spent too much of my life trying to build a meticulously curated micro-archive, to the benefit of no one and at the cost of my own enjoyment – now I'm just gonna do whatever lol
Words: 500(ish) | Rating: Mature (non-explicit sex)
Warnings: None applicable
Misc: In my mind this is Netflix Matt but do as you please
Relationships: Matt Murdock (TV)/Reader (my first ever, I think?)
Summary: A snappy, sexy, barely edited, slice of life blurb
Note: No y/n. Reader so vague it's gender neutral. I don't think I've ever before wanted to publish anything under 1000 words, but this little thing won't fit in any longer works I'm writing.
"Matt," your voice had grown thin. "Can you- slow, slow for a second." You tap the arm wrapped under you and across your middle.
Stretched out on your side, he's been behind you for more than a few minutes with a persistent, punishing pace that had filled his bedroom with a lewd rhythm of skin-on-skin contact - that's now paused.
"Slow?" Matt shifts his free arm—begins to lower the hand underneath your leg, held up for his access.
"Yeah," you breathe out, feeling the tight pressure of his fingers release your thigh.
"Slow." He adjusts on the bed. When his hand comes over your hip to lift that same leg up and back over his own, you felt how sweat-slick your skin had become. "How slow? Like..."
Matt rocks backward before pressing in so achingly slow it lights up each sensitive spot of yours he'd ever found.
"God," a low groan wrenched from your chest, then a gasp. "Fuck-"
You could almost feel him smiling against the back of your neck, "Yeah? Like that?"
Had you any sense to spare at the moment, you might have been embarrassed at the state to which he'd reduced you, and not for the first time. This sort of whimpering, shuddering mess hadn't existed before you'd known Matt.
As he continued to work, near languid now, he decides to hitch your leg just slightly for change in angle.
Something of a moan escapes you both when the leg he's holding begins to tremble, beyond your control. Your hands fly to reach him, one gripping the hand splayed on your chest and one back, to anywhere on his body you can touch.
"This is cute." He's referring to your leg shaking, "I'll have to remember that for later." Matt was humming with pride, moving back and forth like he had all the time in the world.
"I love you." It's not the first or fiftieth or hundredth time you've told him, but he needed to hear it again, right now.
"Do you?"
"Fuck you-" a grin spread on your face, as much as it could with your brows furrowed and your eyes struggling to stay open against the electric pleasure. "Say it back."
"I love when you tell me what to do," you heard. Felt a kiss pressed to your shoulder. "I love you like this. I love that you still fall apart for me. I don't remember a time before I loved you and I can't imagine a time after. Does that suffice?" His hand on your chest turned, to lace your fingers together.
summary: by no means were you the best at patching Matt up after nights as Daredevil left him with its predictable marks, but you damn sure tried your hardest. Not that it mattered, when Matt would rather risk an ugly scar than let you work in focus. | gn!reader
warnings: the obligatory taking care of a vigilante and said vigilante getting handsy after patrol fic! this is all in all incredibly fluffy and one of the sillier things I've written, however there are mentions of blood, and descriptions of open wounds and sutures. you're sewing Matt up, it's inevitable.
a/n: I've been sick for the past two weeks, completely out of it and haven't been able to write or be online much, so please accept a simpler and shorter fic from me this go round!
wc: 3,760
The smell of antiseptic still lingered, but you and Matt had fallen into routine within the warmth of his apartment, blanketed under the weary calm and cover of night. Suture in hand, you weren't exactly a stranger to stitching up the man before you anymore, but neither were you a nurse, or medically trained in any capacity outside of prescribing over the counter pain medication you now bought in bulk and the occasional bandage administration to paper cuts and small scrapes.
You pride yourself in being a decent sewist, learning basic mending skills throughout your years for the small tears and such, but cotton or denim was still in a far different ballpark than living, feeling, skin and muscle. Why Matt had trusted you to not only learn the skill, but offer himself and his many, many, lacerations up to be your trial-by-fire was beyond you. Perhaps it had been because the first time the Devil had come back from a patrol with a cut just slightly too deep, you'd steadied your nerves and offered to try.
Perhaps it was because you've since found a comfort and normality in tending to Matt's wounds with a gentle loving hand, delivering fond chastisements and relishing in shared purrs of satisfaction with the blood you washed away and pain you abated. Perhaps, it was simply because he trusted you; the current that harbored something as fragile as shared vulnerability offering safe passage to feel entirely free to breezily waft between your two souls, shaped by admissions of love and proclamations to stay.
But even with that being said—and especially now, with Matt still feeling the loss of the substantial armor the Daredevil suit provided until Melvin would be let out on parole—some things never changed. Years of inconsistent practice still hadn't fully steadied your hand, and even the sturdy fabric of military cargo pants would be weak to stop the slash of any blade determined enough.
“Could've been worse,” Matt mused, biting back the wince that wanted to hiss through his teeth as you deftly pushed the sharp tip of the needle through the next segment you were working on, head bowed in focus and an apologetic grimace you weren't entirely sure if he could register pursing your lips. You hummed in agreement. “Could’ve cut deeper. Or in a more inconvenient place.”
“Think your thigh’s pretty inconvenient, D,” you scoffed airly, taking a quick break between stitches as you tried to roll away some of the tension in your shoulders. “Y’know. Walking, leaping across rooftops, and such.”
“I know how to move to not tear stitches.” His statement was simple, edged with a little cocky lilt that pulled your gaze away from your work only to meet the curl of a smirk pointed in your direction. “I can feel the tension of the thread; if it’ll be close to snapping.”
“We both sure as hell know that doesn’t stop you from popping these things anyway.” Amusement gleamed in the pointed look you threw at him, a chuckle escaping under your breath. “Sometimes I wonder if you like the pain. Or if you just like being stabbed.”
“Not in inconvenient places.” Matt hummed, pushing out a measured breath as he shifted under your steady hold on his leg. You felt his hand, large and warm against you, rise to curl his fingers against your waist. You recognized the action, thinking nothing of it as Matt used the motion to ground himself. It was then that you took the moment to adjust yourself under the direct lamplight you’d maneuvered, leaning into his palm to respond to the touch and blinking down to scrutinize your work.
Currently sitting in the open space between Matt’s legs—lack of distraction a hearty testament to your will and dedication to your mission—you studied the progress you’d made so far. The wound was about three inches long, and had gashed, thankfully, not too deep, across the top of his left thigh. Thanks to the towel-prepped pillow under his leg, and the merciful miss of any major vessels, steadily applied pressure kept the bleeding to a minimum as you worked. You’d have loved to have an anesthetic to numb the area, something more than a hastily taken dose of ibuprofen, but you quickly came to the realization that Matt’s unbelievable display of willpower and penchant for tanking blows that would bring anyone else to tears would unfortunately just have to do that night. You stared at the stitches, noting the tiny little knots that weren’t the cleanest, but were consistent and even. And you could be satisfied with that. Your gaze swept over his blood stained skin, where the slash had split the edges open, where it strained against the way you were steadily closing it up, and the inch and a half you still had to go. You frowned, wishing both that you could work faster, more efficiently, if only to spare Matt the feeling, and damning whatever thug had managed to be quick enough to catch him in the first place. At least you could take comfort in knowing the Devil had probably made them regret it.
“Maybe I’m biased, but I think needing stitches anywhere is inconvenient." You tapped his thigh with your index lightly, the signal to him that you were about to start again. He nodded, spotting the action out of the corner of your eye, and you felt his fingers nudge at the fabric of your sleep shirt until careful curling had gently coaxed the hem up far enough for him to grab, and he could press against your bare skin right as you held yourself steady enough to pierce skin once more. You waited until the shiver the feel of his hand caused and ran through you ebbed. “Enlighten me, please. I’d love to see how our definitions differ.”
“I can work easily with anything on my arms,” came his reply, voice as steady as the thumb that began to caress your side, almost a distant hum. The affection threatened to steal your attention, lazy swaths that teased the faculty of your hand, and you steeled yourself in preparation to ignore it until you finished your job. You didn’t miss the way his touch faltered; his body tensing in response to the needle just for a moment before he relaxed into you again. “Away from the joints and big muscles important for movement is always nice.”
“So…only your arms.” You quip playfully, snipping off the thread as you tied up another knot just to begin again. You’d found an easy rhythm now, and rhythm eased the momentary guilt you felt for the pain that came with each pass through. “Sounds about right.” It was difficult to resist the urge to swat at him when you caught his clunky attempt at rolling his eyes, fondness rising comforting and easy in your chest like a thick curl of smoke twisting into a pleasant fog around your head as you scoffed at the action. “But yeah, it could've been bad tonight. Like where your important organs are.”
“Or worse, my ass.”
You quirked an eyebrow, laughing softly to yourself. “Has anyone ever tried to stab you in the ass?”
“No. But if they had, you’d be stitching it up.”
“Oh no,” you deadpanned, letting sarcasm drip heavy from your tongue as amusement spread wide in the smile on your face. “Whatever will I do? Forced to berate you for getting hurt while staring at your godly ass.”
Matt’s chuckle was full and easy, echoing warm in the air. “You're joking now, but when it happens, you won't be able to grab it for a couple of weeks.”
“You’ve got two cheeks for a reason, Matthew.” Although, a mournful sigh parted your lips at the hypothetical thought. “Unless they get both, which would simply be targeted. Jealousy, probably. Besides, why are you dooming yourself to future ass stabbings? If you manifest them, I’ll be sad. So sad.”
He just laughs, shaking slightly as he tries to keep the action from jostling his body too much. He finds comfort in touching you instead, his hand drawing forward under your shirt to lay flat against your stomach and finding no hesitation in starting the careful ministrations of fingers gently dragging across the plane of your abdomen, tracing the way you bent between him in concentration. Your breath hitched in your chest as the familiar ebb of warmth blossomed under his fingertips, dancing in jovial little waves as it seeped deep enough to reach bone. You paused, if only for a moment, torn between wanting to shift your attention to the source and not wanting to risk the efficiency you’d found.
And Matt hadn’t meant too, he really hadn’t. That first touch was instinct, something normal and seeking. Over the counter stuff only did so much, only softened the edges. Though it wasn’t the pain that bothered him. Pain he was used to, could compartmentalize and shove to the muddied background until it was okay to react—typically when the dust settled. It wasn’t the pain, it was what it felt like. The lack of any anesthetic left him bare to the sharp sterile metal of the needle that felt too foreign in his body, too smooth. The tiny fibres of thread that tugged their way through tissue and nerve with each glide of your hand. And while your knots were pristine, secure things, they still pulled uncomfortably once they were secure. But really, when it came to it, Matt was used to being stitched up. He’d endured more than enough to tune out the experience, however unpleasant, as long as it was a superficial suture. When he reached for you, it was simply for comfort and with no other motive.
But then he felt the shiver that skittered oh-so-subtly under your skin. Heard the way the air stilled in your lungs for just a split second. Getting stitched up was routine and boring and he already had his work arounds to minimize discomfort. He was allowed to have some fun, if fun meant that even after the years you’ve spent with him, he could still softly—and perhaps slightly selfishly—command your attention. Even when you were literally putting him back together.
If only you’d caught the mischievous way his face had lit up.
Matt flipped his hand, knuckles dragging down across you until he brushed the top of your leg and he settled there for a moment, palm holding you firmly in a mirror of your own hold on him. Although yours was to keep a consistent canvas of skin and muscle to aid both you and him. He contested in his steady affection.
“Someone’s handsy tonight,” the statement came out as a tease, something light and simple, an acknowledgment to how you haven't exactly been impervious to the glide of craving fingers against your skin. But you didn’t think anything of it. You knew Matt, and it was within the normal realm of possibility he’d just needed some extra comfort. You also knew more than most his thighs were on the more sensitive side, and you didn’t doubt having another focus—a positive feeling to contrast—was a healthy diversion to the otherwise ache. You’re always glad to offer. Except, as you glanced over to spot a small smile curving his lips, you admittedly were letting his touch breach your focus a bit more than you’d like, your motions with the suture slowing just enough for you to know you weren't working as well as you could be.
“Long night. Missed you,” Matt pushed out with an air of drama billowing around the shape of his words. “Hurts a little.”
“I know.” You muttered sympathetically, reaching over to carefully dab some more gauze against a trickle of blood. Luckily, you were in the homestretch, and Matt shared in the relief that rolled off you, sweetening the air against his tongue, as you estimated that you'd only need to do about three more stitches. “Almost done, though.”
A soft content noise bubbled from his chest as he moved again, fingers dancing as his hand snaked back under your shirt and around to your back. At first it was nothing, almost so light you didn’t feel it as his fingers began to follow the curve of your back. But then the touch grew firmer. He tried to venture further. Matt shifted. And your peripheral caught his movement before he could lean forward any closer.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” There was humor in your voice but a furrow in your brow as you halted him with the joint of your wrist against his chest, twisting your hand to try and avoid contaminating your attempt to keep both your hands and his thigh clean. Although he wasn’t as close as he wanted, Matt was still able to splay his hand fully against your back.
Instead of a response, his smile split wider. “Am I distracting you?”
The word ‘yes’ instinctively shaped around your tongue, playful and not without warrant, thinking about how he’d steadily been etching a path around any part of you he could reach and the defense of the focus that had combated the best it could, but had started to thinly wane over the last few minutes. But then you turned your head to look at him, tying off another knot, and that’s when the guise shattered. As you saw the tilt of his head and mirth in his eyes, and you swore he tried to meet your gaze—landing somewhere around the bridge of your nose—as his nails gently raked down the line of your spine. He flashed an innocent smile as you involuntarily shuddered against the feeling, a burst of sparks fluttering in your stomach. You shot him a glare, knowing it was no use to lie, but you could settle with stealing just the tiniest bit of satisfaction from him as you bit back a smile. “No.”
You knew the rumble that shook through him well enough to know he wasted no time recognizing your bluff, and despite your best efforts, Matt finished sitting up. His shoulder bumped into yours before his chest came perpendicular to your side, and your huff of annoyance wasn’t without its fondness. You, however, were still weak when it came to a quiet proximity. And even though he now shadowed half your work area, and limited the range of motion in your left arm, you couldn’t find the heart in you to shove him back. If Matt wanted to be clingy, that was fine by you. If he wanted to press against you until your heart raced and your hands shook, then it would be his scar.
And he seemed to sense that resolution, a victorious little hum reaching your ears, melodic and instinctual in its sensing as his other hand joined the fray. This one found your front again, warm palm holding against your ribs as you blew out a puff of air and went to go start again. But you couldn’t even get there, stuttering before you even began, as teasing fingers began to prance, inch their way up toward your chest.
You stalled, and if the grin you wouldn’t bring yourself to bear full witness too had any merit, you knew Matt felt the way your heart began to hammer, the way your skin grew warmer. There was a quiet moment of testing, calloused fingertips eagerly tracing the tail end of your breastbone, goading, begging for a response.
“You,” you began, grateful the needle hadn’t been anywhere close to him as your grip faltered, “need to stop.”
“I’m only distracting myself from the pain,” he mumbled absent-mindedly, no attempt to hide the bullshit guile you could smell from a mile away and hear from even further.
“You’re distracting me and you know it!” And frustration wanted to tarnish your words, if only because you were so close to your goal, but it had no real bite around the breathless way you were trying hard not to focus on the slide of his touch going up until he could lay his palm flat across the middle of your chest. “C’mon Matt, I’m almost done, let me make the last few pretty.”
“They don’t have to be,” Matt muttered around a cheeky chuckle. “Not like I can see them.”
“Well I do. And I’ll be damned if you’re the reason I don’t get a nice new straight scar to kiss.” You sighed, gently placing down the needle and needle driver on clean gauze before your hand slid to join Matt’s. Amusement cocked his head as you twined your fingers with his before guiding him away from you. “Two stitches left. Stop distracting me.” You brushed your lips against his knuckles, kissing over bruises and scars, before letting him fall away. “And for God’s sake and mine, please keep your hands to yourself.”
Matt had seemed content enough as his head fell to your shoulder. His cheek rested against you and his eyes fluttered shut. He let out a languid sigh, one that stirred the tiny hairs on the back of your neck and washed over you as if a gentle breeze, and you waited until your body adjusted to his weight, fixing the light now that he cast a shadow, to begin again. The both of you were quiet as you finished up, and a triumphant little noise pleasantly soothed your throat as you admired the resulting line of stitches. Your soft touch with a warm washcloth wiped away the blood that remained, and you were swift and efficient as you taped fresh gauze over the wound. And now that you were finished, you indulged in letting your eyes rove across the man in front of you, allowing a lazy stroke of your hand to his upper thigh, giving his leg a chaste squeeze with a newly acquired peace of mind.
With a sigh, you relaxed into him. And for a moment, it was just the two of you and his apartment, quiet hearts and shared breaths. You felt the curve of Matt’s smile tug wide against your shoulder before you saw it, and a playful peck quickly turned into lingering kisses that once again heated your skin and bloomed a tingling pleasure in their wake, passing, dragging up the line of your clavicle until you dropped your head against his, obstructing the line to his objective.
“Matt.”
“What?” He burrowed his face past you, pressing against the cloth of your shirt to plant another kiss. Even muffled, there was no hiding the grin that reached his eyes and echoed in his cadence. “My hands are behaving.” But he betrayed his word even as he spoke—even though your work was done and you wouldn’t once again mind him—his arms lacing around your waist and holding you tightly.
You shifted, twisting your torso until you could face him better. There was no reason now that you couldn’t enjoy this, and as you pulled your head away, your eyes swept over Matt’s face. The calm that seeped easy into his features, smoothing out lines and cradling the way he began to relax. Your gaze passed by the dotted red of a blossoming bruise along the stubble on his jaw, tracing the shape of his lips and following their path up until you could study and map the crinkles beside his closed eyes.
“Thank you.” The expression was low, soft, and full of an adoration that made your heart like the wings of a bird taking flight flutter in your chest.
“Of course.” You raised a hand to comb through his messy hair, letting your fingers run along his scalp in slow drags, searching to relieve any tension they could find, and letting the quiet noise of approval that Matt gave you as he leant into it—eyelids fluttering—fill you to the brim with a bliss that was your own special vigilante brew of domestic. “Someone has to make sure you’re in fighting shape so you don’t get stabbed in the ass.”
“Still on that, huh?”
“You spoke the possibility into existence!” He laughed, and the sound reverberated deep and solid and warm around you as he pulled you closer. “Can’t believe you’d even utter the words. You’ve doomed us both to suffer. Don’t think the Daredevil suit has that much armor back there Matt—mobility’s sake and all or something. It can happen!”
“Promise I’ll try really hard to keep my butt safe from any sharp weapons. Not predicting any ass stabbings for the foreseeable future.”
“Good.”
“May I kiss you now?”
“You may.”
And it was all utters of relief, giggles and love, pressing lips around smiles and sighs as you let a sleepy affection guide your touch as your hands fell from his hair to cradle his face. You stared at him again for another moment, your head fondly tipping against him before you reluctantly pulled back, but not before awarding one last kiss, letting your body dip in exaggeration as you gathered up your suture kit.
“Come on,” you said softly, shimmying out of his hold. “Let’s get you sleeping before you get any bright ideas.”
Matt collapsed back onto the couch with a playful reluctance, his body relaxing into the cushions, and casting his head to follow your general direction as you skirted around to properly wash up and put your materials away. “Joke’s on you, I have zero light perception.”
You snorted. “It’s on you if you don’t think I won’t condemn you to a bedtime of blanket fortress between us if you don’t take it easy on your leg for at least a day or two.”
“Ouch.” You stifled a laugh when you saw him drop his head to the back of the couch and frown. “Now that would hurt more than getting stabbed in the ass.”
“Think about it. Do you really want to share a bed with no cuddles? The power’s entirely in your hands,” you teased as you padded over to the kitchen, running the water in the sink, its steady thrum filling the air and creating a rhythm you quickly followed. You threw a grin his way as he groaned, standing up slowly and testing his weight before he met your expression with a forced pout betrayed by the loving twinkle in his eyes. “Go. I’ll meet you in bed.”
And without a doubt, Matt held you extra tight that night.
I think a Negative Kudos button is really pointless first off (ao3 is an archive not a social media site! we don't need upvotes/downvotes to drive some nonexistent algorithm) but also it feels cowardly. like, there already is a way to share your dislike of a fic with the author. it's called commenting 'your fic is bad and I didn't like it.' but then you might look like an ass, and people might say hey that's mean, and you might have to defend your position of unkindness + consider why you feel the need to be rude to a stranger on the internet writing for fun and for free. a quick, impersonal, site-sanctioned Mean Kudos is really just a weenie move
summary: A night out at Josie's finally changes things between you and Matt. You start flirting and suddenly things turn to something more. But there's something about Matt Murdock that makes you want to shut up him, makes you want to show him who's boss. You want to see Matt Murdock work for it….
****NSFW**** 18 + MDNI
ao3 link
a/n: AKA smut with a little bit of plot. Set after s3 of the Netflix show, Foggy is alive and Nelson, Murdock, and Page is thriving. Idk I heard a song and something came over me and here we are. This is soooo dirty (at least for my writing lol) and honestly I have no excuse. Soooo enjoy?
word count: 6973
Maybe it's the lights at Josie's, making everything delightfully fuzzy and artistically shadowed.
Or maybe it's the taste of victory in the air, you and your friends celebrating a big win at Nelson, Murdock, and Page.
Or maybe it's that, because of said victory, you're about three or four or maybe more drinks too deep.
Either way, Matt Murdock is looking absolutely delicious tonight and you can't help but notice it. He took his tie off a drink or two ago—or maybe it was when you first came in, you really can't remember at this point. His sleeves are rolled up in the sloppiest, sexiest way possible, revealing muscular forearms that look like they can hold a lot.
The red light of the neon sign paints the edges of his form like a saint, or maybe a sinner.
You just can't stop staring.
Your eyes trace up the line of his throat and over the stubble on his jaw and to his perfect, pouty lips.
You've always thought Matt Murdock was, well, too good-looking for his own good. Or anyone else's, for that matter. But tonight the drinks and the lights and the celebratory air make you really notice.
Matt takes a sip of his beer and his tongue chases a drop over his bottom lip. You swallow, hard, around a suddenly dry mouth. You wonder if he knows what he looks like, how women and even some men react to him. There have been several stares ever since you all walked into Josie's. Even as you think it, you realize he must, because sometimes he gets a cocky little smile on his face that just screams, I know people think I'm hot even if I can't look in a mirror.
You think about how Matt looks in his suits at work, tailored just enough to spark the imagination. Then you start thinking about his tie and wear that went, and all the fun things you can do with a tie.
"Uh? Hello?" Foggy's voice cuts through your decidedly horny thoughts.
You laugh to cover up your hesitation even as your cheeks heat. "Sorry, I think I'm getting kinda wasted over here." Everything is slightly blurry around the edges, but you're only sort of drunk, not all the way there. A glass or two of water and you'll be good as new in an hour.
Matt tilts his head towards you, tinted glasses aimed at your eyes without quite reaching them. And there it is—that little smile.
"Is that it?" he asks, and something about the tone makes you shiver.
You ignore him, because it's either that or keep staring and drooling. Something in you wants to sass him back but you resist the urge. "What'd you say, Fog?"
"I said we should do shots, but apparently you're already too wasted to listen!" Foggy laughs, long enough that Marci rolls her eyes. Foggy has a particular cackle when he's drunk and in a good mood that never fails to make you laugh in return.
Next to you, Matt shifts in his seat to face forward again which causes his bare arm to brush yours. An accident, you firmly tell yourself, even as electricity crackles across your skin at the contact. You pull your lower lip between your teeth and hope that the pain distracts you from the completely, utterly inappropriate thoughts about Matt Murdock that keep popping into your head.
Karen throws back the rest of her drink. "I have an early meeting with Ellison, anyway," she says as she stands and grabs her coat and purse. "I told him he could have an exclusive if we won."
"Free press, baby!" Foggy crows and high fives her, but misses and almost topples off his chair.
"I think that's our sign to head home, too," his wife says, pretending she's annoyed, but you can see the sparkle in her eyes. Marci props Foggy up and starts murmuring something to him that makes his eyebrows waggle. You decide you definitely don't want to ask. It's been a couple years since their wedding and you swear they're still in the honeymoon phase.
"See you at home?" Karen asks you with a single raised eyebrow. You're renovating the kitchen in your apartment due to a lovely burst pipe, and Karen was nice enough to let you crash in her spare room. Except now it's been three months and you two are basically permanent roommates.
"Yeah, see you later. I'm going to finish my drink."
You all say your goodbyes and then it's just you and Matt. Both of you face forward where your friends were moments ago, close but not touching. Your drink only has one sip left, though, so you really don't have an excuse to linger besides alone time with Matt. He doesn't know your drink is almost empty though.
"That leaves just us, then," you say as you twist to face him. Your knees bump his thigh. "I definitely need some water."
Matt turns, too, leaning against the wall where he's been smushed into the corner. He's the perfect picture of ease, slumped a bit, knees spread, one elbow on the table, one on the back of his seat. His empty cup dangles from one hand. With his other hand, he reaches up and undoes another button of his shirt. Your heart leaps at the flash of skin.
"Too wasted?" he says after a beat. The way he says it makes you think that he doesn't believe it. That he's challenging you.
You narrow your eyes slightly. "No, I just didn't want to hurt Foggy's feelings and admit I wasn't listening."
Matt licks his lips and damn if you don't track the movement with your eyes. There's a fire building in your gut, in your veins, and you don't want to put it out. "Something distract you?" he asks, and you don't know how you know, but you know that Matt noticed that he was the distraction.
You lean closer. A challenge, a dare, even though he can't see it. But he must be able to feel it, the charge in the air, the heat of your sudden proximity. You sure as hell can. "Something like that," you say, because you still don't want to admit to it.
But you do want to see where this could go.
Because it really seems like Matt might actually be flirting back with you.
You flirt with him sometimes. Mostly because it makes Foggy uncomfortable, which is hilarious, but also because you truly do have a big, fat crush on Matt.
Right now, it's not in his typical Matt way, where he's nice and charismatic and brushes you off politely—this is a way you've only heard described by Foggy as "lady-killer Matt." It's never been directed at you, but now that it is, it's enough to make you feel weak in the knees. He's barely getting started, that much you know, and somewhere in the back of your mind an alarm screams Danger! Danger!
You ignore it.
Matt leans forward now, setting his glass on the table with unnerving accuracy. Your breath catches but you don't move.
"It is a pretty distracting place," he says in a low voice. You bite the inside of your cheek. He's definitely "lady-killer" Matt in this moment. "Noisy, crowded, lots of smells." His nostrils flare slightly. Can he smell the perfume you put on this morning? Does he like it? Or is it too strong for him?
"And that's just the stuff you can't see," you tease because you can't help trying to rile him.
"A blind joke?" he says incredulously, then laughs. "Wow. What can you see, then? You'll have to tell me."
Your eyes trail from where his shirt is unbuttoned and up, then back down over the planes of his chest and to his arms. What does Matt Murdock look like under the suits? You wonder if the rest of him is as muscular as his forearms.
Tongue darting out to wet your lips, you finally manage to answer, "Oh, not much. The people you can already hear, all getting drunk, half of them looking like criminals. Josie mean-mugging everyone. And the lights, which makes it all look…better." By which you mean red is Matt's color, and the neon lights wash over him in a way that makes him look like he was painted by an artist.
Red paints him in the color of sin.
"The lights?" Matt says. You both lean unconsciously closer. Both of you breathing a little heavier. This is the weirdest flirting you've ever done, describing things to a blind man, but the air is so charged you feel like you're going to combust.
"The neon light outside is bright red, and it makes everything in here look good. There's not much else as for lights, so it's all shadowed and mysterious. Probably to hide the stains."
"Everything, huh?" he leans back again and his cocky smirk is back, toying at the edge of his lips. "Even me?"
He's toeing the line, seeing if he can cross it.
You don't want to give him the satisfaction, not yet, so you say, "You sure are full of yourself, Murdock."
You lick your lips again and even though you know Matt is blind, you could swear he somehow tracks the movement, his head tilting down and his own lips parting.
There's a pause where you think this might be it, where the line will remain uncrossed.
Then Matt reaches out and traces your bare arm from wrist to elbow to bicep with one knuckle. You have no idea how he found you on the first try or if he was just trying to touch you in general and got lucky. His touch trails fire in its wake and you're surprised you can't see sparks or flames or smoke.
"I imagine it makes you look good, too."
"How do you know I'm not some ugly troll?" you say with a laugh, though your heart is beating wildly in your chest now. One last chance for him to back out, for this tension to fizzle out, for the line to be erased and redrawn again, uncrossed.
Matt leans forward, all the way into your space, like he's got a secret. "Because I know you're not." His voice is so deep it's positively sinful. His hand lands atop your knee and you wish you were in a dress or even shorts. You ache for the sensation of skin on skin. Are his hands callused? Soft? Somewhere in between? He looks like he has really manly hands, like he isn't afraid to use them.
He's so close you could easily kiss him, if you dared.
"Just like you know how people look at you, right?" you say, a challenge in your voice. "You're good-looking and you know it."
That smile. You want to bite it. Or kiss it off his lips. Or maybe both. "I don't know what you're talking about. Though I'm glad you think I'm good-looking."
"Yes you do, you cocky son of a bitch." You laugh so he knows you don't mean it, not really. Even though he kind of is.
Matt chuckles. "Obviously you don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Because you never flirt with me. Not seriously. It's always a joke to rile Foggy."
"Who says I even want to flirt seriously with you?"
"I think you and I both know this is turning into flirting, sweetheart."
It's the nickname that does it. It turns you on and annoys you at the same time, a dangerous combination.
You lean close, into his space, your nose and lips scant centimeters from his jaw. You know he can feel your breath on his skin, your closeness, because he suddenly goes very still.
"You want me to flirt with you, Matt? Because I can flirt with you." You stay there, completely in his space, and don't move for a long minute. "I can tell you how handsome you are and how your unbuttoned shirt is driving me to distraction. Is that what you want?"
Matt says nothing, merely swallows hard.
"But I don't think you want that, do you? You like the challenge." Bolder now, you set one hand on his thigh. He still hasn't moved, but you know his attention is one hundred percent on you and nothing else.
There's no explaining what happens next, the daring way you slide one hand up his thigh a little higher. You aren't quite drunk anymore. There's no reason for you to cross the line, no reason except for months of watching Matt Murdock and wanting him from a distance. And now he's presented a challenge for you, now he's flirting back, and you do still have enough alcohol in your system to lose control.
"I think you want me to tell you I have no interest in flirting with someone as cocky as you are, even as my body language tells you something else." You slide your hand slightly higher, leaving the safe zone near his knee and getting closer and closer to something very inappropriate for Josie's bar. This time, Matt grabs your wrist lightly.
He tugs you closer, the move so unexpected you almost tumble completely into his lap. His lips are at your ear as he half-growls, "I think you like the challenge too, don't you, sweetheart? I think you don't like to give in very easily. You want me to work for it. Don't you?"
God, you're so close to getting kicked out of Josie's. You want to tear his clothes off and so much more, right here, right now.
But he's right, much as you're loathe to admit it.
You do like the challenge, especially from him. You want him to work for it. You want to show Matt Murdock whose boss, just a little bit, just until it drives him properly crazy and he loses control. Matt Murdock out of control would be something to behold, you think through the haze of lust overtaking your body.
"Fine," Matt breathes and he's still so close that his lips brush your neck. You have one hand braced yourself against the table, the other still propped on his upper thigh. You resist the urge to look down, to see if there's evidence of Matt enjoying this, but you resist. "I'll work for it, if you want me to."
The tension in the air is so thick that it's nearly impossible to breathe. Or maybe it's everything else—Matt in your space, telling you he'll work for it, your hands on him and his on you. Even fully clothed, it's erotic as fuck.
"So that just leaves one question," Matt says, and it annoys you more that his breathing seems so steady while you're trying not to audibly pant. He leans back and it helps clear your head some.
"What's that?" you ask, unable to help it. You're two seconds away already from giving up the game and taking him to one of the bathrooms in the back hallway, or, hell, even the alleyway out back in the dark.
"My place or yours?"
You tell yourself it isn't giving in, the speed with which you answer. It's practicality, so that you don't get blacklisted at Josie's when you inevitably tear off Matt's clothes.
"Yours is closer."
–
Somehow, you both manage to pay your tabs and escape into the cold city air outside. You shiver, realizing you never did grab a coat before leaving yours and Karen's apartment that morning.
"I'm freezing my tits off," you say, the cold air a balm against the fire in your veins. It clears your head enough for you to start wondering if this is a good idea, if you're ruining your friendship with Matt—and by extension Foggy, Karen, and Marci.
But it's too late now. If Matt Murdock doesn't touch you soon, you're going to die. Or at least scream.
Next to you, Matt's holding his coat with one hand, his tie poking out of the pocket, using his cane with his other.
You laugh. "So chivalrous of you to give me your coat," you tease him. Normally, you take his elbow, but you're afraid if you touch him right now even through his sleeve, you'll get arrested for public indecency.
"I need my coat," he says, the words heavy with innuendo. You realize where he's holding it and how.
Oh.
Your mouth goes dry again.
"Right," you say with an awkward cough. "Sorry."
Matt flashes you a smile. "I'm not. Though I am sorry you're cold."
"Well, I guess that won't be a problem for much longer."
The tension crackles in the air between you again as you walk. At least Matt's apartment is really close to Josie's. Would he judge you if you asked him to run for it? You're not sure how much longer you can handle this awkward walk where neither of you knows what to say because you're, presumably, about to tear each other's clothes off.
"We're usually much better at small talk than this," Matt says as his building comes into view. It's like he's read your mind.
"I don't think either of us wants to chat about the weather," you say. "But I can reiterate how cold it is if it makes you more comfortable."
He chuckles darkly. "Comfortable is not a word I would use at all right now."
Finally, finally, you're at his building. Matt holds the door for you like a gentleman and you both step onto the elevator in silence. The closer you get to his apartment, the harder your heart beats. The anticipation alone is killing you slowly. Time has warped and every second stretches into another minute where Matt isn't touching you. Where you aren't touching him.
As soon as the elevator doors close, there's Matt, his strong arms boxing you in against the mirrored wall. You suck in a breath but don't move.
"Do you want me to drag it out?" he murmurs. He isn't touching you even though he's so close you can feel his heat. "Do you want me to make an evening of it?"
Part of you wants to say no, you want it now. You're sick of the anticipation already.
But that feeling from earlier rises within you again and you tilt your chin up in defiance. You want to drag it out. You want to make Matt work for it. You want him on his knees, on his back, you want to be in control. You want to wipe that cocky smirk off his face.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Quick as a whip, Matt steps away and outside into the hallway, one hand on the elevator doors to keep them open for you. You follow him to his doorway, where he takes his sweet time pulling out his keys and unlocking the door.
And then you're in his apartment. You've been in there so many times before, but never like this. You can see the neon lights from the building across, lighting the living room a soft purple. You wish it would turn red, like at Josie's. The color of sin. The color of lust.
The silence is profound. You imagine that Matt can hear the erratic beat of your heart echoing in the entry hall. You're glad that he can't.
He takes one sidling step closer.
You move away. You have to bite back a smile at the furrow in his brow.
"Not so fast," you say with a confidence you don't completely feel. He tries to move into your personal space again, but again you move. "I promised to make you work for it, didn't I?"
His expression melts into something softer. "I can do that," he says, cocky once again. He kicks off his shoes and starts to unbutton his shirt. He starts coming closer yet again and this time when you move, your back hits the wall across from the door. There's nowhere else to go. You step out of your shoes too.
Matt doesn't touch you, not yet. He slowly finishes unbuttoning his shirt. He's not in a hurry anymore even though you have to wonder if his blood is on fire the same way yours is. You stay still and watch as his shirt falls open, revealing a simple cross necklace and a deliciously muscled chest and a full set of abs.
Matt Murdock is secretly ripped.
Without thinking, you reach out to gently trace the skin right next to the cross necklace. He grabs your hand but makes no other move.
"I forgot you're a good Catholic boy."
His grip tightens ever so slightly. "Not tonight."
The words themselves are enough for you to squeeze your thighs together in anticipation. A soft gasp slips from Matt's lips almost like he knows what you did. You thrill at the thought that he isn't as immune to all of this as he's been acting.
"What if I said I wanted you to be?" You feel possessed. Actually, you feel drunk again, even though by now most of the alcohol is out of your system. "What if I want you on your knees, worshipping? Is that sacrilegious?"
And then he does the last thing you expect.
He gets on his knees. His hands go from the wall to your waist, his hands burning through your clothes.
You almost faint at the sight.
It does something to you, having Matt Murdock on his knees, implying that he's going to worship you.
"If that's how you want it, sweetheart, then I'm all for it." His voice has slipped even deeper with desire. You're glad his hands are on you now because otherwise your knees might actually give out. Then he slides them down to grip the back of your knees. Again, you wish for the contact of bare skin, cursing your business casual work pants.
"Maybe later, sweetheart," you say, but your voice shakes and gives you away. You grip under Matt's chin with one hand and gently pull him upward to his feet again. You have no illusions that you're actually pulling him. After seeing his bare chest and all the muscles there, you know he's only moving because he wants to. "Right now, I think you should kiss me." Your voice slips lower too as your eyes trail to his lips. You've always, always thought about kissing them, kissing the perfect pout his has, kissing that smirk.
And of course he's smirking again now.
So you lunge forward and kiss him.
The dam breaks. Both of you moan at the contact, tongues flashing, teeth nipping, hands wandering. Matt grips your ass and half lifts you until you're leaning against the wall with your legs around his waist. You get your first taste of exactly what he was using his coat to cover up and it makes you moan again as he settles against right where you want him most.
The kiss is explosive, almost inevitable. It's everything you thought kissing Matt would be like and more.
Jesus fuck, you think through the haze. He's holding you so easily, kissing you like he's always known exactly what you like.
You have a brief thought that this is not going to help with his cockiness at all.
And then his lips move to your neck and all of your thoughts disappear in a wisp of smoke.
Matt suddenly stiffens and pulls away with a concentrated look. You arch your neck to chase after his lips and gently bite his neck. He breathes out heavily, distracted, and kisses you again until you moan.
Only for him to freeze again and put his hand over your mouth, muffling the sound.
"Shh." You almost bite his hand, but he looks legitimately concerned. You see your own half-wild expression in the lens of his glasses. "It's Foggy."
You frown behind his hand, wondering how he knows, until the doorknob rattles and a knock sounds at the door.
"Matt?" Foggy's voice calls out. "I checked at Josie's but you were already gone. We swapped coats! You have my wallet!"
A laugh bubbles up in your chest thinking of what Matt was using Foggy's coat for. He shushes you again, quieter this time. You tighten your legs around him in admonition. He turns his head toward the door, clearly debating how to get out of this situation. You wonder if Foggy has a key, which makes it even funnier, imagining Foggy walking inside right at this very moment. The thought should scare you, but you're still so drunk on the fact that you are currently pressed against a wall making out with Matt that it takes all of the anxiety away.
"Matt? Are you here? Or are you, you know, out again?" The way Foggy emphasizes out again makes you wonder what Matt might be getting up to in his personal time.
You can still feel his hardness pressed between your legs, though, so that answers that question immediately. Matt's probably out with other women, more often than you care to think about. You tighten your legs again just to feel him twitch. He tilts his face back towards you with a frown, a silent admonition that you ignore.
You change tactics and move your head enough to pull one of his fingers into your mouth and suck.
His breath hisses out of him and you can feel him growing even more aroused.
Matt's enjoying this act of almost-voyeurism. He likes the fact that Foggy is maybe only seconds away from coming into the apartment while your legs are wrapped around him and his finger is in your mouth. You hope he's imagining what your mouth can do in other places. By the way he subtly shivers, you think he is.
"Matt, I swear to God, if this is another ninja incident, I'm going to be the next one to throw you off the roof!"
You pause your sucking and frown again. What the hell is Foggy talking about? It sounds like some sort of bizarre inside joke, something you can't parse the meaning of.
Matt pulls his hand away from your mouth. Undeterred, you move your head forward, abdominal muscles straining a bit, and return the favor of kissing his neck. He sighs again, clearly trying not to moan. You're enjoying this too, way too much. You could get caught at any moment and you can't focus on anything other than making Matt lose control. You use one hand to hold his neck and half hold yourself up. Matt's hips buck forward when you start to lightly suck on the wild pulse in his throat.
Another flurry of knocks at the door. "Don't make me check the roof door!"
You forgot that Matt's apartment leads directly to the roof. You think of another day months ago when Matt forgot to give you, Foggy, and Karen the spare key. You'd all been meeting at his apartment to work on a case and to have pizza and beer. Karen had disappeared to the roof access before reappearing inside Matt's apartment a minute later. "He always forgets to lock the roof access door inside," she'd said with a sigh.
Your fingers thread through the hair at the nape of Matt's neck and you give an experimental tug.
He moans audibly. The sound is unmistakable.
The knocking stops and you almost laugh again.
"Busted," you mouth silently.
"Matt, are you getting it on right by the door right now?!" Foggy's voice reaches a pitch you've never heard before.
Matt thumps his forehead against yours in defeat.
He raises his voice to say, "Fog, I'll bring your wallet by later."
"Are you seriously naked in your hallway with someone right now?!"
"Bye, Foggy!" Matt says, even louder this time. You have to bite your lip hard to keep from laughing out loud, because Foggy would definitely recognize the sound.
"Wrap it before you tap it you dirty dog!" Foggy calls out before you hear him audibly stomp away.
Both of you stay still for a moment before you hear the ding of the elevator.
Matt refocuses on you with laser intensity. "Now, what did you do that for?" he asks in a dangerous tone. The corner of his lip quirks.
"I'm not the dirty dog here," you say with a laugh. Matt shows no signs of being fatigued from holding you up for so long. He squeezes your ass briefly, tightly, in a possessive way that makes you gasp.
"Sucking my finger, biting me, pulling my hair? I'd say you're plenty dirty, sweetheart." He leans in close and nips your lower lip so quickly you don't see it coming.
Then you're kissing again, more frantic now, Matt's shirt falling to the floor. He grabs you tighter and starts walking you further into the apartment. Behind your closed eyelids, the lights outside the window shift from dark blue to dark purple to red, echoing the desire beating through your veins.
Your ass thumps against the bed. Matt takes a step back, head tilted towards you, glasses glinting in the red lights from outside. The color of sin, you think again as you take in his bare chest. There are scars there, which instantly makes him a thousand times more interesting. You almost ask what they're from but decide better of it. You have more important things on your mind right now.
"Glasses off," you say as you lean back on your hands.
"Yes, ma'am." He smirks and tosses the glasses onto his nightstand. The corners of his eyes crinkle.
"Pants too." You snap your fingers impatiently.
Matt undoes his belt and rips it off in one swift move, his muscles rippling. Your mouth parts. He takes his time unbuttoning then unzipping. And then he's in just his underwear, standing before you, hands loose at his sides like he's awaiting orders.
His boxers are delightfully tented but he shows no sign of being self-conscious.
And he shouldn't be, you think, licking your lips as you take in each and every muscle on his body. Matt Murdock is more than ripped he's…you can't even think of the word. You want to lick him. To bite him.
"Your turn," he says.
Your fingers move to unbutton your blouse before you even decide to follow the order.
Matt kneels in front of you and his hands cover yours.
"Actually, I decided I wanted to do it," he says, still smirking. Everywhere his hands brush sends shivers over your skin. Tension builds in your gut and you haven't even gotten properly started yet. Cool air brushes your bare shoulders as he moves to your bra. His hands skim the top of your breasts. He groans. "I don't have to see to know how gorgeous you are, sweetheart."
Your gut instinct is not to believe when someone compliments you like that, but you can see the evidence of Matt's desire. It makes you think, just maybe, he finds you attractive. Your bra comes off in one expert move that indicates a lot of practice. His hands cover your bare breasts and squeeze. He brushes a thumb over one nipple and his head tilts as he takes in your reaction. He does it a couple more times to find exactly how you like it.
You lay back against the bed as his moves to your pants next. After a beat you lift your head. "Are these silk sheets, Matt?" you ask incredulously.
"I have sensitive skin." He shrugs and yanks your pants and underwear off at one time, effectively ending the conversation.
Almost unconsciously, you let your knees fall open. Matt's palms are callused, you discover, as they slide from your calves to the underside of your knees. You're distantly glad you actually shaved for once.
The room goes briefly blurry as Matt drags you to the edge of the bed in a fast move that takes your breath away. He settles between your legs and you think, Oh God, or maybe say it out loud, because he smiles wide as his head lowers.
His hands are everywhere, mapping your skin, taking note of the things that make you shiver and moan. You're on the edge already, a heady mix of anticipation and teasing.
Then you feel his breath at your center.
He does something else utterly unexpected, the night full of surprises. Matt inhales deeply and a noise, half-growl and half-moan, comes from his lips. It's hot as fuck, not that you'd admit it, and certainly not when you're about to get exactly what you want.
His tongue darts out for a taste of you and he moans again. You're not sure you've ever had a partner truly enjoy you the way Matt seems to be doing—like he's relishing every scent, every taste, every sound, every touch. He's utterly focused on you and on making you feel good.
He gets to work with his mouth and within seconds you're seeing stars. You're cursing up an incoherent storm, the lights from outside painting the inside of your eyelids first yellow and then green. You reach down for a handful of his hair, guiding his head exactly how you like it. He slips a finger into you and that's all it takes before every muscle clenches and waves of pleasure wash over you.
When you come down you open your eyes a slit to find Matt, still kneeling between your legs, palming himself over his boxers. It takes you a full minute to regain control of your limbs and remember that you do in fact have arms. You sit up, dizzy, panting, aching for more. You watch him touch himself for a moment. Something about it is so illicit, so dirty, you almost tell him to keep doing it.
But then Matt stands up in front of you, waiting for you to make the next move. You lean forward and lick a stripe up his stomach and chest before you can think about what you're doing. Marking him, you think deliriously. Apparently he likes it, because his cock twitches in his underwear from where it is in front of your face.
Hands trembling more from excitement than anything, you stick your fingers into the waistband of his pants. His breath catches so you pause, teasing, drawing the moment out. But you can't wait any longer. His cock springs free as you shove his underwear down. He kicks them to the side but otherwise doesn't move. He's breathing heavily as you stare at the wetness on his tip. You lick your lips. Then you lick the moisture there and revel in the noise he makes.
Gently, so gently he huffs an incredulous laugh, you trace his length with your fingers, watching with rapt attention as he twitches again. You're almost annoyed at how perfect Matt Murdock looks naked, because of course he looks like that on top of everything else he's good at.
Maybe you'll return the favor to him later with your mouth, but right now you want more. You want all of him, and you want it now.
"Get on the bed," you say to him, an order, a command.
He doesn't argue and simply obeys. He lays on his back, head still tilted towards you. If he could see, you knew he'd been watching your every move like a hawk. Yet he's so focused on you it still gives you that feeling of being watched.
"Condoms?" you ask, remembering Foggy's earlier words with amusement.
"Nightstand." Matt's voice is a rasp. He props himself on his elbows and listens as you pull open the nightstand drawer. You push aside a Bible, the irony not lost on you as you grab one of the little packets and tear it open. A Bible next to a box of condoms, Matt dressed in nothing but a cross necklace and the red lights from his windows, the color of sin. A good Catholic boy on his knees before you and worshipping you with his mouth.
Your hands are steady as you roll the condom over Matt's cock. He groans and his hips buck. His fists clench in the sheets. Slowly, carefully, you kneel on the bed and crawl up his body until you hover over him.
Yet you don't give in to what you both clearly want, not yet. The teasing is half the fun. Matt's hands fist in the sinfully silky sheets again. He reaches between your legs, apparently about to do it for you, but you move back slightly.
"Not yet," you say. You trace his lips from where you hover over him. He kisses the pad of your finger then licks it. You shudder at the sensation, the movement of your body making his cock slide across the space between your legs. You're unbelievably wet already and you know he can feel it.
"You're killing me here," he groans from beneath you, but he keeps still.
"But what a delicious way to go, right?"
He laughs, and yet again the movement forces contact between your bodies.
With a sigh, you grab his length, line it up, and slowly lower yourself down. Slow, slow. Your body takes a moment to adjust until finally he's fully sheathed inside you. You don't think even heaven could compare to the feeling. Matt Murdock feels made for you.
Hips rocking slightly, you plant your hands on his bare chest for stability. His strong hands grip your waist, then your ass, but he lets you set the pace even though you can feel him trembling beneath you. A moan slips from your mouth quickly followed by a curse. One of his hands slides up your waist to cup one of your breasts. He's a fast learner, replicating all the moves you enjoyed earlier. His other hand kneads your ass.
Faster now, your head falls back as your pleasure builds again.
"Fuck, sweetheart," Matt says underneath you. His voice is extra deep, the sound of it scraping over your skin in time with his callused hands. The vision of him flat on his back, entirely at your mercy, does something to you. Everything is dialed up to eleven because he's letting you be in control, and you like it.
You cover his mouth with one hand even as your movements quicken. "Stop calling me that," you say, panting now, your core winding tighter and tighter and tighter. Your knees are starting to ache from the position but it just feels so good.
"You're right," Matt says as he sits up in a sudden movement that makes you see stars as his cock slips even deeper. "You're not being very sweet right now, are you?" He holds you there, both of you sitting up, his hips thrusting into you. You bite his shoulder as your second orgasm washes over you. Matt hoists your legs and adjusts their position, somehow moving even deeper inside you.
"Jesus fucking Christ," you gasp as your orgasm keeps going and going and going.
Matt kisses your neck and then your lips. It's sloppy, this kiss, all tongues and teeth. Every one of your senses is consumed by Matt. He's all over you, in you, surrounding you. He swallows all the sounds you make into his own mouth without letting up the pace. You've never been kissed like this, never been fucked like this.
He says something incoherent into your skin. His movements grow more sloppy yet he fucks you harder.
Another orgasm builds as he starts to lose control.
"That's it," Matt croons into the crook of your neck. "Give me everything."
"You first," you somehow manage to say.
So he does.
His cock pounds into you. He leans forward, his broad hands supporting your back, as he fucks you like he can't stop. Both of you moan the other's name. This orgasm is like a freight train barreling toward you. There's no stopping it, and when it comes, it crashes into you like a tsunami of sensation. Black spots dance around bursts of color in your vision and your entire body shakes and writhes.
"Fuck," Matt says, his pace impossibly faster, and then he's going over the edge right there with you.
You can't stop shaking. You realize, belatedly, that your eyes are closed and open them. Matt rests his forehead against yours. He's shaking too, his cock still buried inside you.
"Oh my god," you say, voice rough.
You expect some sort of comment, but Matt hums and doesn't move. A shiver of an aftershock wracks through him, which makes you shiver in turn. You feel like you can barely breathe. Your heart is still racing and your entire body feels like a limp noodle. Matt's hands start stroking up and down your back in a soothing pattern.
"So did I work for it?" he finally asks with a chuckle.
"I think so," you say. "But maybe later we can try again."
He laughs now, long and loud with his head tilted back. "Yes ma'am." He kisses you lightly and finally begins the hard work of untangling your bodies. You're not even sure you can feel your legs. You might be paralyzed.
Worth it, you think as Matt pulls you to your feet and into his bathroom. You wobble, glad he's helping support you, and that he's in front of you so you can see his bare ass.
"Do you want a shower?" he asks, starting the water anyway.
"Depends," you say as you watch his naked body in the darkened room, lit only by the neon lights. "Are you joining me?"
He smiles that stupid, cocky smirk of his.
"Of course."
Much later, the pair of you fall asleep in his silk sheets, naked limbs tangled together.
idk how to word this properly but wrt the fanfic thing you reblogged earlier. Why do fanfic writers have such different expectations than any other content hosting platform?
Like lets take youtube as a point of comparison, Engagement like comments and likes largely exists to boost the works place in algorithm, thats why youtubers put in calls to action and other engament bait. Few with decent reach even read the comments and the audience shouldnt try to develop any weird parasocial relationship with the youtuber. Fanfic authors ask for likes (kudos, because the websites gotta use nonstandard language for some reason) and comments despite them not having any impact on an algorithm, and seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author based on tumblr posts like that one.
Why the radical difference in behaviour away from the norm? And honestly with all the (usually) metaphorical blood spilled online about parasociality why are authors really surprised that the audience tries to keep their distance as is best practice with any other content producer?
okay I am going to answer this as kindly and as calmly as I can and try to assume that you are asking this in good faith. because my friend, the fact that you feel the need to ask is, to me, The Problem.
[this is, for the record, in response to this post]
fanfiction writers are not *posting content.* (I also have reservations about engaging with the term "content producer" or "content creator" but let's put that aside for now, I'll circle back to it.) you say "they seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author" as though it is strange, off-putting, and incomprehensible to you, when in fact that is the point of writing fanfiction. it is a way of participating in fandom. it is a way of building community and exchanging ideas and becoming closer with people.
if authors wanted to solely ~generate content~ that would get them attention (?? to what end, the dynamic you have described seems to equate algorithmic supremacy as winning for winning's sake, as though all anyone wants to do is BUILD an audience without ENGAGING with them, which I cannot fathom but let's pretend for a moment that is, in fact, true) then like. if that were the case why on earth would they choose a medium in which they categorically cannot succeed and profit, because it isn't their IP?
you are equating two things that are not at all the same thing. to the degree that parasocial relationships are to be avoided, and "that person is not trying to be your friend they are trying to entertain you, please respect their boundaries" is a real dynamic -- which it is!! -- like. you have to understand that the reason that is true for the people of whom it is true is because it is their JOB. they are storytellers by profession, and they are either through direct payment, or sponsorship, or advertising, or through some other means, profiting off of your attention. i don't say this to be dismissive, many wonderful artists and actors and comedians and any number of a thousand things that i enjoy very much go this route but they do so as a *career choice.* and so when you violate the public/private boundary with them, you are presuming to know a Person rather than their Worksona. the people who work at Dropout or who stream their actual play tabletop games or who broadcast on TikTok or YouTube are inviting me to feel like i know them to the degree to which that helps them succeed in their medium and at their craft, but there MUST be a mutual understanding that that's a feeling, not a fact.
however.
a fanfiction writer is not an influencer, not a professional, and is not looking to garner "success." there is no share of audience we are trying to gain for gain's sake, because we are not competition with one another, because there is nothing to win other than the pleasure of each other's company. we are doing this for no other reason than the love of the game; because we have things we want desperately to say about these worlds, these characters, these dynamics, and because we *want more than anything to know we are not alone in our thoughts and feelings.* fanfiction is a bid for interaction, engagement, attention, and consideration. it is not meant to be consumed and then moved on from because we are NOT paid for our work, nor do we want to be. the reward we seek is "attention," but attention as in CONVERSATION, not attention as in clicks. we are not IN this for profit, or for number-go-up. there is no such thing: legally there cannot be. we are in this because we want to be seen and known.
like. please understand. i am now married to someone i met because of mutual comments on fanfiction. our close friend and roommate, with whom i have cohabitated for over a decade now, is someone I met because of mutual comments on fanfiction and livejournal posts. that is my household. beyond my household, the vast majority of my closest personal friends are people with whom I built relationships in this way.
you ask why fanfiction writers want THIS and not "the norm," but the idea of everything being built to cater to an algorithm to continue to build clout, as though the only method of reaching people is Distant Overlord Creator and Passive Receptive Audience being "the norm" is EXTREMELY NEW. this is not how it has always been!! please think of the writers of zines in a pre-internet fandom, using paper and glue and xerox to try and meet like-minded people in a world that was designed for you to only ever meet people in person, by happenstance, in your own hometown. imagine the writers of the early internet, building webrings from scratch to CREATE a community to find each other, despite distance. imagine livejournal groups, forums, and -- yes, indeed, of course -- comment threads IN STORIES -- as places where people go to *converse.* in the past, we had an entire Type Of Guy that everyone knew about, the BNF ("Big Name Fan") whose existence had to be described via meme because it was SO DIFFERENT THAN THE NORM. treating fellow fans like celebrities or people too cool for the regular kids to know was an OUTLIER, and one commonly understood to lead to toxicity.
in the past, I have likened writing fanfiction to echolocation. i am not screaming because I like hearing the sound of my own voice, though i can and do find my voice beautiful. i am screaming so that the vibrations can bounce back to me and show me the world. the purpose is in the feedback. otherwise it is just noise.
does this make any sense? can you see, when i describe it that way, why an ask like yours makes me feel despair, because it makes us all sound so horribly separate from one another?
perhaps I will try another metaphor:
a professional chef who runs a restaurant will not have her feelings hurt if you never fight your way into the kitchen to personally tell her how much you enjoyed the meal. that would, indeed, violate a boundary. professional kitchens are a place of work, and you have already showed her you enjoyed the meal by paying for it, or by perhaps spreading your enjoyment by word of mouth to your friends so they, too, can have good meals. you show your appreciation by continuing to come back. if a bunch of people sitting around randomly happen to have a conversation about how much they love the food, it wouldn't hurt that chef's feelings to not be included in the conversation. however: EVEN IN THIS INSTANCE, it is ADVISABLE AND APPROPRIATE to leave a good review! you might post about how much you like this restaurant on Yelp, and it would probably make the chef feel great to see those positive comments. but the chef doesn't NEED them, because the chef is, again, *also being paid to cook.* that's why she started the restaurant, to be paid to cook!
i am not being paid to cook.
i am at home in my own kitchen, making things for a community potluck where i hope everyone will bring something we can all enjoy together. some people at the potluck are better bakers, some better cooks; some can't cook at all but are great at logistics and make sure there's enough napkins for everyone; some people come just to enjoy the food, because that's what the party is for. and if I, as this enthusiast chef who made something from my heart for this reason alone, learned after the fact that a bunch of people got together in the parking lot to rave about my dish but no one of them had ever bothered to tell me while I sat alone at my table all night, occasionally seeing people come by to pick up a plate but never saying anything to me -- of course that would bother me, because I am not otherwise profiting off the labor I put in. this is not a bid to be paid, because if someone WERE to say "hey, great cake!! here's five bucks for a slice" i would say no, friend, that is not the point and give them the money back. i'm not trying to Get Mine. I am in it to see the look on your face. I'm in it so you can tell me what about it moved you, so that I can say back what moved me to make it in the first place. so we can TALK about it.
because what happened in the first place is this: one time I had a cake whose sweetness, richness, flavor, intensity, and composition moved me so much that I *taught myself to bake.* so I could see how much vanilla and sugar was too much, so I could learn how to make things rise instead of fall flat, so I could even better appreciate the original cake by seeing for myself the effort and talent and inspiration that goes into making one even half as good.
learning to do so is a satisfying accomplishment in and of itself, yes.
but I also did it because at the end of the day we should EAT the cake. and it's a lonely thing, to eat alone when a meal was always designed and intended to be shared.
so, to answer your last question: i'm not surprised, i'm just sad. because somehow two things that were never meant to be seen as the same have been labeled "content," and thus identical. and it diminishes both the things that ARE intended to be paid for AND the things that are not, because it removes any sense of intimacy or meaning from the work.
i hope you know i'm not mad at you for asking. but i'm frustrated we've come to live in a world where the question needs to be asked, because the answers are no longer intuitively obvious because we're so siloed.
A few other notes: I'm sure many people enjoy optimizing their posting schedule and things like that but for me it's unbearably tedious. It does not spark joy. This is my hobby. It is not my path to a publishing contract. I do it to spark joy.
Second: at the risk of yelling at a cloud, so much of the early internet and the joy of it was people doing things just got fun, and there's so little of that left. I'm showing you my cool rocks. Come take a look.
this is meant positively by the way. sometimes you love the character so much you end up putting a piece of yourself in it to learn how it is to love yourself without realising and thats ok.
So... I found this and now it keeps coming to mind. You hear about "life-changing writing advice" all the time and usually its really not—but honestly this is it man.
I love the lawyer metaphor, because whenever I see “John knew that...” in prose writing I immediately think “how? How does he know it?” Interrogate your witnesses. Cross-examine them. Make them explain their reasoning. It pays dividends.
First, let me preface this with something very important: you can treat all of this advice as SECOND-DRAFT ADVICE. It is so much easier to rewrite this kind of stuff once you have words on the page. Telling yourself the first draft is totally appropriate and acceptable.
What we’re talking about here are FILTER WORDS (and to some degree verbs of being). Yes, “thought” words are included. But so are “heard, saw, looked, tasted, smelled” etc.—most words having to do with the senses.
This isn’t black and white advice; sometimes you’ll use these words and that’s okay. They’re not WRONG. They’re just weaker. And they’re weaker because they create distance between the reader and the experience of the character.*
If you want your reader to feel like they’re experiencing the story right alongside the character, you want to cut down on filter words.
*This is particularly important with first person and close third POVs. The reader always knows whose eyes they’re seeing through and thoughts they’re privy to. So you don’t need to tell them “I saw X.” Or “I heard X.” Or “I thought Y.” You can just jump into the action/observation as it’s happening.
This is also where you want to pay attention to verbs of being.
“It was rainy.” Versus: “The rain pounded against the roof.” Or “The rain howled like an injured animal.” Or “The rain tapped against the window like an anxious lover.” All of these are inviting the reader deeper into the experience of the story by using stronger verbs and similes. And, at the same time, they stir feelings (instead of TELLING feelings). And feelings keep your reader engaged. Engaged readers keep turning pages; engaged readers become FANS.
Being crazy about a piece of media for any amount of time will leave a weird mark on you forever because years later you’ll see someone posting something about it like “can we talk about this frame” and you’ll be like “ah that frame. i know all about that frame. I was once a scholar of that frame.”
I think it could be cool to put together a board of the top Tumblristas in the world, that could see previews of what's coming up and advise on strategic direction. Who should be on it?
Okay, look. We're gonna do it like this, Matt. I used to work in market research. This one is free, next time I expect a month of free premium and if there's a third time I expect a job.
TO EVERYONE ELSE:
A series of ten reblogs is about to follow, since you can only have one poll per reblog. Please answer all ten polls. If you don't see them all, check the notes (this shouldn't take me long so if it's more than like, fifteen minutes since I posted this one they should all be there.)
7) with the understanding that Tumblr needs to attract new users or convert more current free users to paying users in order to stay online, what do you think of Matt's "top tumblrista" idea?
Absolutely not--this is very famously the influencer-hating site
Absolutely not--this site is too diverse for that to work
Absolutely not, for other reasons
I'm actually liking this poll method
The poll method is clunky but something similar would be great
In the following question, "pre-social media" refers to platforms like LiveJournal, forums, alt.net boards, early MySpace, and similar spaces.
9) thinking about the given definition of "pre-social media," how much do you agree with the statement "I think most tumblr users I know would prefer pre-social media to modern platforms like Facebook and X"?
"Strongly agree" is not strong enough
Strongly agree
Agree
Kind of maybe agree?
Neutral/I don't know enough about pre-social media to say
I love the irony that if that new reblog change had actually happened, @prismatic-bell would have been getting all the notes for this post, making it completely useless for @photomatt for any sort of research purposes, because he happened to get reblogged by a more popular blog and would have not gotten all the notifications when people added comments
Like, I hope this clears up why we all hated that idea
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
I love this post so much. “we used to make posts about loki on here” is the gentlest way possible to describe this website’s history. It’s like saying einstein dabbled in science.
Reader that accepts Matt for what he is? Reader that's Matt's solace? Bring me reader that's doing worse. Full-time vigilante reader that exhausts themselves every day, that doesn't have a job bc they're constantly fighting. Reader that stays at Matt's apartment to inhale a meal and sleep an hour or two, then leaves. That's clear from the beginning that nothing will ever be as important to them as keeping people safe. Reader that makes Matt worse
Pt 2 to this is reader that won't give Matt a single bit of attention unless he's helping them fight. Matt runs himself ragged trying to get in their good graces, but they seemingly never stop moving.
Reader that won't stop for a second unless Matt makes them, so he makes them. Finally snapping, they're tackled to the floor and their wrists are pinned to their sides while Matt sits on their legs so they'll fully acknowledge him. Reader that forces Matt to make himself unavoidable.
Reader that won't stop to fulfill their own needs so Matt forces it. He senses they're thirsty? Their mouth is being pried open so he can pour water into it before they run out to fight again. Bleeding? He's wrestling them into a position that lets him put a bandage on before they keep risking their life.
Reader that challenges Matt's skills because they're willing to do anything to get back out to help, but Matt isn't willing to hurt them to get them to stay. He has to avoid their attacks and get them prone before they let him show his affection.
@foxmurdock you understand me on an inhuman level with the spidersona mentioned in your reblog
I want a spider!reader that makes Matt's abilities look like child's play. They'd be able to bond over the spider sense and Matt's senses, and the way they experience the world.
I want Matt to have to use his wits to make spider!reader stay/pay attention to him. He can't use his strength and charm because reader is stronger and doesn't care about being flirted with. Matt begs reader to let him help her fight, but he can't handle the smoke of the level of threat reader fights against.
I think way back I saw Fox have an invisible!reader imagine where Matt's the only one who can "see" them. Don't get me started....
My spidersona doesn't need a suit, her webs weave around her and make her invisible. There's no sign that she's fighting crime, just people seemingly magically moved/saved/restrained by an invisible force. Silk!reader that's been locked away from people most of her life, she doesn't have an alter ego, she doesn't talk to people because she's more comfortable/safe invisible. She's baffled when Matt can sense her. They bond over their animal-like behavior. They experience the world through sounds, scent, hunting, movement. Silk!reader who isn't funny or particularly likeable because she's not socialized to people, but so dedicated to her mission that she makes Matt look like a soccer mom.
AO3 being offline for 20 hours is the perfect reason to reblog fics that are already posted to tumblr but some of y'all will be cowards forever I fearrrr
2087
titsay
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
