There isn’t enough Matt Murdock eructo fiction.
This fic is 18+ just to be safe. Warning for mention of alcohol, and aloooot of burping. Brief mention of flatulence. Hopefully there is an audience for this besides me.
Matt Murdock has suffered through broken ribs, infected wounds, and even Pnemonia so how bad can some hot wings be? Turns out with enough beer and milk it’s worse than he thinks. 🥵❤️🔥🍗🍗🍻
He’s not a glutton for food but Matt Murdock is a glutton for pain. And foggy promises that the new Hell’s Kitchen Chicken at Josie’s is pure agony.
“You’ll feel it after for days.” The blond lawyer says.
Matt is skeptical. Sensitive as he is he also has a very high pain tolerance. He can meditate through most discomfort which is useful as often he gets indigestion from after-dinner-combat.
The truth is Matt doesn’t just seek out pain for punishment it gives him pride. Those kids in school who mocked him for being blind could never take the beating he has. They wouldn’t last five minutes on the street. But Matt, Matt ownes the streets and he bathes in the conflict for sport.
So even though the right headache can bring him to his knees, the fact that he can survive a punch in the gut makes him feel stronger. He feeds on pain, every time he gets back up he’s stronger than before.These wings are gonna be a cake walk.
That is until he smells them and his eyes instantly begin to water. He dabs his nose with a napkin before the plate is even to the table.
In college he and foggy had a scale they used to determine how bad a decision was. Flirting with the criminology professor was a two beer decision, streaking through Hell’s Kitchen while wearing a doctor doom mask: 7beer decision.
Ordering wings that singe your guts and make you belch fire…that fell somewhere around three and half beers.
Matt Murdock doesn’t love the heavy feelings in his gut after drinking a beer. But it’s cheep, and convenient and helps him to relax.
His stomach is painfully taught after his third beer and half way through his fourth he remembers why he doesn’t drink. He was always extra vulnerable to the side effects.
He belches a small puff of air into his fist and excuses himself. Pressure builds in his chest like the barol of a gun but he tries to ignore it.
“Would you like me to take that?” The waitress asks. He hears her fingertips on Foggies glass as she replaces it with a refill.
Matt blinks and assesses the state of his body. Wincing at a hiccup.
“Nah.” He says politely. “Still working on it.” The following hiccup is like a punch in the chest. “Mmph ‘scuseme.” But the waitress doesn’t seem to notice and foggy is already unwrapping his silverware it sounds like.
“Wings are in the center of the table.” The waitress says although Matt has already ascertained that based on the sound of the plate making contact with the table. Equal parts excited and terrified for the results of this test he suddenly looks a little worse for wear.
But foggy has already laid claim to a boneless wing and Matt is not about to loose. They toast with chicken before preparing for their imminent doom.
It’s potent but once he get passed the chemical colors and preservatives, it goes down pretty easily. But the burn inside his mouth only intensifies and he realizes it’s too late because that same fire is about to ignite in his belly and spread to his esophagus.
Yet his instincts tell him fighting fire with fire is the only way to stop the torture. So Matt pushes another boneless wing into his mouth before whipping his burning lips on a napkin.
Foggy is already cussing and licking his own napkin. “Scuse me! Could we get two glasses of milk?” He wheezes.
Matt presses a hand to his stomach under the table. A stabbing feeling aperrates from his left oblique to the left side of his chest. He can’t be sure what is happening inside him but he knows his veins are taking the brunt of it.
He grips his abdomen trying to hide the tension in his face. He feels bubbles simmering in his stomach and wonders if Foggy can hear them too. Foggy’s insides don’t sound any different than normal. Makes sense, considering Foggy packs his gut with processed junk on a daily basis.
Matt coughs as a painful blast of heat ascends his throat. His stomach goes cold and a tense pain crawls across the bottom of his ribs. A fowl taste coats his mouth with a chemical sting. He drains his beer to cool it off.
Foggy reaches for another wing. “How many have you had already?” He asks, noticing an uneven number of wings remains in the basket.
Matt swallows another bite of chicken. He’s been devouring them like potato chips to keep the heat at bay. “Mm~five?” He tilts his head. Honestly he hasn’t been counting could be nine or ten by now.
The waitress returns with two glasses of milk. Matt hears each glass make contact with the table. He listens to the rattle of bottles and a cap unscrewing. Then four tiny drips from a bottle. The smell tingles in his nose down to the roots of his front teeth. His sinuses try to retreat and instantly makes him cough.
“You just made them worse didn’t you?” Matt asks.
“This my friend, is 666 sauce. Supposedly when you put it on a Hells Kitchen wing it’s just barely legal. I figure it’s our job…neigh our responsibility as Nelson and Murdock to verify that claim.”
His stomach is rumbling, his chest is aching, a heavy bubble is stuck somewhere between his sternum and solar plexus but Matt is no weakling.
So he has a little indigestion. Big deal. You don’t have Foggy Nelson as your best friend for ten years and not endure a little heartburn.
Matt’s fingers sting as he takes the wing from foggy. He winces to himself as hot sauce graces a forgotten wound on his lip. He blinks back a tear as the spice assaults everyone of his senses.
He can feel the heat in his throat before he even swallows. His ears are wringing as the sauce touches his tongue and he thinks for a fraction of a millisecond he can actually see. He doesn’t of course but these wings are so spicy he’s almost delusional. They actualy hurt. He needs the flavor out of his mouth fast. Forcing his throat to swallow he quietly regrets not chewing all the way. A fiery lump slides down his gullet on its way to make him beg for mercy.
“Milk!” Matt chokes. He reaches for it, guzzles it a little too fast and a reflexive hiccup causes him to accidentally spit out an unswallowed sip.
Foggy reaches across the table to dab the dribble on Matt’s chin. The soft napkin is a welcome reprieve from the agonizing sting on his lips. If only there was something to calm his insides too.
He takes a second sip of milk it curdles in the pit of his stomach mixing with the beer. Then he feels the chemical reaction. A burning aching sensation an effervescent expansion growing thicker and thicker. Acidic fizz lurches up his esophagus.
Matt keeps his fist infront of his mouth for a moment not wanting to be impolite if a little air escapes. The bubbles, the milk, the throat scorching chemical combination in the 666 sauce have made a pact to ruin Matt’s night.
Bbbbbbwwwwuuuurrrbblee! Matt tries to disguise his grimace as a grin. It’s not just that he ate too much but he definitely ate way too fast as he tried to out pace the heat. Normally Matt is the last to finish eating, he is very conscious of every bite. This however is an out of body experience.
“Oof M’in bad shape Fog.” He groans and clears his throat.
“Peptobismal is your friend!” Foggy assures him. “Or in your case maybe ginger tea.”
Matt’s insides are burbling loud enough for Foggy to hear and he takes the hint to ask for the check.
As he climbs into the passenger seat of Foggie’s car Matt finds himself irritated by the seat belt pressing into his bloated stomach. He groans slightly one hand on his satiated gut.
“Dude nice one.” Says Foggy as he shuts the car door.
A nauseous rumble echoes in his over stuffed stomach. “~Bwuhhh~” Matt winces at the taste of his own insides. “Scuse me. ~bwuurp~ Guh.” A low groan escapes him as he leans his head on the window.
The keys jingle as they turn in the ignition, the car starts. Matt is tuned into Foggy’s heart beat amid the cholesterol buildup. He sounds nervous.
“I’m fine.” Matt assures him.
“Look I know you can take a punch to the gut with the best of them.” Foggy says. “But it kinda sounds like your guts are punching you.”
The young lawyer swallows down a burp which makes a symphonic descent to his stomach. “Yea maybe a little. But it’s nothing I can’t deal with.”
Matt laughs but his stomach rumbles on cue. And it’s not gentle. Everything he’s consumed is percolating with a vengeance. He tries to focus on keeping the liquid inside him still but it’s hard when the car keeps excellerating on sharp turns.
He braces himself against the dash board. “~hrp~” The breaks slam as foggy nearly runs a red light and then he picks up speed again which jostles the bubbles in his passengers jaded stomach.“~glurp~urp~bwuhh~ Easy on the gas their Fog.” Matt groans.
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Bubble Guts.” Foggy teases.
“Mmm Very funny.” Matt hiccups.
When they pull up in front of his apartment Matt is feeling a touch motion sick. He’s glad to be out of the car.
You okay? You ask as he slumps through the door, sweat stained and bedraggled.
“Mmphh yeah.” He breathes
He tries to burp but it sounds stuck.
“Think I ate too much.” Matt begins to slide off his jacket and you catch his tummy peaking out from just above his waist band.
He tosses his jacket aside and places a hand gently on his stomach. Drawing in a deep breath he feels spice rising in his throat. His stomach feels five times as big as it looks. The pressure foreshadowed by a sharp cramp and no matter how hard he tries to hold it in…:
~Bwwwuuuurrrpp~ “pardon me.” He says sheepishly.
“Feel better?” You ask gently.
“Mmph.” Matt flops down on the couch with a groan. His stomach sloshing audibly as he does.
You offer him tea knowing that the smell of pepto will probably just make him queasy. But he declines, unsure if he can stomach anything else.
“~oruuupp~Guh” it’s exhausting and to make matters worse the dyspepsia has evolved into a brutal case of hiccups. “~hrp-hic~mmmhh” Matt lets out another groan as he massages his upset stomach.
You sit beside him on the couch and he squirms as he feels your cold ear pressed against the swell of his abdomen.
“~ggggllllluuurrrgglllgggoooorrrpp~glugg~”
“What did you eat?” You ask him almost impressed.
“Hot wings *hrp* Foggy’s idea.”
“Oh no. Not the Hells Kitchen Chicken?” You ask.
“The very same.” Matt moans with a note of remorse. He’s so gross, he needs a shower but as he sits up…
“~Buuuaarghh- uff S’cuse ~Braaap” he tries so hard to be polite and hold it in but his digestive track has a mind of its own tonight. “ - me. Unggg I’m so sorry.”
As soon as Matt thinks he’s found relief a stomach ache boils back up. “Think I need a shower.” He groans easing off the couch.
He lets the warm water droplets caress his swollen belly. He braces his hand against his abbs and presses his other hand into the slippery wall
His stomach churns and gargles the beer and milk. Frothy bubbles float up from his bloated gut. He tries and fails to swallow back a rough burp.
“Sorry.” He says and you can’t tell if his face is red from embarrassment or the heat of the shower.
“How many beers did you drink?” You ask, feeling slightly alarmed by a sudden agitated rumble emanating from behind his belly button as it presses against you.
“Th-three ~gluuuurrrp~ Gyuh ~ and a half.”
He tries to angle his mouth away from your face.
“You’re not gonna be sick are you?” You ask as he slides down the bathroom wall cradling his disagreeing organs.
“N’uh.” He grunts “just…a bit gassy.” He’s very shy about it, embarrassed even, but he knows he can be himself around you. He doesn’t even really hide flatulence anymore.
“Urp-pff…never again.” He whispers.
“Feels like a boxing match with my intestines.” He’s still doubled over trying to rain in the gurgling. With a growl he adds “you’ll never guess who is winning.”
Even with the hiss of the old apartment pipes and the spray of water hitting the wall you can still hear the battle in his belly. It burbles and writhes like an unwatched pot.
You squat down beside him in the shower, water rolling down your tail bone off your back. He feels your soft touch against his churning stomach.
“Easy.” He groans. “Insides are a little sensitive at the moment.”
“I can tell” you say gently. He looks miserable, curled up in a nauseous wet heap on the shower floor. His poor stomach is still gurgling and burbling. Ruffling his wet hair you ask him “Ready for that tea now?”
Now that he’s toweled off he eases into a pair of sweat pants and a softer shirt.
“Here.” You hand him a hot cup of ginger tea. The smell seems to alleviate some tension.
Matt takes the mug you offer and presses it against his midsection. The warmth is soothing, and almost settles his sour stomach. Almost. He takes a sip and you hear it hiss into place.
Matt winces. I am so sorry. ~boorrruup~ a sharp pain twists in his gut, rises in his throat and is nocked loose by two swift beets against his chest. ~hrrp~ blurp~
“I’m gonna try to remedy this.” You say gently and coax him to pull his black shirt up to reveal his hairy little protruding tummy.
First you cup your palms around it. The constant gurgling is annoying to you. You wonder how it must feel for Matt.
You squeeze it slightly working your hands in gentle circles to release any tension.
Matt smiles wistfully for a fleeting moment then his eyes go large and he looks a tiny bit nauseous.
“Gloooooorrrpp~ Guh- uuuurrrp- ouch!”
His tinder stomach is bulging. You can still make out the shadow of well toned abbs but he is bursting.
“Huh. Actually that kinda helped.”
He suppresses another wet belch in his throat.
“Don’t be polite.” You command “you’ll get more relief if you just let it out. - here lay down.”
He places his head on the pillow in your lap as you tend to his belly ache. A sickly gurgle passes under your fingertips. The ginger tea seems to be speeding up the digestion. You notice a small spasm just below his abs. Some trapped air pulsing under his skin.
“Glurp” he places a hand over yours and presses it down on a tinder spot in his gut.
“Glllluuuuuurrrrrppp~ huh huh ~ Gllllllllluuuuuuuuuuurrrppp nggg. He’s panting. “Excuse me.”
“Where did that come from?” You ask.
“Hell.” He winces at some acid reflux. “Oh god YN I ate too much… “
“Here drink some more tea.” You offer.
He takes a microscopic sip. “I didn’t expect anything would sit well but ~hrp~ this is getting frustrating.”
Once again you rub gentle little circles on his stomach. Matt closes his eyes. Your touch is soothing. His insides are still protesting but at least the gurgling subsides to a calming purrr.
He looks exhausted and a little green. His stomach is distended and you wonder how someone with such a cut physique can contain so many bubbles. As you caress the arch of his stomach it elicits another woeful burp “~glug~”
“You are so bloated.” You acknowledge with a pat on his drum tight tummy.
“Mmmph You can say that again.” Matt groans.
Another hot cramp is making perch in his chest. The tea slides into the unfortunate concoction inside him with a noxious rumble.
“Foggy must have a stomach made of titanium.” He groans.
“Shh. Just relax. Try to sleep it off.” You whisper.
As he drifts off the room is silent aside from a few echoing squelches. Poor Matt might need a day or two to recover from this one. But you’ll be here for all the tummy rubs.
