“You look like you're about to fall over,” Vanessa observed. Matthew had come to Wilson again – the first time is always the most difficult, he'd told her, privately; then you've got them hooked – about Senator Tomlinson. He was starting to make noise about a registration act. Wilson had taken the opportunity to keep Matthew busy and out of the way, neatly sidelined into looking after Vanessa.
(“Thank you, darling,” she'd said; “I can't imagine anyone else taking such care of me.”
“Always,” Wilson had told her.)
However, there'd been some extravagant and explosive encounter with - if the news reports could be believed - actual ninjas down by the docks. Matthew'd had a chance to change out of that ridiculous costume and into a shirt and tie, but he had a spectacular black eye coming in and looked half-asleep on his feet.
“No,” Matthew replied, giving her a sardonic kind of smile, “fresh as a daisy, absolutely ready to pay my dues.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Vanessa said, and realized while she said it that it had been exactly the wrong thing to say. “That was rude. I'm staying in tonight. Will you come upstairs with me?”
“It's not like I've got a choice,” Matthew said, more bitter and honest than she'd heard from him before.
“You must be tired,” she said, leading the way up the stairs: he followed with one hand delicately tracing the bannister. “That's the end of the stairs – oh. But.” She felt herself blushing; how crude was it, to be forced to – no one had a clear idea of what Daredevil was actually capable of, and that made her rude. “Do you need me to -”
“Right,” Matthew said, from close behind: “I will absolutely tell you all my secrets because I'm tired.”
“It's a matter of courtesy,” Vanessa said. “Here, in here – please, sit down.”
Matthew paused in the doorway, head cocked, and then went straight to one of the two armchairs.
She considered him, and then went to curl up in the second armchair. They'd been arranged to foster a sense of intimacy. It was cold, so she'd drawn them away from the windows.
**
Matt's first reaction, when Vanessa turned to him and kissed his jaw like they'd been lovers for years, was absolute uncoordinated panic; only the years of martial arts and painfully acquired muscle memory kept him from falling on his ass, but he did in fact jerk away and nearly fall over. This was a disaster, and he was going to die, and worse yet Karen or Foggy might -
“I didn't mean to offend,” Vanessa said, calm and even; she hadn't followed him as he stumbled away from her.
“Why did you do that?” Matt asked, in spite of himself, because the only sensible thing was to get away and find Karen, and Foggy, and probably Brett and Bess, and convince all of them to move to the west coast. Fisk was going to murder everyone. This was insane; they'd always struck him as such a – there'd been no hint that their creepy, aggressively functional marriage was this bad, and – and yeah, Matt knew better than most that marriages that looked great in public could be very bad in private, but – but – but maybe she was deliberately trying to mess with his head, which would be cruel, and relatively in character -
“I wanted to,” she said, and she sounded like she was smiling. She was between Matt and the window, which was the only reason he hadn't gone out of it yet.
“I didn't – you're - you're going to get me killed,” he said, which was literally the stupidest thing he could've said, assuming this was all not an elaborate plot of hers to convince her husband to kill him.
“Well that would defeat the purpose,” Vanessa said, and she sounded amused. Matt was going to die; it was possible that Fisk wouldn't need to finish him off. The humiliation alone might be enough to – to do him in. “Matthew. May I – oh, sweetheart.” Well. She had definitely, horrifyingly noticed the effect that her presence – and the adrenaline – had had on him. “I don't want you dead,” she said. “I hope to see more of you,” and she laughed, and – and Matt had always known that he was just as capable of anyone else of making the worst possible decision at the worst possible time.
**
It figured that Vanessa Fisk was the sort of person who'd assess a situation, make a determination regarding Matt's own personal defenses and strategies, and take over entirely.
**
Matthew came over because Vanessa asked, one Thursday; he was jumpy and unfocused (or rather, unfocused on them, until Wilson sighed and turned on the police scanner in the next room over, at which point he relaxed enough to drop to his knees and bury his face between her thighs. Wilson loved to watch her, like this. She looked – indulgent, decadent, and very often she met his eyes over Matthew's dark hair and smiled as her breath caught in her throat.
Murdock came out of it a little sleepy, more relaxed than he should've been. It was a pattern, and one that they both were more fond of than was strictly wise: put Matthew on his knees, give him a task, and he'd lose tension in his shoulders and his breath would slow even as his prick hardened. It had seemed an odd sort of contradiction to Wilson, until Vanessa had explained that “some men need more guidance than others.”
He wiped his mouth with his hand, and leaned against the edge of the bed, looking sated and drowsier than Wilson had seen him in a while, despite his hard, untouched erection. Wilson had finished across his shoulderblades, while he'd driven his tongue and two fingers into Vanessa's cunt and she'd made hungry, delighted noises.
Vanessa made a low noise in the back of her throat. “You should stay tonight,” she said, thoughtfully. Wilson ran his fingers through Matthew's tangled, sweat-damp hair, half to get the pleasant texture of it, half to see him shiver.
“What? No,” Matthew said. He tipped his head back. Wilson could see his nipples hardening, the way his cock swayed as he moved. “I need to – I can't.”
“Stay,” Wilson suggested.
“Ha! - no.”
“I insist,” Vanessa said, and sat up; her hair had formed a curly halo around her head, and her cheeks still glowed with pleasure. “At least let me return the favor,” and she nodded to his erection.
“N-no,” Matthew said, and shook himself free from Wilson's hands. His shoulders had gone tense again, stiff, and he got to his feet, head tilted. It looked like the kneejerk panicky reaction of a man who hadn't expected – reciprocation? “That's fine, you don't – have to -” and yes, he was definitely angling for the door.
“Oh,” Vanessa said, and her voice had gone cool and false. “I see, Matthew.” Wilson knew her well enough to see that she'd taken offense; he was still lost, still, new enough to the whole business to remain unsure of himself.
“It isn't – that's not -”
It was odd to see him visibly fumbling; Daredevil was quick and vicious, almost impossible to surprise.
“I don't want you to suffer,” Vanessa started, sweet and vicious, “under the assumption that you're buying anything with your body, pretty as it is, sweetheart.”
“Of course not,” Wilson agreed.
“...I didn't think that,” he said, which was an obvious and pitiful lie, and Wilson understood why Vanessa had taken offense, now: it was embarrassing and insulting to suggest that – he would not, did not threaten that. Matthew twitched, and then sighed and came to a decision, because he asked “then what do you want? I don't - “
Vanessa turned to face Wilson, and lifted a finger to her lips: shh. She smiled like the sun; he was struck, once again, by how lucky he had been to find her. “What I want,” she said, and stalked right up to Matthew, until he'd backed up into one of the armchairs, and she'd pushed him down, and crawled into his lap, “is to see you come undone, darling,” and slid onto his cock.
Matthew hissed in what sounded like shocked arousal; Vanessa laughed. That was the night that Vanessa fitted her slim hand across Matthew's adam's apple, and he swallowed, and swallowed, and gasped, and shook himself to pieces in front of them.
**
It wasn't uncommon for Murdock to disappear for a week or two. It was less common for him to show up of his own accord, and absolutely unheard of for him to show up in ill-fitting sweatpants and a t shirt, looking ten years younger than he actually was and terribly, terribly exhausted. He'd picked up a black eye from somewhere. He'd fallen face-first across the bed, still fully clothed, without actually articulating anything but a series of less-than-helpful groaning noises.
“The Avengers were seen at the docks,” Wilson said, in an fairly transparent attempt at fishing: Matthew did better when they made it clear that they were looking for information.
“Yes,” Vanessa said, because she knew this one; the local news had suggested that “Oh! I understand the Hulk nearly made an appearance.”
“...nearly,” Matthew said, and sputtered into shocky, exhausted giggles.
He flinched when Wilson put his hands on him; it was a reflex, and one that still hadn't been broken – although Vanessa was fond of saying that water could carve rock, given time. It was a sign of how – not how well they'd broken him, or that he'd been tamed, because Matthew would never be tamed - but the trust that they'd managed to establish, because when Wilson pushed into the knotted muscles of Matthew's shoulders, he groaned and consciously relaxed. “Don't have to,” he said, and interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn.
“I do believe I owe you a little comfort,” Wilson said. “I own enough property in Hell's Kitchen to want to...avoid...the Hulk.”
“mmrph,” Matthew said, and tried to pull his shirt over his head without actually getting up. The way he shifted into Wilson's hands made him feel powerful, and in turn very, very careful: it was a fragile detente, here, and it seemed easily breakable. (And yet. And yet; his back was badly scarred and bruised, near his narrow waist, and it was still a thing of beauty: Matthew'd honed his body into the purest sort of weapon, one that was gorgeous and lethal, and Wilson was not ashamed of the chance to touch him, feel the hard, miserable knots in his muscles loosen under his hands.)
Vanessa pulled out her tablet and arranged herself on the bed, at an angle to enjoy the sight of Matthew, who at this point was more than half-dead to the world, and thus unselfconscious enough to shift in pleasure and groan happily. She raised an eyebrow, and Wilson shrugged, and covered the motion up by pushing into the knot he'd found. “ngh,” Matthew said, slow, ridiculously pleased: “you can. uh.” He spread his legs, far more clumsily than Wilson had seen him move before.
“Not tonight, sweet boy,” Vanessa said, idly; she stroked his hair, and smiled at Wilson. “I hate to ruin the idea that I'm insatiable, but this is lovely.”
“ha,” Matthew said. He appeared to be very nearly asleep.
He woke up properly a few hours later, near midnight, almost immediately defensive and confused. “Sorry,” he said. “About. About that, I – uh. I should go.”
“Stay,” Wilson said. He'd just managed to drift off, and was debating the wisdom of simply hauling the idiot back into bed: probably not, not at this stage.
“No, I – no,” Matthew said. He'd jumped off the bed, skittish, and groped at the foot of it – oh. That was interesting; whatever he did and however he did it, it didn't appear to be terribly effective in some circumstances, because he was having trouble finding his shirt.
“Mmm?” Vanessa asked, and curled closer to Wilson for a moment before she woke up entirely: “oh. Oh really? It – here,” and she sat up and threw his shirt at him, in a tired but friendly way.
“...thank you,” Matthew said, suspicious and obviously confused, before he left.
Re: Fisk/Matt/Vanessa - Mistaken betrayal 2ish?
“You look like you're about to fall over,” Vanessa observed. Matthew had come to Wilson again – the first time is always the most difficult, he'd told her, privately; then you've got them hooked – about Senator Tomlinson. He was starting to make noise about a registration act. Wilson had taken the opportunity to keep Matthew busy and out of the way, neatly sidelined into looking after Vanessa.
(“Thank you, darling,” she'd said; “I can't imagine anyone else taking such care of me.”
“Always,” Wilson had told her.)
However, there'd been some extravagant and explosive encounter with - if the news reports could be believed - actual ninjas down by the docks. Matthew'd had a chance to change out of that ridiculous costume and into a shirt and tie, but he had a spectacular black eye coming in and looked half-asleep on his feet.
“No,” Matthew replied, giving her a sardonic kind of smile, “fresh as a daisy, absolutely ready to pay my dues.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Vanessa said, and realized while she said it that it had been exactly the wrong thing to say. “That was rude. I'm staying in tonight. Will you come upstairs with me?”
“It's not like I've got a choice,” Matthew said, more bitter and honest than she'd heard from him before.
“You must be tired,” she said, leading the way up the stairs: he followed with one hand delicately tracing the bannister. “That's the end of the stairs – oh. But.” She felt herself blushing; how crude was it, to be forced to – no one had a clear idea of what Daredevil was actually capable of, and that made her rude. “Do you need me to -”
“Right,” Matthew said, from close behind: “I will absolutely tell you all my secrets because I'm tired.”
“It's a matter of courtesy,” Vanessa said. “Here, in here – please, sit down.”
Matthew paused in the doorway, head cocked, and then went straight to one of the two armchairs.
She considered him, and then went to curl up in the second armchair. They'd been arranged to foster a sense of intimacy. It was cold, so she'd drawn them away from the windows.
**
Matt's first reaction, when Vanessa turned to him and kissed his jaw like they'd been lovers for years, was absolute uncoordinated panic; only the years of martial arts and painfully acquired muscle memory kept him from falling on his ass, but he did in fact jerk away and nearly fall over. This was a disaster, and he was going to die, and worse yet Karen or Foggy might -
“I didn't mean to offend,” Vanessa said, calm and even; she hadn't followed him as he stumbled away from her.
“Why did you do that?” Matt asked, in spite of himself, because the only sensible thing was to get away and find Karen, and Foggy, and probably Brett and Bess, and convince all of them to move to the west coast. Fisk was going to murder everyone. This was insane; they'd always struck him as such a – there'd been no hint that their creepy, aggressively functional marriage was this bad, and – and yeah, Matt knew better than most that marriages that looked great in public could be very bad in private, but – but – but maybe she was deliberately trying to mess with his head, which would be cruel, and relatively in character -
“I wanted to,” she said, and she sounded like she was smiling. She was between Matt and the window, which was the only reason he hadn't gone out of it yet.
“I didn't – you're - you're going to get me killed,” he said, which was literally the stupidest thing he could've said, assuming this was all not an elaborate plot of hers to convince her husband to kill him.
“Well that would defeat the purpose,” Vanessa said, and she sounded amused. Matt was going to die; it was possible that Fisk wouldn't need to finish him off. The humiliation alone might be enough to – to do him in. “Matthew. May I – oh, sweetheart.” Well. She had definitely, horrifyingly noticed the effect that her presence – and the adrenaline – had had on him. “I don't want you dead,” she said. “I hope to see more of you,” and she laughed, and – and Matt had always known that he was just as capable of anyone else of making the worst possible decision at the worst possible time.
**
It figured that Vanessa Fisk was the sort of person who'd assess a situation, make a determination regarding Matt's own personal defenses and strategies, and take over entirely.
**
Matthew came over because Vanessa asked, one Thursday; he was jumpy and unfocused (or rather, unfocused on them, until Wilson sighed and turned on the police scanner in the next room over, at which point he relaxed enough to drop to his knees and bury his face between her thighs. Wilson loved to watch her, like this. She looked – indulgent, decadent, and very often she met his eyes over Matthew's dark hair and smiled as her breath caught in her throat.
Murdock came out of it a little sleepy, more relaxed than he should've been. It was a pattern, and one that they both were more fond of than was strictly wise: put Matthew on his knees, give him a task, and he'd lose tension in his shoulders and his breath would slow even as his prick hardened. It had seemed an odd sort of contradiction to Wilson, until Vanessa had explained that “some men need more guidance than others.”
He wiped his mouth with his hand, and leaned against the edge of the bed, looking sated and drowsier than Wilson had seen him in a while, despite his hard, untouched erection. Wilson had finished across his shoulderblades, while he'd driven his tongue and two fingers into Vanessa's cunt and she'd made hungry, delighted noises.
Vanessa made a low noise in the back of her throat. “You should stay tonight,” she said, thoughtfully. Wilson ran his fingers through Matthew's tangled, sweat-damp hair, half to get the pleasant texture of it, half to see him shiver.
“What? No,” Matthew said. He tipped his head back. Wilson could see his nipples hardening, the way his cock swayed as he moved. “I need to – I can't.”
“Stay,” Wilson suggested.
“Ha! - no.”
“I insist,” Vanessa said, and sat up; her hair had formed a curly halo around her head, and her cheeks still glowed with pleasure. “At least let me return the favor,” and she nodded to his erection.
“N-no,” Matthew said, and shook himself free from Wilson's hands. His shoulders had gone tense again, stiff, and he got to his feet, head tilted. It looked like the kneejerk panicky reaction of a man who hadn't expected – reciprocation? “That's fine, you don't – have to -” and yes, he was definitely angling for the door.
“Oh,” Vanessa said, and her voice had gone cool and false. “I see, Matthew.” Wilson knew her well enough to see that she'd taken offense; he was still lost, still, new enough to the whole business to remain unsure of himself.
“It isn't – that's not -”
It was odd to see him visibly fumbling; Daredevil was quick and vicious, almost impossible to surprise.
“I don't want you to suffer,” Vanessa started, sweet and vicious, “under the assumption that you're buying anything with your body, pretty as it is, sweetheart.”
“Of course not,” Wilson agreed.
“...I didn't think that,” he said, which was an obvious and pitiful lie, and Wilson understood why Vanessa had taken offense, now: it was embarrassing and insulting to suggest that – he would not, did not threaten that. Matthew twitched, and then sighed and came to a decision, because he asked “then what do you want? I don't - “
Vanessa turned to face Wilson, and lifted a finger to her lips: shh. She smiled like the sun; he was struck, once again, by how lucky he had been to find her. “What I want,” she said, and stalked right up to Matthew, until he'd backed up into one of the armchairs, and she'd pushed him down, and crawled into his lap, “is to see you come undone, darling,” and slid onto his cock.
Matthew hissed in what sounded like shocked arousal; Vanessa laughed. That was the night that Vanessa fitted her slim hand across Matthew's adam's apple, and he swallowed, and swallowed, and gasped, and shook himself to pieces in front of them.
**
It wasn't uncommon for Murdock to disappear for a week or two. It was less common for him to show up of his own accord, and absolutely unheard of for him to show up in ill-fitting sweatpants and a t shirt, looking ten years younger than he actually was and terribly, terribly exhausted. He'd picked up a black eye from somewhere. He'd fallen face-first across the bed, still fully clothed, without actually articulating anything but a series of less-than-helpful groaning noises.
“The Avengers were seen at the docks,” Wilson said, in an fairly transparent attempt at fishing: Matthew did better when they made it clear that they were looking for information.
“Yes,” Vanessa said, because she knew this one; the local news had suggested that “Oh! I understand the Hulk nearly made an appearance.”
“...nearly,” Matthew said, and sputtered into shocky, exhausted giggles.
He flinched when Wilson put his hands on him; it was a reflex, and one that still hadn't been broken – although Vanessa was fond of saying that water could carve rock, given time. It was a sign of how – not how well they'd broken him, or that he'd been tamed, because Matthew would never be tamed - but the trust that they'd managed to establish, because when Wilson pushed into the knotted muscles of Matthew's shoulders, he groaned and consciously relaxed. “Don't have to,” he said, and interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn.
“I do believe I owe you a little comfort,” Wilson said. “I own enough property in Hell's Kitchen to want to...avoid...the Hulk.”
“mmrph,” Matthew said, and tried to pull his shirt over his head without actually getting up. The way he shifted into Wilson's hands made him feel powerful, and in turn very, very careful: it was a fragile detente, here, and it seemed easily breakable. (And yet. And yet; his back was badly scarred and bruised, near his narrow waist, and it was still a thing of beauty: Matthew'd honed his body into the purest sort of weapon, one that was gorgeous and lethal, and Wilson was not ashamed of the chance to touch him, feel the hard, miserable knots in his muscles loosen under his hands.)
Vanessa pulled out her tablet and arranged herself on the bed, at an angle to enjoy the sight of Matthew, who at this point was more than half-dead to the world, and thus unselfconscious enough to shift in pleasure and groan happily. She raised an eyebrow, and Wilson shrugged, and covered the motion up by pushing into the knot he'd found. “ngh,” Matthew said, slow, ridiculously pleased: “you can. uh.” He spread his legs, far more clumsily than Wilson had seen him move before.
“Not tonight, sweet boy,” Vanessa said, idly; she stroked his hair, and smiled at Wilson. “I hate to ruin the idea that I'm insatiable, but this is lovely.”
“ha,” Matthew said. He appeared to be very nearly asleep.
He woke up properly a few hours later, near midnight, almost immediately defensive and confused. “Sorry,” he said. “About. About that, I – uh. I should go.”
“Stay,” Wilson said. He'd just managed to drift off, and was debating the wisdom of simply hauling the idiot back into bed: probably not, not at this stage.
“No, I – no,” Matthew said. He'd jumped off the bed, skittish, and groped at the foot of it – oh. That was interesting; whatever he did and however he did it, it didn't appear to be terribly effective in some circumstances, because he was having trouble finding his shirt.
“Mmm?” Vanessa asked, and curled closer to Wilson for a moment before she woke up entirely: “oh. Oh really? It – here,” and she sat up and threw his shirt at him, in a tired but friendly way.
“...thank you,” Matthew said, suspicious and obviously confused, before he left.