Prompt Post #4

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Matt is Fisk's Prison Bitch

[(Anonymous)]

Matt is found out to be Daredevil, disbarred, and sent to prison. Either the warden is an asshole of Fisk hold enough power to pull some strings (or both), and Matt ends up sharing a cell with Fisk.

Nothing happens all day. In fact, everyone seems to be ignoring Matt. And he's very paranoid and confused. But then night falls. Everyone's in their cells for the night, lights go out, guards wander off.

And then Fisk... demonstrates to Matt how things are going to be from now on.

Re: Matt is Fisk's Prison Bitch

[(Anonymous)]

I am honestly surprised it took so long for someone to prompt this. XD

Re: Matt is Fisk's Prison Bitch

[(Anonymous)]

SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY!!!

Re: Matt is Fisk's Prison Bitch

[(Anonymous)]

YES! I need this like air.

Re: Matt is Fisk's Prison Bitch

[(Anonymous)]

Oh my god though, just think of the power imbalance even in something as simple as going to the washroom tho. Fisk would still have a modicum of privacy, because Matt is blind.

Matt, on the other hand, has to deal with knowing that Fisk is definitely watching him while he takes a piss.

Re: Matt is Fisk's Prison Bitch

[(Anonymous)]

Hey there Satan, long time no see. >D

Re: Matt is Fisk's Prison Bitch

[(Anonymous)]

Oh yeah. And you just know the neighbours are all staying up to hear the show.

You could go all Shawshank and have everybody place bets on whether he'll cry or not.

not-quite-fill? background piece? idk this comment like REALLY did it for me so

[(Anonymous)]

staying up to hear the show

Jesus, it's practically pornographic.

Mac has been in and out of prison for two decades, he's been locked up with mobsters before, but Fisk - god, Fisk - he's something else. It took him a month, maybe three (Mac don't always tell the passing of time so good anymore, that'll drive you nuts in a place like this), before he had everyone marching to the beat of his drums. Everyone whispered that it was the money, but enough time in the business and Mac has seen almost everything that cash can get you. Fisk has their fervent devotion, their fear, and that's worth a whole lot more. It's not just the other prisoners, it's the guards, it's the families on the outside - he says one word when news comes washing through the system like a wave that Daredevil's getting locked up, and everyone (even the guys he'd put in here, even Mac) steers clear. Nobody sneers at him about getting taken out by a blind man. Nobody questions his claim on retribution. Nobody.

They didn't let the lost little lawyer keep those glasses of his, they certainly didn't let him keep his stupid mask, and Mac thinks he looks a helluva lot smaller in the harsh fluorescent lights of the prison lunchroom than he ever did in that back-alley of the Kitchen where he'd kicked 10 shades of shit out of Mac. He looks-- terrified. Probably doesn't even realize it, those creepy sightless eyes swiveling around the room uselessly, doing a full body twitch when anyone walks past his empty table to get to another one, no matter how crowded. He's confused but he's trying to look angry and in control, tough. He doesn't eat, just pushes the food around on his plate until their time's up. No one steps in when he throws it all out, which is downright impressive, and just as much a testament to Fisk as any of the rest. Mac has seen boys shivved for much less than that.

It's not until lockdown that the devil gets his questions answered, in the form of his new cellie, who had been suspiciously absent from the population's eye all day.

"Fisk." There's a lot of bald hate in that one word, but even one cell over, Mac doesn't miss the tremor in his voice. Is it terror or is it rage? Probably both.

"Matthew Murdock." Fisk sounds like he always has to Mac. Calm, collected, idly threatening. Some people say he was plain shy, in all those press spots he did on the outside. Mac doesn't buy it. He speaks quietly here, but there's a bigness to him that makes its way even into his voice, unavoidable and omnipresent. "I've been waiting for you. You see now what our city does to those who try to save it."

The devil gives a choking laugh. It's nowhere near convincing. He's breathing hard and fast, it's loud against the concrete walls and open hall. "You-- you never tried to save them."

"Mm. I did. But I won't, anymore. I've had... a revelation."

"You've had a dry spell," the devil sneers, probably grasping at straws. It's supposed to be pithy, Mac guesses, but it was a mistake. He can practically see the slow smile that must be spreading across Fisk's doughy face. He gives a low, dark laugh, at least.

"It's coming to an end tonight."

In the silence that follows, Mac holds his breath. He can hear his cellie doing the same. Nobody on the whole block is making a sound, everyone is waiting for the explosion that they knew had been coming since Fisk had leaned against the bars of his cage the day Daredevil transferred in, and said conversationally to the warden I'd like a new cellmate. There was a betting pool on whether he wanted to kill the devil or fuck him - Mac (having seen the dark shape of his mouth before, the exceptional roundness of his ass when he walked back out of that alley and left him in a puddle of his own blood) put a month's worth of saved up commissary money on the devil becoming a prison bitch before the getting was even good, before the rest of the jail got their first close look at him and tried to change their bets.

"No." The devil's voice is cracked, strained, trying to be defiant and nothing has even happened yet. He's being crushed by the implications alone. Mac gleefully plans out how many cigarettes he can charge for retelling all of the most gruesome details tomorrow, out on the yard: he hopes there's tears, but if there aren't, he can just embellish. He's got a good imagination and a way with words. "Not unless you go fuck yourself."

That's when the fighting starts. It's loud, and it lasts for long enough that he's half afraid the devil might get himself killed just trying to avoid what's coming to him, flushing Mac's winnings down the drain on a technicality. They both shout, fabric tears, skin thuds into the floor and the walls dully, and the bunks give a mighty rusty creak as they're battered in the struggle. He thinks he hears the sink getting smashed off the wall at one point, but through all of it not a single guard comes running. He's almost sure that the time for nightly checks to start has passed, too. Nice touch.

It ends with a whimper, not a bang. A long, drawn-out whimper. "No. You can't--"

"I can do anything, if you hadn't noticed." Fisk barely even sounds winded. Or maybe he's just good at hiding it. He'd been making plenty of noises during the scuffle, and Mac is no stranger to just how hard the devil can hit. "The only reason you haven't been bent over in the showers yet is because I keep this whole place at bay."

"I'm not afraid of--"

"And the second I withdraw my protection, you'll be eaten alive." Fisk's voice is dry, matter-of-fact. Mac likes to imagine he's got the devil pushed up against a wall, wrists pinned above his head with one huge hand, thigh between his legs so he knows (so he can feel) exactly what's about to happen to him. He imagines those blank eyes zigzagging, trying to look for an escape without seeing. He imagines bruises just beginning to mottle beneath his skin, and that red mouth, stained darker with blood, opening in protest before he's cut off again. "Ah, yes. I do recall. You're stubborn to the point of being borderline suicidal, it's not what I'd call one of your more charming traits. Don't be tiresome, Matthew, you know you don't stand a chance against every man in this prison."

There's another silence, and after the din of the fight, it's practically deafening. Finally, the devil finds his voice. "Why stop them? What's in it for you?" He sounds so resigned that it takes Mac's breath away. Worn out, and defeated, barely managing to growl. Maybe Fisk's got him on the floor, instead, face against the cement all that weight bearing down on top of him, making it hard to breathe, proving definitively that he's got no way to escape. Maybe the hard curve of Fisk's dick is pressed up against the swell of his ass, maybe Fisk has his dark hair between those meaty fingers, twisting it enough to be painful without tearing any out. That's it, yeah, pulling his head back and baring his neck until his adam's apple bobs up and down, visible beneath the rasp of stubble. Mac palms himself through his jumpsuit, and imagines.

"I respect you." Daredevil croaks out a disbelieving God, and Fisk makes his own rumbling noise. "Your skill, your... devotion, misguided as it is. Useless and short-sighted as it is. But you took me away from Vanessa." There's a rusty squeak, and Mac stills, hand pressed down hard against his dick, not daring to move for fear of missing a word of it. Are they on the bed, then? Is the devil too weak to move, arms twisted purposefully in the sheets and held out behind him so he's defenseless? "And I won't go back to her dirtied." There'd been word of how hot she'd been, the Vanessa woman, when she hung off Fisk's arm on the news. (Gossip about Fisk had been big for awhile, before he put a stop to it when he really came into his own.) The devil's hardly a replacement to scoff at, though. Especially considering the limited selection available here.

Dirtied. Mac wants to scoff, laugh at the implication that he's too good for them when he's the scariest monster here, but his breath is trapped in his throat. He's a little afraid Fisk will hear it.

"It's your choice, Matthew." He sounds soothing. Generous. The tone of the encounter has shifted somewhere in that little pause, and Mac pictures him running his hands down the devil's sides, up under his clothes while he shakes, down and around to cup his ass. Just holding it, without squeezing: the picture of restraint. "Out there or in here. Decide." Mac half-hopes for a decline even though it'll leave him broke and frustrated tonight. He knows that with a deal like Fisk is offering to the devil, no one else in the entire place is going to get to take a crack. No one's going to get to tear him apart like he deserves, fuck him until he begs and cries and admits how sorry he is for putting them all in here. Fisk likes his privacy far too much, so he's never going to spread Daredevil out in the communal shower, beat him until his blood runs down the drains, make him choke on the cocks of every lucky bastard present until his body un-learns how to gag. The Kingpin's never going to share, so all he'll ever have are these little audio performances.

Damn.

2/2 i have never hit character capacity on a dw comment before omg

[(Anonymous)]

He's so caught up in his disappointment that he doesn't hear when things start up again, but this time there's no shouting, no crashing, just the rustle of clothes, the smack of lips and the wounded little noises the devil keeps making, probably without meaning to. Like can't even believe this is happening to him. He probably can't, Mac muses: everyone's first time is a gaping, terrifying disappointment, everyone prays for intervention and breaks a little when they figure out it's not going to come. Some get used to it. Some don't.

There's a slurping noise. Maybe Fisk is sucking on his own fingers, but he likes to think he's making the lawyer do it for him, putting that mouth to some good use. Mac jerks back into motion, working his hand down into his clothes and seizing his half-hard cock, licking his lips and straining to hear. Fisk should be taking the devil from behind, bracing his knees on the floor and letting his chest rest on the bed, palm up under his chin to hold it aloft while his middle and ring fingers push past those pretty lips and into his mouth, press down against his tongue until saliva pools there. The devil won't bite, because he's too afraid of that grip turning hard, of Fisk curling his fist and cracking his jaw out of place, maybe twisting his head so sharply that his neck snaps like in the movies. He's probably resigned himself to being compliant, but Mac hopes those eyes are still going nuts, wide and unseeing, tears gathering in the corners of them - yeah, tears, good. Yard stories are always better with a few tears, a bit of begging. All the boys he ever put in here will enjoy the idea that he broke down and wept when he realized his new place in the world.

He jerks in place a few times, Mac's mind supplies when he hears the sharp movements and grunts, trying to get away without allowing himself to move - they're definitely on the bunk, at least partially, Mac can make out the sound of rusted springs now. The next rustle of cloth is more final than the others had been, and Mac can hear the devil's breathing pick up into wet gasps - one after the other, after the other, after the other. When he hears a forceful "uh!" like all the air has been punched out of him, Mac can almost see the devil bucking as a spit-wet finger prods at his asshole. Undignified, uncontrolled. He probably bites down on the sheets just to keep himself from yelling his throat raw in fear.

"Relax, Matthew. I assure you the only one you're making this more difficult for is yourself." Fisk's voice is darkly amused, but not crass or, even, entirely unkind. Mac has to hand it to him, the man clearly knows how to put on a show. Maybe he didn't bribe anybody, maybe he just whispered to them in the dark until they were willing to do every little thing he asked. "That's better. This doesn't have to be your punishment."

There's more silence, broken only by the sharp staccato of labored breathing, and the occasional noise that the devil is clearly trying to keep to himself. It goes on for what feels like forever, and just when Mac's wrist is starting to tire, mind wandering inward from the lack of new, satisfying input, Fisk's voice breaks the silence. "Spit."

Oh, yes. The main event. Mac sits up, closing his eyes and leaning his head so he can press his ear against the bars nearest the wall, the one his shares with Fisk's cell. He can hear his cellie unzip, doesn't know how he kept it in his pants up until now. The pause is tangible, but the devil does just as he's told, and Mac can nearly feel the warm glob of saliva on his palm when the sound of it bounces off the walls and spills out into the hall. He does it twice more without prompting, and guy as big as Fisk, Mac figures that's probably wise.

Then, suddenly and out of the blue, Daredevil speaks again. "No, no-" Oh, Mac thought they were past this part, but there's a real panic settling into that raspy voice. It's strange, because the desperation and pleading usually comes before the fingers. At least, when there even are any. "God, it's too-- that's too big, no," yes, he'd forgotten in that moment, the devil is blind. He's had no idea what he's really in for until now, clearly. He's been expecting something more average, and oh. Scratch that, this is better than practically pornographic. So much better. Nobody's touching Mac's dick but himself, and he's still going to need a cigarette when this is done. "You can't, Fisk, Fisk!"

Apparently he can. Fisk shushes him, but the timbre of the devil's wordless noises doesn't taper away, they build. He sounds like he's being gutted, and it's good, it's so good to hear. It's going to stay with him long after he leaves, long after he finds some woman to bend over for a handful of cash on the outside, like he's been dreaming of for the months since Daredevil got him locked up. Those are the noises that dreams are made of, and Mac fists his cock violently, trying to recreate the crushing tightness that Fisk must be feeling. "You'll survive," Fisk grunts, but even his quiet voice gives away the smugness that must be painted all over his face. Even he's starting to get a little breathy with effort, now. "I said relax."

When they eventually go still again, Mac pictures Fisk bottomed out against the bruising roundness of the devil's ass. He can't imagine why Fisk is taking it so easy on him, prepping him, giving him some time to adjust, but Mac never was very good at the long game. Maybe he wants to save completely breaking the devil for later, on some rainy day. And hey, if he can find a way to bring those noises back someday, Mac is all for it.

They start moving, and in that moment Mac would trade any hope of ever getting his freedom back for the ability to see through walls. The devil isn't silent, but he's doing better about keeping it down, which is awfully disappointing. Disappointing, that is, until a few minutes into the act itself, something... shifts. The devil managed to control himself for a little while, but then began building back up, his voice raw and cresting up on the opposite side of the spectrum. He's moaning, panting and breathless in one go, but moaning around all that. When he muffles himself into what must be a fist, it only takes Fisk a few slow strokes to yank the offending arm back and open him up to Mac's ears again. He already knows no one in the yard is going to believe him, but he can hear it for himself, the raw desperation and low self-loathing packed like bricks into the burbled sounds tumbling through the cell bars. It's fascinating, in its own way: Mac can't tell which way he sounds better, in pain or in pleasure.

He's still mulling it over when the devil makes a pronounced choking noise, cutting off mid-keen. Mac thinks Fisk must have closed one of those huge hands around his throat and squeezed-- the sound of fabric rustling gets so frantic that Mac can only imagine the devil's hands are scrabbling in the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to make sense of everything and then the entire cell goes still and there's a distinct, muffled shout fluttering out beneath all that pressure. Did he just...

"Already?" Fisk sounds so pleased, and why not? He came. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the devil came with a mammoth cock in his ass and a hand on his throat and the man he put in prison growling into his ear, "Impatient boy. I'm not done."

The rhythmic slapping and sliding actually resumes beneath the sound of a dry, overstimulated sob, and in two, three more borderline brutal jerks Mac comes so hard into the fabric of his pants that he almost bites off his own tongue.

Re: 2/2 i have never hit character capacity on a dw comment before omg

[(Anonymous)]

OP -

Um, wow anon. Like, this is awesome because you actually filled my dirty little prompt, but it's more awesome because this is terrifyingly GOOD. I love good storytelling. It's so cool you wrote it from some random dude's perspective, and we couldn't really "see" what was going on. Poor Matt (but holy god, that was so hot hahaha)

I would gladly read a series of these, thank youuuu~ <3

Re: 2/2 i have never hit character capacity on a dw comment before omg

[(Anonymous)]

um. um. I-I'll be in my bunk too! Jesus...

Re: 2/2 i have never hit character capacity on a dw comment before omg

[(Anonymous)]

Oooh please say this is going on ao3. I want to bookmark it 5ever. @v@

Re: 2/2 i have never hit character capacity on a dw comment before omg

[(Anonymous)]

♥.♥

I love you.

More, please?

Re: 2/2 i have never hit character capacity on a dw comment before omg

[(Anonymous)]

Jesus, this is hot. And just imagine after this- Fisk already has Matt figured out, there's no escape now. All he has to do is show him even the barest amount of kindness while he's messig with him and Matt will go with it because he hates himself that much and feels like he deserves this punishment. You're just fucked in every way, Matt.

Imagine, though: with only Fisk to latch on to, it's only matter of time before Matt is doing everything he says. He'll be Fisk's attack dog as well as his bitch, hah.

Re: 2/2 i have never hit character capacity on a dw comment before omg

[(Anonymous)]

Holy. Hell.

Write all of the smut, all of the time, AuthorAnon, because that was... something.

Re: not-quite-fill? background piece? idk this comment like REALLY did it for me so

[(Anonymous)]

He knows that with a deal like Fisk is offering to the devil, no one else in the entire place is going to get to take a crack. No one's going to get to tear him apart like he deserves, fuck him until he begs and cries and admits how sorry he is for putting them all in here. Fisk likes his privacy far too much, so he's never going to spread Daredevil out in the communal shower, beat him until his blood runs down the drains, make him choke on the cocks of every lucky bastard present until his body un-learns how to gag. The Kingpin's never going to share, so all he'll ever have are these little audio performances.

*laughs* I have neighbours who are constantly having wild and kinky and very vocal sex, so I know how you feel bro. Fisk is definitely going to get requests for a loan, hahaha.

[SECOND FILL] Day two (1/2)

[(Anonymous)]

Matt woke to his entire body aching, sprawled face-first on his bunk with his legs hanging off the side. His ears felt like they were packed with cotton, unable to process most of the sounds coming to him, everything washing over him in a dull roar. He focused, trying to cut through the haze, and realized he was hearing the clang of hands hitting the barred cell doors up and down the block. The correctional officers were calling the morning count.

He fisted a hand into the thin pad of his mattress. His blanket had disappeared somewhere last night during the- Well. It was probably on the floor. He raised his face and inhaled, but all he could smell was the overwhelming scent of Fisk's sweat and... other fluids. He gagged, vaguely remembering stumbling out of his bunk and using a fair portion of his only toilet roll to clean up the mess dribbling down his thighs, Fisk's eyes on him the entire time. Passing out had been a blessing.

"Let's go!" an officer yelled as a buzzer sounded; Matt flinched in surprise, hands flying up to cover his ears as it deafened him, cutting through his brain like a hot knife. It stopped, but his ears kept ringing, and he drifted for a moment, unable to move, until someone touched his shoulder. He flinched again.

"... have to get up, Matthew," came Fisk's voice, the beginning of his sentence lost to the ringing. He felt the air flowing a little more freely through the cell and realized the door must have slid back to let them out. He concentrated and heard the other inmates leaving their cells to stand in front of the doors in a rustle of fabric and dull thud of cheap, thin shoes on cement. He flung his hand out, groping, and shoved Fisk's hand away with a growl.

He had no idea what time it was, he was sore, hungry, and tired. His second day was getting off to a great start.

*

He stumbled into breakfast, another disappointing 'meal', then the morning services, where he sat on one of the many empty folding chairs and listened to an uninterested volunteer chaplain drone on about...something. He tried to pay attention, but the sounds of the prison in full swing were too much, washing over him and making it difficult to focus. It was hard enough just to find his way down the halls, sounds bouncing around every surface and confusing him even more. He had to walk with one hand outstretched, fingers trailing the concrete, following the other inmates from one room to another in an attempt to map out the complex. In the end, he had to stop and ask a guard where his cell block was, receiving a rather hostile response- nobody believed he was blind, still. Apparently, his unfocused eyes, visible to all without his glasses, weren't proof enough.

His 'vision' was a mess, shapes pinging back and forth as the sounds echoed around him, unable to place them precisely. He was tired enough that his brain was failing to put the input together into something usable. He needed his cane. He needed to not be in here, with no thought given to accessibility for blind inmates- not even any Braille signs to help him find his way, the bare fucking minimum.

Two days. Foggy would have visitation in two days, and they would discuss the upcoming trial and how to proceed. Rikers was just temporary. Even Fisk was still awaiting his own trial; Matt had been knee-deep in preparations for that when he'd been arrested, and now... well. He hadn't been officially disbarred yet, but it was coming. Hopefully, Foggy would avoid that particular fallout himself- he was yet to face charges, but it was only a matter of time. That he was able to visit at all was a minor miracle.

For what felt like the millionth time that week, Matt wanted to scream, to punch somebody- if not for his own situation, then for the mess he'd landed his friends in. His only friends.

This was why Stick had said to cut ties with them. If only he'd listened.

*

He stood at the door to the communal showers, clutching a towel, and tried to make sense of it. He could hear- running water, of course, echoing off the walls, nearly drowning out the voices of the men showering. Someone was laughing; a man pushed past him and Matt thought he turned his head to look at him, but he couldn't be sure. The sound was too much, too much to wade through, and he didn't want to enter, to make himself vulnerable here. Someone noticed his indecision and began to jeer in his direction, but it was tame compared to what he'd endured yesterday, before Fisk had... staked his claim.

Matt grit his teeth, his heart skipping a beat at the unbidden memory, of huge hands on his neck- he swallowed down the sudden flash of anger, hands curling into fists, uselessly. Fisk's 'protection' would probably keep him from being harassed here. The other inmates had kept a wide berth between them all day: in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in his brief foray to the library (such that it was). It hadn't put a complete end to the gossip, but he'd been doing his best to filter it out. Not that it had been difficult, as most of his attention was focused on not running into people as he walked. But he still heard the words here and there.

"You should have heard him," someone had said, earnestly, from across the cafeteria at breakfast. "Fucking obscene."

"Jesus, man, I'm trying to eat," another inmate had complained, mouth full. "Rather not have to hear about that fat fuck's cock right now. Or, you know. Ever."

Matt had silently agreed.

*

When Matt finally returned to his cell, unshowered and hungry, Fisk was absent. He sat on his bunk, slowly, still aching; the thin mattress wasn't much help in that area. The cell smelled overwhelmingly of Fisk, his mattress reeking of their mingled sweat and cum-

Matt fell to his knees and shuffled to the toilet fixed to the wall, barely making it in time as the contents of his stomach came back up in a rush. It was mostly bile; he hadn't eaten for days. He sat there, numbly, for some time, unwilling to move. He didn't want to get back up. He didn't want to get back on his bunk. He didn't want to sleep. He'd be locked in with Fisk again, soon enough, and he wasn't stupid enough to expect to be left alone tonight.

He flexed his jaw, grit his teeth, and reached up to grip the sink, lifting himself to his feet, shakily. He washed his mouth out, spitting, wishing he had a tooth brush. He hadn't been given one yet; he'd taken the towel from Fisk's side of the cell (put back, unused). The only things he had were the clothes he was wearing and half a roll of toilet paper.

It was going to be a long night.

[SECOND FILL] Day two (2/2)

[(Anonymous)]

He heard the bellows of “Lights out!” echoing throughout the walls of the cellblock and even beyond, through the thick cement walls. The lights had already turned off in a buzz of florescent static, only noticeable by their sudden silence. His ears picked up the myriad small sounds that he was beginning to associate with the prison: men pacing the small cells in worn out, treadless canvas shoes, murmured conversations filtering out from between barred walls, the guards watching a television somewhere, the local anchorwoman's voice just audible. He lay back on his bunk, stiffly, and tried to focus on those sounds, so he wouldn’t have to listen to the ones coming from across his cell, from his cellmate.

Fisk was shifting on his bunk from where he was sitting, watching. His heart was steady in his massive chest, not one beat out of place, but Matt knew what was coming. He was still sore. Last night was a jumble in his mind, half blocked out in his brain’s misguided attempt to shield him from the trauma, but he remembered- being forced down to the bunk, chest-first on a mattress that stank of sweat and fear, the pain of being breached- the humiliation of actually enjoying it enough to come.

Fisk moved. He flinched at the suddenness of it and immediately regretted it. He couldn’t afford to show fear. He had fucked up last night, allowed his exhaustion and confusion to get the better of him, making him weak, making him vulnerable. Tonight he would fight, to hell with Fisk and his ‘protection’.

He willed himself to sit up, even as Fisk’s heavy, even steps approached him, quickly closing the distance between their bunks. He was frozen, though, muscles refusing to obey. Fisk was close enough to touch, the heat radiating from his body, then he was sitting, gently pushing Matt’s legs to the side as he lowered himself down. Matt felt himself swallow, hard, but he still couldn’t move.

The air moved as Fisk reached out, slowly, and he twitched as fingers make contact with his cheek, the rasp of the pads on his stubble. The huge hand smelled of rust, like the water that came out of the small sink on top of the toilet, the industrial detergent used to wash their clothes and bedding, and underneath it the scent that was entirely Fisk, of sweat and musk, expensive cologne that must have been smuggled in to him somehow. The hand cupped his face, gentle, and Matt couldn’t help the sob that escaped him, his face hot with shame.

“No need for that,” Fisk said, not even trying to be quiet, his voice ringing out sharp in the sudden silence that fell over their block. Matt realized the rest of the inmates were listening. He hadn’t really paid attention last night, too focused on Fisk, but now- he heard zippers, for Christ’s sake, rustling fabric and sliding skin-on-skin of men taking hold of their cocks as they eavesdropped. Suddenly, Fisk’s behavior made more sense; he was putting on a show, playing up Matt’s helplessness, and Matt found himself baring his teeth in a sudden rush of rage. "Or that," Fisk mused, running a thumb over Matt's lower lip.

Matt's breath caught in his chest, and his mind flashed to the memory of a hand circling his throat, squeezing, as he was fucked- and his cock twitched, shamefully, in interest. He had liked it. Jesus, he had come from it, what the fuck was wrong with him? In the daytime, with people surrounding him, it had felt like a bad dream, distant, to be dealt with later, but now- Fisk's hand was on his face, stroking, and Matt was hard.

Maybe this was where he belonged, after all. The devil inside him had steered him here, to this place, in this moment, and Matt knew he had a lot to answer for. His sins were many, unforgivable. He'd made the mistake of thinking he could somehow rise above them, above who he was, but no. As someone once told him- you don't get into the cage with animals, without becoming one yourself. Now he was learning the truth. This was his life. He was no longer in control of it.

"Don't," he said, voice rough and not at all commanding, as he had intended. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears, to his own ears. "I can't-" He cut himself off before his traitorous mouth could start begging.

"Hush, Matthew," was the reply. He wasn't sure if Fisk was amused or not. His heart was still steady, his breathing even. Fisk was so sure he had nothing to fear. "We can take it easy, tonight." He shifted, and Matt's pulse spiked as he felt Fisk throwing a leg up over him, straddling him- how he managed to fit, Matt had no idea. A knee forced his legs apart and Fisk settled between them, slowly lowering himself down over Matt, pinning his hips to the mattress. A huge hand palmed his crotch and Matt shuddered. "I'm going to kiss you."

Oh, Jesus. Fisk's musk overwhelmed him as he did just that, surprisingly soft, testing, at first. Matt didn't react and Fisk didn't seem to care. The hand on his cheek tilted his face, giving Fisk more access, and a tongue delved into his mouth, licking at his, trying to coax him to respond. When he pulled away, finally, Matt wrenched his head back, breathing hard through his mouth; he couldn't imagine it'd been any good, with him laying there like a dead fish, but Fisk still didn't seem to care. This was all about power- controlling him. And he couldn't fight back. He'd found that out quickly enough last night. Nobody was going to come to his rescue.

"Doesn't that count as cheating?" he spit, his skin crawling. Fisk rumbled deep in his chest, a laugh, and canted his hips against Matt's in reply. He was hard already, the massive bulge of his cock rubbing up against Matt's with every stroke, and Matt couldn't help it, his dick had a mind of its own. He stifled a moan as much as possible, but the friction, through two layers of pants, was muted enough to keep him frustrated.

"Vanessa knows of our- arrangement." Fisk's hand left his cheek and started pulling on Matt's pants, tugging them down. Fisk paused to do the same to his own; Matt heard the slick-wet sound of his cock being freed from the fabric, Fisk palming himself for a few quick strokes, the scent of it hitting Matt's nose, hard.

"Really?" Matt grunted, then hissed as Fisk reached into his fly and gripped his cock. "You- actually told her how you were- fuck!- molesting me?"

Fisk snorted. "She wasn't entirely disappointed. You took me away from her, Matthew." His hand was pumping now, and Matt couldn't stop himself from arching into it, trying not to listen to the sounds bubbling up from his throat. His ears picked up a faint whisper from the cell next door, a muttered obscenity, and he grit his teeth. "It's only- fitting- that you receive your punishment from me."

Matt gasped as a thumb stroked over the head of his cock; Fisk's fist was large enough that it engulfed it completely, unlike anything he'd ever felt before. "Thought you said- this wasn't my- punishment," he choked out; he was already so close, his body was useless against this, oversensitive nerves firing unchecked.

Fisk hummed. "No. Not this." And suddenly, the hand was gone. Matt whined in protest, deep in his throat, his hands flying up to his crotch to take over, only to be caught. "No," Fisk said, forcefully enough that he froze. "You don't get to come until I say you can." He released Matt, his hand coming back up to brace himself on the mattress beside Matt's head.

Matt squirmed, trying to find friction, and his cock met Fisk's, a brief slide of skin on skin, electric- he gasped again, and Fisk ground down against him. Fisk's cock was fucking huge; he took ahold of it with both hands, testing its girth, amazed that it hadn't torn him in half. Jesus. Above him, Fisk exhaled, then reached down and pulled one of Matt's hands away, back up to his face. "Spit."

Matt did so, and Fisk released his wrist, letting him resume. For the first time, Matt began to relax- if all Fisk was expecting tonight was a handjob, he could bear it. There were far worse ways to pass the night (overstimulated and shaking as Fisk kept fucking into him, his hole raw, the spit he'd use to stretch him open long since dried up- sobbing face-first into the mattress until he felt Fisk pulsing deep inside him, filling him with hot spurts that dripped down his thigh when he pulled out, finally-).

He worked his hands over Fisk's cock, one over the other, fisting him tightly and grinding himself up as he did so, desperate for any friction at all. Fisk wasn't even breathing heavily; he was barely reacting at all, at this rate his hands were going to go numb before he saw any change in the other man. He squirmed some more, trying to find a better position, for something to rut up against, and Fisk finally obliged him raising himself up further, pushing a knee into Matt's groin.

Matt exhaled in relief, but it didn't last. He felt himself getting close again, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, hands trembling, and Fisk pulled away, the fucking bastard- too late, Matt realized he'd said that out loud, because Fisk was laughing at him.

"Keep going," Fisk murmured, and Matt grudgingly did as he was told, eager to get it over with. He felt a turning point, finally, when Fisk's hips began to move with him, his breaths coming a little faster. "Yes. You're doing so well, Matthew."

"Don't need the commentary," Matt muttered. His hands were aching now, and if it were anyone else he'd be marveling at their stamina because Christ, Fisk was what, in his fifties? Matt was lucky if he lasted five minutes of direct stimulation, as sensitive as he was. Maybe that's what it was like for normal people; he wasn't sure. He'd never fucked another man before.

Fisk grunted in response, reaching back down to grasp Matt's cock. He leaned back and pushed Matt's hands out of the way and he let them fall, limply, to the mattress, as Fisk took over, grasping both of their cocks together and squeezing. Matt yelped in surprise, hips stuttering in the air, and Fisk set a brutal pace, stroking them together in one huge palm. Precum made them slick, Fisk's cock hard and heavy against his own, hot, grinding- Matt buried his face in the crook of his elbow, biting down hard, his other hand finding Fisk's shirt and gripping tight. "Come, Matthew," Fisk shuddered, at last, voice distressingly breathy, and Matt did as he was told- finally-

He lay panting for a moment after, hard, wetness seeping into his pants. Fisk was still heavy above him, pushing himself to his knees. He'd let go of Matt, palming himself and stroking furiously, still hard, then-

"Fuck!" Matt recoiled, as a string of cum landed on his cheek, landing in his open eye. "You- fucking-" It burned, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what the fuck was wrong with Fisk? He flailed, managed to get out from under Fisk as the other man leaned back onto his heels, letting him up. He hit the hard floor on his hands and knees, his eye clenched shut. "You motherfucker! Good fucking thing I'm already blind!"

Fisk was laughing, the absolute bastard. Beyond the cell, he could hear even more laughter- had the whole prison heard? He groaned, reaching out to find the toilet, but Fisk had followed him from the bunk. He was met halfway with a wet towel held to his face, wiping away the mess for him.

"I apologize," Fisk said, awkwardly, as if trying not to laugh any more. "That was not my- intention."

Matt huffed, humiliation keeping the shame at bay, for now. "Yeah, try to be a little more considerate next time you rape someone," he growled, pulling away from Fisk and taking the towel with him. He groped his way back to his bunk and sat down, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees, and heard Fisk retreat to his own bunk.

Well. He'd survived, he supposed. Cum in his eye wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. He willed himself not to think about what would happen tomorrow night- or the night after that. How long before Fisk was bored of this? How long before his 'protection' would be withdrawn? He grit his teeth, threw the towel back onto Fisk's side, and lay back on the bunk. He was sore, filthy, hungry, and utterly exhausted. But he was still alive. That had to count for something.

Re: [SECOND FILL] Day two (2/2)

[(Anonymous)]

(A/N) this is my first time writing porn, second time writing an actual fill for this kinkmeme, so, uh. hope you guys like it. I'll be putting it up on ao3 when it gets edited.

Re: [SECOND FILL] Day two (2/2)

[(Anonymous)]

OP - That was some A+ porn, anon! I wouldn't have know it was your first time writing it if you hadn't said. Lucky Fisk, gets his own personal porn star until either of them goes to trial. I like how you had him narrate for the benefit of everyone else listening.

Also, I loved the accidental facial at the end! Brought some levity to the situation.

(Ah, Matt will have the run of the place in a week. He just needs to blow off some steam by beating the shit out of somebody dumb enough to comment about his situation to his face, lol)

Re: [SECOND FILL] Day two (2/2)

[(Anonymous)]

Thank you for writing a sequel, anon! :-D

Re: [SECOND FILL] Day two (2/2)

[(Anonymous)]

Oh, this is amazing. I love Matt realizing that the other prisoners can hear them. And that facial. Unf.

Re: [SECOND FILL] Day two (2/2)

[(Anonymous)]

HA! Fuck yeah!

Man, this makes me want to write the first time Fisk makes Matt suck his dick. On one hand, Matt wouldn't have to deal with the pain of being barebacked dry. On the other hand, Fisk has a monster cock haha.

But I have also never written porn before (or much of anything, really). Hm.

(this just needs to be a round-robin series of Matt's unfortunate prison sexcapades hahaha)

[SECOND FILL] Day two A03 link

[(Anonymous)]

http://archiveofourown.org/works/4238619

Re: Matt is Fisk's Prison Bitch

[(Anonymous)]

Sorry to be so late to the party, but due to Trans Matt being my default headcanon, I can’t help but imagine Fisk forcing him to choose which hole he fucks.