angel’s share | matt murdock x reader
summary: matt finds a new way to loosen eager!reader up.
words: 3k of gross porn with no plot okay.
tags: ddba!matt (dom, slightly mean), heavy intoxication, oral (m!receiving), some choking/gagging, thigh riding, wet & sloppy kissing, piv, degradation, praise, breeding. eager!reader who is mostly nonverbal.
dedicated to @lambmurdock and @jellyfishmurdock. gif by @faithbetryin.
the door unlocks with a quiet click, and you’re already moving before it swings open, bare feet padding across the floor.
he’s home.
matt steps inside. the scent of him is distinct—the crisp bite of his cologne softened by warmth, a trace of sweat mingling with something deeper, something unmistakably him—the lingering ghost of his day spent in court. a war fought in words instead of fists, but the same brutality thrumming under his skin.
“come here, sweetie.” his voice is warm, rich, and deep, but there’s something wry curling at the edges, amusement at how quickly you’ve come to greet him. like a puppy.
he sets his cane and briefcase aside, and then his hands are on you, catching you as you all but jump into his arms. you’re naked, pressed to the solid heat of him, your bare skin soaking in every bit of residual warmth from his day.
“eager,” he murmurs against your temple, a hint of reprimanding. his lips find yours and you sigh into him, hands grasping at his jacket, your lips parting for him before he even has to coax them open.
matt tastes like bourbon and the city. something heady and thick, the bitterness of old liquor still clinging to his tongue as it slides against yours.
“missed me, huh?” his hand cups the back of your head.
your hands slide down, over the firm planes of his stomach, over his belt, until your palm cups the bulge at the front of his slacks.
his grip tightens.
you let out a small sound of surprise, breathless as he pulls you closer, as he walks you back a step, then another. there’s a bite to his touch now, a shift in the way his mouth moves against yours.
he breaks the kiss with a soft, amused hum, his hand patting your bare bottom. “you wait for me like this?” he asks, voice thick with something between fondness and amusement.
“mhm,” you whine, baby-soft.
and he knows what you want, your hand still placed insistently over his cock.
he chuckles, dry.
“come on. to the couch.”
heat licks up your spine at the command, and you don’t even hesitate. you turn on wobbly legs, making your way over. he settles into the cushions with an ease that’s almost lazy. obediently, you kneel between his legs. your body hums with anticipation, mouth watering before he even touches you.
he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, his other resting on his lap, thumb stroking at your chin. “eager, aren’t we?”
“wanna cum, matt,” you whimper, impatient having waited all day like he’d asked.
he hums, seemingly contemplative, tapping your cheek twice. “then you have a job to do first, don’t you?”
“and we go slow. ah-ah, hands in your lap.”
“go on.”
you duck your head, letting him guide you forward with a hand in your hair, your lips parting as you nuzzle against his growing cock beneath the fabric. you mouth at it softly at first, dragging your tongue over the intoxicating shape of him.
matt hums. his fingers tighten, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds like ‘—good for me.’
you tilt your head up, chin pressing against him. your mouth parts, lips open, pink tongue resting there like an invitation.
he unfastens his belt with one hand, the metal clinking softly. his cock is half hard when he frees it, flushed and thick, the tip gleaming. your stomach tightens at the sight, and you instinctively start to reach—
his hand yanks your hair back, softly.
“ah-ah. what’d i say.”
his grip loosens, rubbing small circles against your scalp like an apology, but his voice stays firm. “in your lap.”
you obey immediately, folding them neatly in front of you, thighs squeezing together as you breathe through the ache of needing to touch him, needing to feel him.
and then he’s guiding himself to your lips, pressing the swollen head against your tongue. you immediately suckle, greedy, like it’s instinct.
he groans, low in his throat, hand tightening in your hair.
“god—”
but you don’t want to go slow. you want him now, want him deep—
his grip tightens suddenly, pulling you back just an inch, just enough to make you whine, blinking up at him with glazed, pleading eyes.
he smirks.
“eager thing,” he murmurs, and then he taps the head of his cock against your tongue, light, patronizing. “slow down. or this is going to be over in thirty seconds.”
his tone is even, patient, but you can feel the tension in his body, in the way his muscles cord under his skin, the way his breath shudders slightly when you swirl your tongue over the tip.
he lets you sink down slowly, guiding your movements with a firm grip in your hair, controlling how much you take, how fast, how deep. at first, he’s merciful, letting you adjust, letting you savor the weight of him on your tongue. but it doesn’t last.
his pace picks up, and suddenly he’s using your mouth the way he wants, the way he needs, pushing you down, holding you there until your throat flutters wet and constricts around him, then pulling you back up only to do it again.
“there we go,” he croons, dark.
your nails dig into your thighs, knuckles white. he’s panting above you, abs tensing, there’s a little stutter in his hips when you swallow around him.
and then, in a moment of desperation, you forget yourself—you reach up, fingers grasping at his thigh—
he yanks you off with a wet, obscene pop.
you cough wetly, drool slicking your chin. his cock glistens with your spit, a trail of saliva connecting to your lips.
he tuts, shaking his head slowly, thumb wiping the mess from your cheek before gripping your jaw.
“hands.”
your hands fly back into your lap.
“and—breathe, sweetheart.” a pause. then, more amused, “so desperate you forgot to, huh?”
“messy thing,” he mutters, almost in awe, with praise. “but you’re trying so hard for me.”
you lean into his touch, nuzzling against his palm, pressing small kisses to the base of his thumb. he chuckles, shaking his head.
he allows you forward again, your mouth closing around his cock again.
you take more and more of him until your throat tightens, until your breath catches. he groans, the sound deep and approving, and then his grip tightens, guiding you down further, until your nose brushes the well-groomed base of him, until he can feel your throat fluttering—wet and tight—around him.
and then as if speaking about you partly to himself—
“you can take more. relax.”
he says it like fact, not encouragement. like he knows your limits better than you do.
your throat protests, gagging as you try to take more. you whimper, the noise muffled.
he holds you there. just for a moment. just long enough for your lungs to protest. he groans dark, ragged, wild.
you spasm around him, pleasure sparking at the warmth of his approval, at the weight of him on your tongue, at the way he moves you—slow at first, letting you adjust, but then—
—and then his hips roll up, forcing you to take more, forcing you to gag on it, and you gasp, hands flying up on instinct, grasping at his thighs for leverage—
he yanks you off with yet another wet pop. you sputter saliva this time.
“maybe you need a little help relaxing.”
his voice is smooth but there’s something underneath it. something that makes your stomach clench with anticipation.
he reaches for the glass sitting on the side table—a deep, amber whiskey, rich and smoky.
“take a sip.”
you hesitate, just a second. but then he’s pressing the rim against your mouth, tipping it just enough for the first taste to roll over your tongue. the burn is sharp, spilling heat down your throat in one searing rush. you cough, blinking against the sting as the fire spreads through your chest.
his cock slides nudges your lips, a silent command. you open up, still dazed from the whiskey burning its way through your blood. your mouth is slick, your throat relaxed, but your head feels light, your skin hot, every nerve humming.
when he pulls you up again, the rim of the glass is waiting at your lips.
matt hums, low, approving when you sip and cough again. “swallow. there you go.”
but he’s listening. the quick flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers, the way your throat flexes, adjusting. his grip slides to your jaw, thumb pressing just below the hinge, feeling the way your muscles tighten, relax.
“good girl,” he croons, tilting your chin up. “breathe.”
you exhale shakily, warm and tinged with whiskey. he catches it, head tilting slightly, inhaling deep. he knows exactly how much has hit your bloodstream already, how it’s settling into your limbs.
not yet.
his cock drags against your parted lips. your breath stutters, but you take him deeper, no jittering, no clumsy struggle. just your lips sealing around him, the wet heat of your mouth drawing him in, deeper, deeper—
he exhales sharply, grip flexing against your scalp. “that’s it.”
another breath of air. another sip.
then he’s guiding you back down. the taste of whiskey still lingers, coating your tongue, blending with the salt of his skin, the deep musk of him.
he keeps feeding you. keeps fucking your mouth. his rhythm stays slow, but the weight of him presses deeper, nudging against the back of your throat.
another breath of air. another sip.
until—
hic.
your throat spasms, a sudden jolt, and your whole body tenses involuntarily. you choke, a wet, desperate sound, and his grip tightens immediately, yanking you back just enough to keep you from losing it completely.
he listens. assesses. tracks the way your muscles have slackened.
then he exhales sharply through his nose.
you’re at your limit.
he sets the whiskey aside. you blink up at him, lips slick, pupils blown wide. his palm cradles your jaw, tilting your chin up, thumb pressing lightly against your throat, feeling your pulse hammer under his touch.
“proud of you.” his voice is softer now.
—
your head lolls, time slipping, shifting. the heat changes—no longer burning, but pooling low, pulling you under.
you moan, before you realize you’re sitting astride matt’s bare thigh, your hips rocking helplessly against the hard, warm muscle beneath you.
“there you go,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel. his palms slide slowly up your sides, calloused thumbs dragging against your skin, making you shiver. “easy does it.”
matt’s chest is bare beneath your grasping fingers, muscles slicked lightly with sweat, the thin sheen catching the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the window. his breath fans warm across your collarbone, mouth pressing open, hungry kisses along the curve of your throat. his tongue drags lazily against your skin, leaving hot, wet trails.
“that's it, sweetheart, keep moving just like that,” matt murmurs roughly against your jaw, chuckling softly. his calloused hands roam over your body with unapologetic roughness. his fingers dig into your hips, controlling your rhythm, dragging you forward then back, helping you ride his thigh in slow, torturous strokes.
“messy,” he says, amusement lacing his voice. you inhale deeply, dizzy from the scent of him—the crisp, fading spice of his cologne mingled now with sweat, whiskey, and a sharp, masculine heat that’s uniquely matt.
his thumb drags roughly over your nipple, rolling it and you jolt against him, thighs squeezing tighter around the solid muscle of his thigh. matt chuckles darkly.
“feel good, baby?” he whispers, tone playful. “grind a little harder.”
he punctuates the tease by sliding his hand down, thumb swirling slowly—achingly slowly—around your puffy clit. you sob his name.
“good girl,” matt whispers, breath brushing your mouth now, lips close enough that you can taste him already—bourbon and salt.
your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails leaving faint marks in their wake. matt’s throat bobs visibly when you say his name. his silver cross glints faintly, catching your eye as his pulse visibly thrums in his neck, an oddly hypnotic rhythm that matches your pounding heartbeat.
you moan into his mouth, and then he’s kissing you, hard and deep, tongue sliding into your mouth. you’re pant against him, tasting the whiskey and him.
“open up more,” he orders softly. “give me that tongue.”
his kisses turn filthier, sloppier, tongues sliding messily, sharing air and saliva in languid motion.
his cock remains achingly erect against your thigh, flushed dark and slick with precum, twitching slightly whenever you move, smearing wet heat against your skin. you moan softly, almost dizzy from how badly you want him, how desperately you crave him filling you.
“matt—” you whisper, your voice rough.
his beard scratches gently against your skin. you whine softly into the kiss, hips grinding down harder, wetter, messier against his thigh, slick smearing everywhere as you chase the friction desperately. he pats your bottom in reassurance.
“soon. i promise.”
his palms slide roughly over your ass, kneading, pulling you tighter against him, until your swollen clit drags deliciously against his thigh. you’re so wet, slick smearing onto his skin, every movement sending sharp jolts of pleasure through your thighs. your breaths mingle harshly, sloppy kisses punctuated by panting, gasping.
“come on, sweetheart,” matt grunts against your mouth. “ride like you mean it—make me believe it.”
“m-matt,” you babble, hips stuttering.
then suddenly, you’re in the air—his hands gripping beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, his strength an unshakable force even as your limbs go boneless. you let out a strangled gasp, thighs spreading around his waist as he maneuvers you exactly where he wants you, hovering over his cock, the swollen head pressing right against your entrance—so close, so close, but not enough.
“you want this, don’t you?” his grip tightens at your waist, fingers digging into overheated skin, holding you there, keeping you on that unbearable brink. his voice is so steady, so controlled, so infuriatingly patient despite the way his cock twitches beneath you.
“tell me, y/n. use your words.”
you whimper, clinging to his shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded. your whole body is pleading for him—every nerve singing, every muscle drawn so tight you think you might break if he doesn’t fill you now.
“please,” you sob, desperate, voice breaking as you writhe in his hold. “please, matt—need you inside—now—pleaseplease.”
the growl that rumbles from his chest is low and wrecked, his restraint snapping.
he thrusts up, driving into you in one rough, unrelenting motion, forcing you to take all of him at once. the stretch is instant, a deep, overwhelming fullness, punching the air from your lungs as he buries himself to the hilt.
you cry out, your body locking up, pleasure detonating like fire licking up your spine. the coil inside you snaps violently, your orgasm crashing over you, white-hot and unrelenting. you clench down hard around him, the spasms ripping through you in sharp, overwhelming waves.
matt doesn’t let up.
his grip on your waist tightens, holding you down against him as he grinds deeper, forcing you to feel every inch of him while you shatter. his hips roll up and up, dragging out every pulse, every aftershock.
“fuck,” he grits out, voice strained, control slipping, his hips snapping up harder, grinding against that devastating spot inside you that sends another wrecked, broken cry spilling from your lips.
he thrusts again, deeper, and then he’s gone—his body locking up beneath you, fingers bruising into your waist as a sharp, guttural groan rips from his chest. you feel him jerk deep inside you, spilling into you hot and thick, burying himself as deep as he can go while pleasure rips through both of you.
—
the world filters back in slowly—your skin fever-warm, your breath mingling with his, your body still trembling in the aftershocks of pleasure. matt holds you through all of it, broad palms smoothing over your back, tracing slow, grounding patterns into your skin.
his chest rises and falls beneath you, deep, steady, anchoring. outside, his city hums—greenpoint’s quiet streets thick with the scent of late-night takeout, the distant rumble of a motorcycle slicing through the stillness. the east river laps at the docks, a steady metronome beneath the occasional buzz of passing cars.
then, a soft kiss to your temple.
“you with me?” matt murmurs, voice raw, worn down by pleasure but still so gentle.
you hum sleepily, nodding, but his fingers tip your chin up, waiting.
“yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse. “yeah, ‘m here.”
his hands roam, softer now—tracing your spine, checking you, mapping you all over again.
“c’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers. “let’s get you cleaned up.”
you groan in protest, clinging to him. “don’t wanna.”
he huffs a quiet laugh. but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away.
you nuzzle into his throat, pressing a lazy kiss there. his breath hitches, but his hands stay steady, one sliding into your hair, thumb stroking absently.
“you’re warm,” you mumble. “don’t need a bath. just need you.”
another deep inhale, another slow exhale.
“alright,” matt murmurs. “let’s stay like this a little longer, then.”
and so you do—wrapped up in him, safe, sated, time slowing to something softer. outside, his city keeps moving, slow and unbothered, streetlights flickering against old brick. but here, in his arms, the night stretches out like it belongs to you.
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