Icarus and the Sun.
summary: you and matt are best friends. best friends who sometimes hook up together - but that's besides the point. HEAVY ON THE YEARNING 18+ mdni - blowjob, reader doesn't have sex with matt in this one skskks baby's first proper smut fic, please be kind <3 w.c.: 4.3k+ a/n: this one is especially for a beloved mootie of mine, you know who you are, and i hope you know i love you more than anything <3 taglist: @ace-degenerate-13 @lina-murdock @lambmurdock @vigilantekisser @nohugsallowed @moth-murdock @writing-not-crying @angelmurdock @bex-or-rebekah @cloudmurdock @marvlettes @that1weirdweebgirl @obsessedwithfakeguys @thychuvaluswife @silkenmurdock (wanna be added to the taglist? reply in the comments!) main masterlist
You knew Matt Murdock was a tease.
Whether it be in study groups — where he'd raise questions against your argument just to hear you squirm, and get all passionate, before flashing you that charming smirk.
Whether it be during late night trips to a shitty diner with Foggy — stealing fries off your plate just to watch you whine, before kissing away your pout and getting you extra fries.
Whether it be in bed — edging you till you clawed at his back, crying out his name in frustration, before making you cum hard enough that you were sure you blacked out for a few seconds.
The point is, he was an utter tease. And your best friend — who you fucked with every once in a while, casual — but that was neither here nor there.
But you weren't quiet sure if he was teasing you right now. Or if your brain was just being overridden by your pent up sexual frustration. Probably the latter.
You were both supposed to be studying — and from the looks of it, Matt seemed focused enough — like a good little student, playing with a random pen as he listened to the lecture slides on his earphones, nodding his head along.
You, on the other hand, were quiet the opposite of the 'ideal student' — that's to say you were trying not to let your thoughts wander towards your best friend. Again.
The desk was small — very small — your thigh was pressed up against his; your skin touching the soft fabric of his sweats, you could still feel the warmth of him through it — and God, you were getting absolutely no learning done.
Could he tell? Your heart thudded at the thought, flashes of warm hands trailing up your body, soft lips on your neck, a hitched moan of —
You shook your head, taking in a shuddering breath as you tried to focus on the words in front of you. That's when Matt shifted, letting out a soft groan, stretching his hands up — and God, when his shirt rode up you couldn't help but stare, the small amount of hair pointing downwards—
Stop it, you chastised yourself, painstakingly turning your gaze away from him — making sure to curse your doctors in your head, it was all their fault you've been this pent up and horny. Here's to hoping that your pillows are always warm.
The company is a separate legal entity, distinct from its members and directors…
Your eyes dart back up to him. Pathetic — you were pathetic about him. He made you a love-sick fool.
But you can't help but feel the fondness root itself deeper in your chest, your heart giving a sickening lurch as you stared foolishly at him. Messy hair, pink lips, dark glasses framing his face.
Best friends. Casual. Of course. This was normal.
"Are you even trying to read that book?"
You were snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of his voice. Damn him and his stupid charming smirk.
Tease.
"I don't have to try to read," you quip back, rubbing at your cheek as you turn your head back towards the text book.
"Funny," he murmured, a smug grin on his face. You want to kiss it off his pretty pink lips.
"Shut up, Murdock," you spit out, your lip stinging as you bite down on it.
"No, I'm being serious," he murmurs, shifting somehow closer — the heat of him was suffocating as he turned to you, taking out his earphone smoothly, an eyebrow quirked up.
"What?"
"You should really be studying, sweetheart. We have an exam coming up," he smirked, hand 'innocently' brushing against your upper thigh, the touch made you shiver, eyes shutting of their own accord. Fuck.
He seemed to revel in it, leaning in closer — his breath warm against your neck as he leaned down, hand then surely coming to rest on your thigh, index finger moving in a steady up and down motion — fucking tease.
"How much did you finish revising?" he questioned smugly, leaning in to press a soft kiss on your neck, you bit back a whimper at the contact, fists clenching and unclenching on your lap uselessly, willing and failing to calm down. You open your eyes with a shuddering breath, finding him 'looking' up at you, pink lips pulled up into a shit eating grin, hair already a mess, black lenses glinting in the little sunlight pouring into the cramped dorm room. Beautiful — Matt Murdock is beautiful.
"Matty, you know I can't—"
He stops you with a searing kiss to your lips, the hand on your thigh tightening its grip whilst the other went to your neck — pulling you closer, closer, closer, closer.
Eventually, the both of you pull away, a clicking sound as you separate, chests heaving.
A beat passes, then another. You realize your eyes are still closed, and your head feels like it's filled with cotton.
And that's when he all but pulls you towards him, a startled gasp leaving you as your eyes open wide in surprise.
It's a bit of an awkward maneuver — one you both can't help but chuckle about as he sits you on his lap — as soon as you're seated and his arms are around you.
Your eyes are fixated downwards, biting your lower lip, heart thudding in your chest hard enough that you wonder if he feels it too — you're nervous, Matt Murdock makes you nervous — you feel one of his big hands travel up to play with the hem of your shorts; feeling the stitching there.
"Sweetheart."
You feel a pang in your chest at the nick name, "yeah?"
His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your head up as he leans in for a kiss once again — this one far more gentle in its nature — a lazy passing of your mouths as his hand travels to the back of your neck, just resting there, tracing random shapes.
In moments like these, you can't help but feel it in your chest — a burning, white hot feeling of pain, of ache — like a tendered bruise you'd not been aware of till it hurt; you wanted to feel it, you wanted to drown in this ache. You wanted to feel it till you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't be anything other than this ache. You wanted to tell Matt of its existence — to tell him about it like a child, crying and hurting, asking him to kiss it better.
A softness with nowhere to go. It felt as if he were the Sun — warm and gentle, passionate and fierce. You could stare at him forever, even if he's so bright and loving that it burns you from the inside out. Does he feel it too?
—
Matt can feel everything about you.
He feels like a veouyer — a creep, really — every time he lets himself listen to you. The uneven thud of your heart around him. The hitched breaths hidden under snarky comments. The scent of your pheromones mixed with your sunscreen, clean sweat, and apricot perfume.
God, he'd drown himself in it — in you. He knew himself to be a selfish asshole, letting you in over and over. Naming it casual, to try and drive you away every time. But… you stayed, didn't you? Chasing after him, soaring high in the sky. Hearing, and feeling you fall in… in love with him should be soothing, instead — for him — it takes on the color of murder. He believes it's because you're the good one between the both of you. More profound, and beautiful in your emotions. Easier and quicker to perish.
Maybe this why he wanted you. Needed you. He'd grown alone and cold with his pain — listening to the world beyond writhing in agony. He'd let you follow in his wake — let you fall for him, knowing the devil he hides and restrains within himself. So, he melts your wings instead, he doesn't think of his emotions neither does he force you to think about yours — he does this… not to hurt you, nor to lead you to destruction — but rather, because he knows you belong to the water. To kindness, and love.
And he wants to ask you, if in that water if you'll still be willing to let yourself be brushed with the pattern of dappled sunlight.
So, instead of pulling away, he only brings you closer, closer, closer, closer.
Till all he can do is feel you, till all his thoughts revolve around you — obsessively, incessantly — a maddening hunger that suffocates him further. Instead, he tastes you, the fruity lip gloss, and the mango you'd had that morning.
God, you're beautiful.
"Matt," you whisper, breath tickling his lips, and he cherished the closeness — tasting you like you were the finest of wines, reveling in your taste — he leaned in once again only to be stopped by you leaning down to press kisses on his neck. He could feel the hot traces you left behind, a soft sound leaving his parted lips as his eyes fluttered shut.
He lets himself get lost in you. Lets the molten heat consume him. Lets you kiss him over and over, a softness to it that can never forget.
He loved you like Adam loved Eve — he bit into the apple because the woman he loved told him to, no matter that God declared it a sin. Trust and love called sin. Maybe this was a sin too, Matt loving you like this - ruining your soul and hurting your heart. Maybe this was a sin too, you loving him like this - giving your wings, and holding him close. But, what does heaven have that he can't find when he's with you.
So, he chooses to wrap his arm around you back, black glasses knocked askew, hair somehow messier than before, lips pink and slick. Both of you feel the snug pressure of the way your thighs bracket his. The hot ridge of his cock is impossible to ignore as you shift just a little, chasing your own want.
"Should we?" his voice is rough and shaky, so unlike the composed boy you've always seen, it was so very rare to see him like this. The few times you had were ingrained in your mind. Flashes of it scalding, as you thought back to then.
"Yeah, yeah," you murmur softly, pulling him in for another kiss, hands tangling in his unruly hair.
He let out a muffled sound, hands coming up to latch around your thighs as he picked you up, somehow navigating the way towards his bed expertly. Placing you softly on the bed, his big hands moving to rest under your loose tee-shirt. Between kisses you somehow manage to ask a muffled, "Can I?", hands tugging at his shirt.
He nods desperately, smoothly taking off his shirt and the glasses along with it, before leaning down to kiss you again — somehow more desperate than before, hungrier, and hot, mouths sliding against each other, panting breaths and soft noises.
As you separate to breathe, his head resting on your forehead, you can't help but stare at the exposed skin, lean abs and a broad chest; a silver cross glinting against the skin of his chest attached to a black chord.
You can't help but look at him in awe, drinking in the sight of him like a dying man finding an oasis. His eyes — God, his eyes — brown, and green, a chaotic blend of life and freedom — and it dawns on you with a rush, that you love him. You love Matt Murdock. With you heart, mind, and soul — your heart may stop beating, your mind may forget, but the soul remains forever, the love flowing from it like a bleeding wound. You love him like the stubborn hope that clings to grief. A choiceless thing that kills you over and over.
You're not going to survive loving him. Like Icarus flying to close to the Sun. He's the Sun for your eternal longing.
Every life you've lived and dreamed to live stays fragmented in you like a kaleidoscope, and every time you look at him, and the Sun hits those broken pieces, they rearrange to color him in a mess of purples, pinks, blues, and reds. And, your world tilts off its axis and fixes itself to be around him, once again.
"What?"
The grin on his face is sweet — sweet like the morning dew on grass, sweet like the warmth you felt running around in the summer heat as a kid, sweet like the wind in your hair and love in your chest. The realization of this affection is a new hell.
"Nothing," you whisper, shaking your head, hand coming up to touch his cheek, he melts into it, an amused grin remaining on his face.
"Matty?"
He lets out a questioning hum, eyes closed as he seems to relish in your soft touches. Could he feel your chest hurting, and aching? Could he hear the words lodged into your throat, ready to spill out at the slightest crack in will? Could he tell that you wanted this — him — forever? A home with warm lights, and laughter. A home where you spend lazy mornings and cozy nights together. He is home.
I love you, Matt Murdock.
"Wanna make you feel good, Matty."
His eyes open, unseeing gaze landing somewhere over your shoulder, lips immediately pulling into a frown. You almost giggled at how puppy like he looked.
"Well, I can't really have sex right now, Matty. Medical stuff," you clarify, a shy smile on your lips.
Though that was true, you just wanted to devote yourself to him. Fall to your knees, and worship him. Heart, mind, and soul — all dedicated to him.
To keep him with you in your devotion if not in your life. You wanted your love to be strong enough — faithful enough — to encompass an eternity of faith to not a God, but to Matt, into a moment of time. Proof that this moment of time can accommodate an eternity in it as well. Love is the proof that a moment spent with him is an eternity lived.
A kiss is pressed to the corner of your mouth. Then, another one to your jaw. Before these kisses trail to your ear, a soft one pressed right under it.
"You don't have to, sweetheart," it is murmured so softly, so lovingly, so acceptingly — you almost crumble right there on his twin sized mattress, with stupidly soft silk sheets that smell like him.
The lamp on the bed side table makes him glow, like a Sun. Hair like a halo, eyes like a forest, lips like petals of roses. Your Sun. The star you'd die without.
"I want to, Matty," you find yourself answering, hand coming to rest over his heart. It was thumping steadily beneath your hand. You felt warm.
He chose not to answer, instead leaning in to press his lips to yours. Sweet, soft, gentle, kind. Like the Sun greeting the sky every morning. Like the strong wind dancing with the trees. And perhaps, it was because you were so overcome with love in that moment, or maybe you just realized this then but always knew deep down in you — his were the only lips you want for the rest of forever.
—
The next few moments feel like a blur and a forever — all twisted and laced together.
Matt shifting to lay down, you leaning over him. You'd been in awe. You were still in awe.
God, he looked beautiful.
He is your pain. Devastating, and all encompassing. Divine and everything you'd ever prayed for.
You started at his lips, pressing soft, barely there kisses against them, hands lazily moving across his broad chest and to the back of his neck — deepening the kiss. His hands were gentle even as they squeezed your hips, soft sighs leaving him every time you broke away from a kiss.
Slowly, your kisses trailed to his neck — pressing just under his ear — as your hand traveled down to grind steadily against the hard outline of his cock through his sweats. His chest hitched on a bitten back groan of your name, back arching just a bit, his hands clutching onto you.
"'s okay Matty, you don't have to be quiet," you murmur affectionately, voice muffled against his chest, pressing kisses to his sensitive nipples — which only seemed to wind him up more, "I wanna hear you, sweetheart."
He let out a startled gasp as you pressed an affectionate bite on his sternum. He couldn't help when his hips bucked up into your hand, the feeling of your lips on all the spots that drove him wild, combined with the feeling of the delicious friction and pressure your hand provided from over his sweats was amazing. He could feel the heat bury under his skin — white, hot flashes of it seemed to linger all over his skin as he gasped out your name again.
He could feel the growing wet patch on his boxers, as you slowly trailed lower, pressing kisses down his stomach, leaving your scent all over him. He knew he'd feel you even after you left eventually. It made him want to get on his knees and beg for you to stay… just stay.
Your hand eventually went to trace the edge of the sweatpants resting low on his hips, eyes lowering to see a mole — right on his hip — a kiss from an angel as they said, you lowered yourself to press a soft kiss to it, then to the skin next to it, and another, and another.
"What're you doing?"
He sounded breathless, one of his hands coming down to tangle in your hair, affectionately playing with it. God, how could you not love him?
"You have a mole, Matty," you answer, pressing a kiss to his Apollo's belt, then your chin came to rest on it, as you looked up at him, "On your left hip. It's cute."
"Cute, huh?" he questioned, a teasing grin on his face. You felt your cheeks heat up at that, burying your face in his stomach, pressing a kiss there while you're at it.
"Aw, c'mon sweetheart, don't hide," he murmurs, and you think you're insane, delusional even — because for a second as he pets your hair you can't help but think he's maybe, just maybe, feeling what you are.
"Shut up, Matty," your whisper is muffled against his skin, before you're moving again, hand coming up to rub at the hardened outline of his cock, just the right amount of pressure for him to feel good.
He let out a startled hiss, head throwing back against his pillow, eyes screwing shut at the sudden rush of pleasure lighting him up from inside out.
"Can I—"
"Yeah, yeah," his hisses out, one of his hands gripping his silk sheets, the other still tangled in your hair.
You make a quick work of lowering his sweatpants and boxers, and God, you'll never get used to seeing him like. You affectionately nuzzle against one of his thighs, dragging one of your fingers slowly up from the base to the tip, applying barely any pressure — it drew out a quiet moan from him that he once again tried, and failed, to bite back.
You could tell he was still tense. He'd always been a giver, through and through.
"Matty."
"Yeah?"
He sounded a little more than breathless as he answered, one of his hands still clenching and unclenching by his side.
"Calm down," you murmur softly, pressing soft kisses on his thigh, "let me make you feel good, I want to."
"Yeah, yeah, okay," he answered, a heavy sigh leaving his lips as he tries to relax.
Well, you could help with the relaxing.
You moved your hand up to the tip, circling the wetness of his precum around the head. He groaned at the sensation — the feeling of your breath so close to him, your scent and his mixed in the air. God, he could die happy like this. With you so close to him.
You dip your head lower, pressing fleeting kisses to the base, before dragging your tongue up and giving a few kitten licks to his head. He lets out a loud groan when you finally — finally — wrap your lips around him properly, taking him into your mouth deeply, and then you look up at him through your lashes, and God.
He looks like a painting, unreal and divine. Pink lips parted on an 'O', hair messy and unruly, head thrown back as his eyes flutter. You can see the vein pop up on his neck and forehead at the sheer restraint he's trying to keep — trying not to fuck up into your mouth.
And you knew then, with a surety you've never felt in your life, that he was the muse. For the brushstrokes, and the words. For the painters and the poets. How could he not be? It was as if you were seeing — feeling — the loveliness you've only ever read in books, seen in the eyes of an oil painting.
You sink down further, gagging a bit as he hits the back of your throat — his hand in your hair tightened, as he panted at the rush of pleasure he was feeling a broken 'sweetheart' leaving him.
You give an experimental suck, before dragging your mouth back up an obscene noise following. His eyes roll back as you work him with you mouth, trying to take him deeper and deeper with each bob of your head, using your tongue to cradle him.
"Sweetheart," the rasp in his voice is desperate, as he tries his best not to fuck up into your mouth — but fails, unseeing eyes screwed shut as sweat dots his temple.
You pull back just enough to whisper a quick — "I got you," — before taking the head of him back into your mouth, giving it a firm suck, whilst your hands grip at his base setting a continuous rhythm. He lets out a soft pant at that, his thighs shaking as his grip on your hair tightens.
Eventually, you take the whole of him in your mouth again, as you hollow your cheeks, "So—" his chest heaves, hitched moans and breaths leaving him, "so close, sweetheart."
His hand tightens almost painfully in your hair, and you don't even seem to feel it, all of it numbed with the high of knowing you're the reason he feels so good. You maintained the constant motions, up and back.
"Oh God! Christ! Fuck—" his voice breaks off, as you somehow try to take him deeper, a long suck.
"Sweetheart — Oh fuck — gonna come," he warns in a rush, breaths panting, and chest heaving, his hand on your hair loosens giving you the chance to pull away, but you don't — doubling down instead, and as you feel him twitch in your mouth, you pull away just slightly, his body goes taut like a wound up bowstring.
Then, with a long groan, his hips finally lift, spilling into your mouth — salty and bitter against your tongue. He's shaking and whimpering your name over and over like a broken record as you work him through it, until his pretty noises turn from pleasurable to clearly overstimulated.
You release him gently, pressing a few kisses on your way back up. Matt's arms weakly wrap around you, pulling you to rest on top of him, he looks utterly spent and dazed. Hair sweaty as his chest heaves, cheeks all flushed — clearly trying to bring himself down. Your hand runs through his hair, cradling his face with your other hand — tenderly rubbing at his cheek, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead.
A part of you hopes that he's too dazed to remember the tender gesture.
"You okay, Matty?"
He nods tiredly, trying to gather you closer to him somehow.
"Yeah, I'm okay. Are you?" the question is pressed into your temple, an affectionate smatter of kisses pressed along your cheek and face. "All okay," you murmur, suddenly shy as you bury your face in his chest.
He lets out an affectionate huff, nosing against your hair gently, big hands rubbing your back. You feel content like this… happy even. Your foolish heart — a masochist and a dreamer — can't help but imagine… imagine, how it'd be to say those three words. Aloud. And you realize something you hadn't before.
You feel it everywhere. This… this love.
You feel it in your chest, taking root in it, and slowly moving about. It seems to fill every gap in your body — every empty space, filled with the love you carry for him. Intertwining with your soul. Until all you feel is the warmth of his light — burning you from the inside out.
Matt's arms shake as he braces to get up, but you stop him, a soft noise of protest as your hand clutches at his wrist — the thud of his pulse is comforting under your finger.
"Don't go," the words are whispered more than said.
"Gotta clean us up, sweetheart, get you a snack and some water too," his words are simple. Logical, really. The gentle caress of his hand on your cheek makes you want to lean in closer to him.
"Later," you murmur petulantly, leg tangling with his, eyes fluttering shut as he moves your hair away from your face.
He obliges, laying back down and pulling you back into his arms. Pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple.
You should be leaving now. You shouldn't have asked him to stay, or to clean up later.
But you can't bring yourself to regret it. It feels good, being held like this. It feels good, being close to him. You want to feel good for a bit, before you both are snapped out of this haze.
You both know you shouldn't sleep here — in Matt's cramped dorm room bed, circled in the warmth of his arms. But, he rubs your back. And, you let your eyes fall shut.
Matt knows he shouldn't say it. But, "I love you." And, you let yourself smile.
—
