengers (2010) #016
Daredevil. I know him pretty well actually…
I absolutely love this. I just feel like Daredevil gets overlooked so often, and he’s just such an amazing character and adkfjsla this page is giving me all kinds of feels. Thank you, Bendis <3
Daredevil: The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen
Created by Brandi Kenney. You can follow the artist on Tumblr or Twitter.
How would you describe yourself?
In a word? I’m a fighter. Like my dad. In ways he would be proud of, I hope. And in ways he’d hate.
“You’ve got to be something special. You’ve got to be nothing like me. You promise me, son.”
Too Many Cooks (Flashback) | Black Cat and Daredevil
Hell’s Kitchen was no Wall Street, in Felicia’s (not) humble opinion.
What was Kingpin’s deal? She wondered, sulkily regulated to stakeout duty in order to protect her prize. The courier was taking great care to hide the painting Fisk had set his eyes on as an apology to his wife. Mrs. Fisk never took kindly to her husband’s activities. As a compromise, Kingpin was making a big show of legitimacy. This, apparently, involved buying her off with an expensive piece of art. (If that was marriage, Felicia wanted no part in it.)
"Why does your wife need Madonna and Child?” Felicia had asked as derisively as she could get away with, one hand poised on the fire escape. A Benson painting was a treasure—she expected nothing less for someone as rich as Kingpin, but it still came as a surprise.
"It’s a gesture," Kingpin had answered from his desk, lighting another cigar. Behind her mask, Felicia gave him a dubious look, enough to make her boss laugh. This was part of the dance. Felicia was always baited, and Kingpin always explained. It was a good system, no matter what the Spider said. (Felicia didn’t know anyone just as preachy. He was lucky he was cute.) "The man you’re stealing from decided he is no longer my business partner," Kingpin elaborated, features taking on a petulant edge. "I want some misfortune to befall him for this mistake, Ms. Hardy. Do you understand?"
Felicia understood. One, you never refused a crime lord, not unless you wanted to drop off the face of the earth or had a miracle up your sleeve. Two, it was clear that she was made for this job.
Below her, the transport blew a flat. Felicia allowed herself a grin, watching the truck pull over. “Of all the rotten luck,” she murmured, rappelling down an alley wall. Landing on her feet, she approached the truck, plucking the phone from the driver’s hand. The driver was taken care of next—shoved violently against the van until he passed out, of course, Felicia was no killer—before she strode to the back doors.
Felicia was more than ready to cart her prize off for safekeeping, but in one moment, it seemed like bad luck had caught up to her.
"So you’re the fearless guy," Felicia called up to Daredevil, spotting that distinctive red suit. Shit, she thought, guarding the doors to the van with her body. “Devil’s Food Cake, or something?”
It had been a quiet night, for New York. But Matt was enjoying it, careening over Manhattan as he tried out Melvin’s newest redesign of his billy clubs. So far, they’d been fantastic. A smoother grappling mechanism, a different type of cabling, more range. Enough to make freefalling from the Chrysler Building about five stories more of a rush. After zigzagging across Midtown a few times, with nothing catching his ear, he’d circled back to lap the Kitchen. A familiar obstacle course. And no noisier than the rest of town, it seemed.
Yanking the cowl back for a moment, Matt took a slow, even breath, letting his concentration sink into the old watertower he’d perched on. Drift with it, and outwards. There’d been a time when reaching out like this left him with a shrieking headache. Experience and a centre - the deep, almost-still water - that helped. But there was always so much. Rust and smog, brickdust and drying laundry on the air, the sour reek of trash. Cats hissing, rats scratching in drywall, snatches of conversations and arguments. Ringtones and music. Steps, traffic, the subway. Smell and sound and taste and the texture of the air, that rippling awareness of movement, space, contour... it all swirled together, a sensory ocean to swim through.
He surfaced abruptly, twitching as a noise burst through the rest, loud, close by. A tire blowing out. To his left, towards the Hudson. Maybe a block away. Didn’t seem like anything to be too concerned about, until a thick slam followed, from the same direction - somebody hitting something harder than they were. That, that was worth worrying over.
Those new cables got another test as Matt tore off, tugging the mask down. Another slam helped him zero in, and a couple sharp swings took him to the corner of a rooftop, his senses diving off ahead of him into the narrow alleyway below. One sluggish heartbeat, a second that was quick, but even. That dull pulse belonged to a slumped figure, out cold. Didn’t seem to be badly hurt. No blood, no grinding bones, fairly regular breathing. Gun oil clung to him, but Matt hadn’t heard any shots, not even the spit of suppressed fire - the guy must have been knocked out before getting the chance to draw. An attacker with solid hand to hand skills, then. Efficient, nonlethal. Just clearing the way to what she was really after: an armored truck, the blocky shape recognizable as his radar grazed around it.
So, a solo heist, in a neighborhood notorious for vigilante activity. An ambitious perp, maybe, but a professional. It showed, in the choice of target, the way the guard had been taken down, in her scent, even: next to the herby sweetness of lavender, he’d picked up a whiff of money, that distinctive, heavy ink. Matt recognized it from run-ins with bounty hunters, mafia captains. People collecting major payments, the old fashioned way. This thief must have been handling a considerable amount of cash for the smell to stick around like that. A considerable amount. Who was paying, and for what, exactly, those were good questions. But he’d have to catch her first.
The thief’s heart skittered, just a bit, as he stepped up to the edge of the roof. She stood her ground, though. Between him and the score. Snarking in his direction. A smile playing around his lips, he kicked off. Rebounded against a fire escape, spun into a neat landing on top of the truck. He kept his stance relaxed, unaggressive, but his grip on the billy clubs was solid. The pros rarely gave in without a fight, in his experience; Matt didn’t like his chances of talking her down, but, still, he always felt like he ought to try. On the rare, rare occasions when the opportunity presented itself. Straightening up, he gave her a smirk, cocky, meeting her confidence with his own.
“It’s Daredevil. One word. Remember that, for when they’re booking you.” The grin widened as he stepped forward, the sticks taking a spin through his fingers. “And step away from the truck, please.”
What are five of your pet peeves?
I’m not really a “peevish” person. But, let’s see, if I had to pick…
Crappy boxing tape, medical tape, just tape that doesn’t do the job. Dense, slow crowds. When somebody ignores their aggressively vibrating, “silent” phone. Fireworks. And there are a few smells that drive me up the wall. There, five.