daredevilkink | Prompt Post #6

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Prompt Post #6

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His senses tell him Marci is standing behind the couch and is probably looking straight down at him. Him, with his shirt gone, collar bright red around his throat, and currently being groped by half a dozen strangers.

Matt doesn't need to be able to see to visualize his life, and his future shatter before his eyes. Outed. Humiliation threatens to overwhelm him and he tries to turn his head away so at least Marci can't see his face any more.

Which is when the second surprise of the night happens, and it comes in the form of a verbal lashing that is usually directed at him, but not tonight. Not now.

"What. do you think you are doing?" Marci asks, tone clipped, and the person on top of him briefly stops in their fondling.

"Uh...having fun?" they intelligently ask.

"Uh-huh." Marci comments, unimpressed. "That's my boyfriend's pet you're sitting on top of. Which, by extension makes him mine. *Off*," she says, and the last word is laced with something that would make feral wolves back down. The pressure on his chest leaves.

"Alright, alright, chill, I thought slaves were here for general entertainment tonight, s'all..."

"This one isn't," Marci says, and then smartly steps around the couch to perch himself next to Matt on the armrest. He is currently struggling to sit up, shrug back into his soaked shirt, for all the good it will do him now. He can feel Marci next to him smack her lips.

"So. Murdock," she says, and it's...*amused*? "Not that I didn't have my suspicions, but...something you want to tell me?"

xxx

But yeah, so totally in favour of Marci using it as petty revenge for being defeated by Matt in class, but she wouldn't ever use it seriously against him because that would make the challenge moot. I also didn't yet write Foggy in that scene yet but he so needs to react to everything going on there (what would he do? Want to run over and tear drunk!student off Matt? Try and immediately plead with Marci that she mustn't tell that to any one else? Immediately want to comfort Matt and bring him his jacket so they can leave (which is of course when the cops show up, because nope, no breaks to be had here^^°)?

- and aw, yes, a scene like that, with Matt noticing that - like, he usually has that impulse to cover up, even in the heat, but then he pauses and is like 'wait...there's actually no reason to be worried if I'm not wearing a shirt', because Foggy's not going to view it as an 'invitation' or anything, and maybe it's at that point that Matt realizes that he truly, completely *trusts* him. (I'd also like the idea that, like the glasses in canon, Foggy is the only one that Matt doesn't feel self-conscious when he's visibly wearing his collar around - like, during changing or when sleeping).

- all the yes to contradicting feelings about the collar itself, of course. XD

- and ahah, I had to laugh at the messed-up-pizza-order comment. XD They so would! Poor Karen. But I'd so want to see that conversation afterwards. Matt could be like,

"No, seriously, Foggy doesn't hit me. Ever. Not even when I do something like this." *proceeds to grope for Foggy's cheetos bag and drop it into garbage can*

Foggy: "HEY!"

Matt: "See? Nicest owner ever."

Foggy: "I can't believe I haven't sold you yet." -.-

Karen: *utterly baffled*

- and ooh, yes about Karen first seeing Matt and immediately making all of her own theories because of COURSE he won't properly talk about anything. I adore the idea about her at first being all angry toward Foggy and protective and indignant on Matt's behalf. (Foggy would be like with his back against his own desk, and she'd be all I SAW HIM AND HE IS STILL WEARING HIS COLLAR WHICH HE HATES WHY IS THAT FOGGY and he'd be like NO IT'S DIFFERENT and...yeah. XD

(Also, I love the twist with her thinking Matt doesn't want to sue because he'd be too ashamed to be 'evidence' in a trial instead of defence council.) ah, it's so cool to be able to bounce ideas around and get them all into working order :D

- and then yeah, the Nelson question. I do have another bit, which is Foggy talking to his mother briefly on the morning after he got Matt -

xxx

“Mom, I can’t – I had to patch him up, yesterday, and the way he looked at me, as if he was grateful for something that shouldn’t…shouldn’t….”

Franklin (Foggy, you’re supposed to call him Foggy), is taking deep breaths now, probably trying to calm himself down – yup, heart rate elevated, Matt nods to himself. He is a bit surprised that he can already track Foggy through the building, but then again, they had spent quite a bit of time together yesterday, and none of it had been overwhelming or seriously painful for Matt, so he’d been able to catalogue everything about Foggy quite well. That was…new. Matt carefully decides not to dwell on it.

“Franklin,” his mother says, “that is a normal way to discipline slaves. You’ve seen that he acts quite docile now, doesn’t he? That is probably what made him such a well-behaved boy.”

“Bullshit,” Foggy seethes downstairs. “That’s not…I wouldn’t ever-“ He takes another deep breath. “Fine. You wanna give me a slave, fine. So, as long as he is mine,” Foggy says, and Matt concentrates hard at this point, so he can hear the air part as Foggy jabs a finger into his mother’s face, “No one is ever going to touch him like that. Is that clear?”

There’s a sigh from his mother’s end. “Yes, dear, if that’s what you want. But you should read the owner’s manual I got you, anyway. If – or when you run into difficulties with him at Columbia, you’ll probably be glad to have it.”

“Yeah, so I can light it on fire when the heating is down,” Foggy grunts, and Matt can hear him stomp out of the kitchen and toward his room again. He panics for a moment – doesn’t know whether he should pretend to still be sleeping, or whether Foggy would want him to be up and dressed, or up and undressed, so when the door flies open and Foggy crashes into his room in a thunderous mood, he is presented with one slave, too-large sweatshirt half over his head, flat on his face in the room with his feet hopelessly still tangled in the futon.

“Uh…morning?” he manages.

xxx

...gah. But yeah. I dunno, I wonder what would have the most feelings/comedy potential. I could think Foggy being seriously torn in between leaving Matt for thanksgiving at the dorms (where he'd be left in peace, but would also be lonely) VS taking him home for the weekend (where he may or may not even be allowed to participate at the dinner). Maybe the parents also have radically differing attitudes toward him? Argh, so many possibilities! What do you think?^^°

This is amazing! Foggy/Sam, yes please! And oh, Foggy, using that same tactic to cover up your flirting. Love this! :D

Another brilliant chapter! I always look forward to this updating - OP

He is tired, is his only excuse. He is tired, because Foggy’s still hurt and angry, and because he still can’t find Stick, and because he’s spent three nights in a row lingering on Foggy’s fire escape when he can’t find anyone to hit.

That’s the only thing that lets the cut-rate muscle from O’Leary’s chop shop get the drop on him. He'd miscounted heartbeats, somehow; there are three more than he thought. Seven is a few too many opponents for even him to be dumb enough to take on singlehandedly.

At least, he thinks ruefully as he tries to maneuver his back to a wall, they don't seem to be armed with the weapons they deal out of that chop shop.

He knocks a tooth out of the nearest mouth with a billy club and twists to avoid a kick that'd have him pissing blood if it landed right. They're cutting off the exit, and it's not in Matt's nature to run anyway.

"Motherfucking devil piece of shit," one of them snarls. "You're dead, you hear me? You're fucking dead!"

He doesn't dodge fast enough to avoid the next punch, and now he knows why he smelled brass earlier - the knuckles leave his head ringing and his radar sense scattered. Another punch to his gut knocks the breath out of him, and then a kick to his knee sends him crashing to the dirty floor. This is it, then, he thinks as he tries to roll away from them, as he tries and fails to get to his feet. No great sacrifice, just beaten to death by idiots. He can't even die in a way that does any good to anyone, and as a steel-toed boot connects with his jaw he can only hope that Foggy doesn't find out about it through the news, that someone breaks it to him gently.

Then he hears it. A familiar, rhythmic tapping.

There are still seven of them, but there's a reason Stick was Matt's sensei. He scatters them like leaves, his cane spinning like a thresher, breaking fingers and teeth. Matt pushes himself to his feet and drops two opponents himself, but it's barely necessary. The rest are unconscious on the ground by the time he's done.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, I didn't kill any of them," Stick says. His voice sounds dull and distant. Matt probably has a concussion.

"I know," Matt says. He's not that far gone that he can't count the heartbeats - properly, this time.

"Good, because you sure as hell don't know anything else, you dumb little shit," Stick says. "This is what you choose? This is your great calling? Letting a bunch of chi-less illiterates kick your face in in a warehouse?" He bends to wipe blood off his cane on one of said illiterate's backs. "Behold the superhero."

"I didn't exactly plan for it to go down this way," Matt says. It hurts to talk.

"Because you've always been so great with plans." Stick drops the mocking tone, which actually startles Matt. "This life you've chosen? This fake domesticity with that sponge cake boyfriend of yours? It's killing you. You're a weapon, Matty, and you can't afford to let your edge get dulled."

He puts on his glasses, a helpless old blind man again. "You want to go out in a blaze of glory like your old man? Fine. I think it's a waste, but hell, it'll be your funeral. But at least let me point your stupid, suicidal ass in a direction where it'll do some good."

And he taps his way out of the warehouse, leaving Matt to hobble his way home alone.

^This is OP again, btw, forgot to sign that comment.

Foggy sounds entirely fond. Matt is in so much trouble.

<3 <3 <3

“Putting on your brave little soldier voice and insisting you don’t need to go to the hospital even though you left a kidney on a fire escape somewhere.”

“Well, I do have two,” Matt points out.

Heartbreaking and funny, I love this fic.

\o/

Oh my gosh, this fic is hilarious and absolutely marvelous.

"In retrospect," Foggy says with a sigh, "I should have known something weird was up the second we found an actual paying client."
This is the best first line.

And of course when they'd tried to leave as unobstrusively as possible, their collective stammering and stuttering set off enough alarms to get them both dragged to the roof of the building at gunpoint, because evidently all of Foggy's and Matt's individual and rather impressive skills at lying go down the drain when they're forced to do it together. When they get out of this, Matt is signing them both up for acting classes.
This? This is wonderful. Good job.

My eyes literally went big and I whispered oh shit when Foggy was pushed, so, good job again!

The heady cocktail of adrenaline and relief is still singing through his veins, and all of a sudden he wants - he wants - he wants to run his hands over every inch of Foggy's body to make sure he's still there, he wants to wrap himself around it like an anchor and never let go, he wants to drag Foggy into a corner and cover him with his own body so he'll be safe and protected and no one will ever touch him again--
Hi, yes, more of this, please, thank you. :D

Matt is well aware he's not a perfect person and has a list of sins a mile long, and topping that list right underneath wrath is pride.
Yes yes yes yes yes, this x1000.

...and whoa, what the hell, Matt thought panicked reassurances of heterosexuality right after horrifically awkward assessments of a person's attractiveness was supposed to be their thing.
*cracks up*

I am LOVING the thought of Matt getting irrationally jealous because emotionally stable, heroic, hot Sam Wilson isn't afraid to flirt back with Foggy Nelson. You reap what you sow, dude. ~~but that's okay, I'm still rooting for you and I hope Foggy is, too.~~

This is gold, anon.

also, the title is a masterpiece.

This gave me chills, anon. Wow.

(I wonder what the Devil thinks of Foggy? And Karen?)

stick u butt, you're the one that's throwing him off his game. Although he DID get thrown off his game. STILL, he's playing mindgames with you, matt!!!!

Matt, don't go home, go to claire ffs
also I foresee trouble when Matt shows up to the office ;w;

Matt knows Foggy is coming closer in the school library while he's listening to his screenreader read him arguments about the latest Lincoln-Douglas topic, but he still startles when Foggy knocks on the table like he's knocking on a door. “Hey,” says Foggy when Matt takes an earbud out and tilts his head. “Do you mind if I sit down? I won't talk or interrupt you, I just figured it was kind of silly that we're both in the library and not sitting together.”

“I didn't realize you have study hall this period.”

“Normally I stay in the classroom, but it's loud in there today and I'm doing my weekly research on possible International Extemp topics.”

“You've been doing a lot of speech this year.”

“Yeah, Owlsley thinks I'm good at it.” Cloth rustling. A shrug, probably. “It's cool, though, more people here are into Lincoln-Douglas than Public Forum, so I'm fine with that.”

“I'm doing research for Lincoln-Douglas right now,” Matt offers. “So we'll both be working on speech and debate.”

“Cool.” Foggy's chair scrapes against the carpet when he moves it. “Let me know if you want to talk out an argument. I work better in teams, but that doesn't mean I can't kick your ass.”

Matt is very aware. All he does is nod, though, and put his earbud back in.

Foggy doesn't seem inclined to silence, in general. No one on speech and debate really is, but whenever Matt happens to notice him he's always talking to someone new, with a joke or a story or something else to say, though he doesn't think Foggy is very close with anyone either. Now, though, he's surprised at how easily Foggy settles into silence. He taps his pen on the table sometimes while he thinks, and hums under his breath at intervals, but he doesn't talk.

Matt does, when the period is halfway finished and Foggy has moved from clicking around the internet to taking down notes, pen scratching against paper. “Finding anything useful?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, a few things. You?”

“A few. We shouldn't in the library, but I might take you up on your offer to debate later. You're the only person in this school who's beat me. It would help.”

Foggy laughs a little, nervous and awkward. “Call it luck. But sure, yeah, absolutely. I work a lot after school when I don't have debate, family business and all, but we can meet up. I think my sister's got the shop tomorrow afternoon.”

It's another day of this, but Foggy hasn't pressed him to hold hands or kiss or go on dates. Matt's willing to wait a little longer, to see if Foggy keeps not pressing and it can turn into a friendship instead of anything else. He thinks they could get along, maybe, even if Foggy isn't much like Karen or Claire. “I'll check in with Karen and my foster parents, but I should be free, as long as you don't mind.”

“Why would I mind? If you're worried about exploiting me for reasons of speech and debate, I'll make you give me an extemp topic and make up a speech in five minutes or less. Or pull you into doing a Forum at a meet with me sometime this year. Not that I'm assuming anything.”

Matt doesn't tell him to assume, but he does smile. “It will be like an extra team meeting—I'll be surprised if they don't ask you to be a captain next year. You can get used to it.”

“And you can stop fishing for compliments. Co-captains, obviously.” Matt wasn't fishing, but it's nice to hear that, like it's a foregone conclusion, Matt being put in charge. “Do you want to meet up somewhere neutral tomorrow? You can come to mine if you don't mind siblings and nosy parents, but I should warn you I've mentioned you.” Foggy's face heats up. “I was kind of excited when I got that note.”

Of course he was. “My apartment should be empty except for maybe Karen, and she'll leave us alone if we ask her to, or help out. She critiques my arguments sometimes.”

“Well, she's welcome.” Now he sounds disappointed, and Matt can't blame him, when he must be confused that Matt asked him out and isn't making excuses to spend time alone together. He really wishes he knew what the note said. “And if you're sure I'm not imposing. I could bring cookies again.”

“You don't need to. Doris and Ben will be happy I'm having a friend over, they won't object if you eat some of our snacks.”

“Okay. Your place tomorrow, then? I can find you after school and you can walk me home?”

“Sure.”

Foggy doesn't seem to have a response to that, because after a few seconds later he starts scribbling in his notebook again. Matt goes back to his screenreader, though he's out of useful ideas for his current argument and he should probably switch over to math homework.

After a few minutes, Foggy's foot taps against his under the table and then stays there, just gentle pressure that Matt can't ignore.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Foggy says right before the bell rings for the end of the period, and Matt nods and makes sure to linger packing his bag even though it will make him late to class so he doesn't have to think of anything else to say.

*

Foggy is in the middle of a story about a debate he got into in history class and how ever since he's been creepingly terrified that James Wesley is going to kill him in his sleep for winning it so thoroughly when there's a knock on Matt's bedroom door.

“Come in,” Matt calls when Foggy stops immediately short. He knows Karen is somewhere around, but he hasn't done a very good job of paying attention to who's in the building, let alone the apartment, this afternoon.

When the door swings open, he can already tell it's Ben, the smell of his deodorant and the way his clothes always smell after a day at the paper. “Afternoon, Matt. Thought I'd come in and say hello, and Karen said you had company.”

“Hi.” Foggy stands up. “Foggy Nelson, sir.”

“I remember you, I think Karen introduced us once.” Ben says that with just enough emphasis that Matt can't help wincing, and Foggy's heart does something erratic and intimidated, though Matt knows Ben isn't very imposing. “Pleasure to meet you again, though. Are you staying for dinner?”

“No, no, my mom would kill me for imposing. Is it that late already?”

“We eat late, but you might want to call your mother if you don't. It's almost six.”

“Shit,” says Foggy, and then “Sorry” to both of them, probably for swearing, while he fumbles in his pocket for something. His phone, Matt can hear him unlocking it a second later. “I really overstayed my welcome, Matt, you should have stopped me, I'm pretty sure I've just been doing a monologue for the last half an hour.”

“I don't mind.” And he doesn't. Foggy went over his arguments with him and gave an extemporaneous speech from Matt's prompt about the leaked SHIELD files (“Too easy,” Foggy said when Matt gave him the topic, “it's old news and I read all the files I could last summer break,” and then he'd spoken for twice as long as necessary with half the prep time and kept Matt interested the whole time) and then they've been talking, not as much of a monologue as Foggy thinks. “I'm sorry I kept you away from home, though.”

“No worries, totally my fault. And dad texted half an hour ago, apparently I missed that. But yeah, I should go. Thanks for the reminder, Mr. Urich.”

“Of course.” Ben sounds amused. “You're welcome to come for dinner sometime, if you'd like, as long as there's warning.”

“Right, yeah.” Foggy is collecting his backpack and his debate binder, which he took out to take notes in for next week's meeting, putting them away and finding his shoes, in a hurry all of a sudden. Matt stands up, since he should see his guest out. “Again, sorry.”

“I'm glad Matt has someone over. I just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner, since he should have warned me about that.” Ben is still trying to sound stern, but amusement is winning out, Matt can hear it. He's not sure that's much better, but it's easier on Foggy, anyway.

“Another time,” says Matt. “We honestly just lost track of time.”

“I'm sure you did.”

“Oh, Jesus,” says Foggy. “No, no, we weren't—um.”

“Please don't defend my virtue,” Matt says, because Ben is muffling a smile with his hand now, and Foggy is warmer every second, blushing so much that he must be turning visibly red. “Do you need anything before you go, Foggy? Or will I see you at school?”

“I'm good. You'll see me at school. Uh.” A swish of Foggy's hair. He had it up with an elastic band when they started for the afternoon, but it's down now. He's probably looking at Ben, figuring out how to say goodbye to Matt with him standing there. “Thanks for having me over.”

Ben coughs, and even Foggy must know it's covering up a laugh. “Anytime, Foggy. Next time, have Matt tell us in advance and you can stay.”

“Right.” A nervous laugh.

Matt reaches out and sidesteps until he finds Foggy's elbow. “Come on. I'll walk you out.”

“Night, Foggy. Come help me with setting the table when you're done, Matt, Doris will be home in twenty minutes and I'm making spaghetti.”

“Of course. Thanks, Ben.” Ben moves away, toward the kitchen, and Matt walks Foggy the few steps tot he door, somewhere between leading him and letting Foggy lead him. “Thanks for coming. And helping,” he says when they reach the door. He thinks, if he concentrates, he can hear Doris coming down the block. He'd like to say goodbye before she comes.

“No problem, man. I'm still working on talking you into doing Public Forum with me. I'm pretty sure we'd be an unbeatable team.”

Matt can't help smiling. “We might be. I'll think about it.”

“Hey, great.” Foggy sounds startled, but happy too, less nervous than he's been since Ben knocked on Matt's door. “So, I'll see you at school?”

“See you at school.” Foggy has his hand on the doorknob, but he isn't turning it, just standing there with his heartbeat speeding up. Matt's kicks up too, more with nerves than with anticipation. Is Foggy expecting a kiss? Something else?

After a second, Foggy just reaches out with his free hand and claps Matt gently on the shoulder, squeezing for a second before letting go. “See you at school,” he says again, and lets himself out.

Matt waits at the door for a few seconds, long enough to be sure that Doris is the one coming down the sidewalk and to hear Foggy's quiet “Shit” from the street, and then goes to help Ben in the kitchen.

Ben only waits until Matt has forks in his hands before he says anything. “Nice boy, Foggy Nelson. Is Karen okay with it?”

“Yes. She was the one who ended it with him, I think, and she's been supportive.” She left them alone after she got home, and at one point had a whispered conversation with Claire about how she thinks it started, which Claire at least tried to avoid. “I was the one who asked him out.”

“I didn't know you were interested. But I'm glad you gave it a shot. Behind you with the pot of water.” Matt obligingly freezes, and then continues to the cabinet for plates when Ben turns the stove on. “If it's going to be serious enough for him to spend time here, it should be serious enough for him to come for dinner.”

Matt can hear Doris's key in the lock. He knows Ben will tell her all about it, but he'd like to not be still having the conversation when she comes in. “Right. I don't think it's very serious, we were just talking about speech and debate all afternoon, but I'll invite him soon if we stay together.”

“Of course.” Ben sounds amused again, and Doris is inside, taking her coat and shoes off, putting on her slippers. Matt puts the plates down on the table to start putting them at everyone's places. “And Matt—next time your boyfriend spends the afternoon, door stays open.”

Doris comes into the kitchen just in time to ask why Matt dropped a fork on the floor.

*

Oh my god Ben is the best. And flustered Foggy is so cute. XD

There are many times Foggy think's he has many similarities with porn stars. An erection is easy given the proper anatomy and stimulation. Maintaining it is practice. Ejaculation the goal.

Matt. Matt. Matt. He had practiced and touched himself. He had done it enough that he'd greeted Matt soon after a session, surprised. His best friend blushing from arousal and then kissing him with a need that Foggy had not felt. He had reached out and stroked him through his pants the first time he'd brought him to orgasm.

Then he had repeated the same words that had started it all: "I love you." Foggy said after he was done and ran a hand over the latest scar. Matt flushed and smiled, wide and so fucking joyous. "Stay." Matt nodded. And stayed.

A few months ago he had uttered it, desperate and in need to stem the bleeding. Matt had stopped and turned towards him wide, eyed. His expression was shocked and he had uttered. "What?"

"I. Love. You." He repeated, heart pounding in panic. Matt walked toward him, almost tripping on Foggy's shoes, and collapsed against him.

"I love you too." He whispered with such reverence he would have thought it a prayer. Matt stayed and slept on his bed with him. In the morning he smiled and kissed him when they woke up. Foggy had pulled back surprised. Matt had looked perplexed, unsure, and hurt.

Then Foggy had decided to go in for it all. "I'm sorry. I was just surprised." It was true. He bent down and kissed him. Matt returned it eagerly. Later when they talked over breakfast Foggy said: "Let's go slow."

"Why?"

"Because we shouldn't rush this." Matt had smiled, happily. He felt cherished and Foggy couldn't take it back. Ever.

So he learned to maintain an erection and thrust into Matt's willing body. Watched as he gasped and moaned like a dying man. Foggy never felt like such trash as he thanked the chemical's that had robbed Matt of his sight and given him over sensitivity as prostate stimulation brought Matt to orgasm more often than not. He felt like trash as he thought of women. He felt like trash lying next to his best friend.

He felt like a monster as he exchanged rings and he felt like the world's most despicable man when they adopted a son, named after Matt's father.

To the world: Matthew Murdock was Franklin Nelson's exception to his perceived heterosexuality.

Foggy never spoke otherwise, not even as his hair fell out and Matt stayed by his side. Not even as the dark crept closer and the pain of his body destroying itself became his constant companion. He refused to speak as his son cried.

Foggy Nelson loved Matthew Murdock.

This was not a lie.

The lie was the rest of it.

Ohhhh myyyy goooodddddddd

My heart is so broken now that I don't know what to do

Oh my god, I've been hoping for this to get filled so badly. Sooooo happy it did!

But my heart. Everything. So heartbreaking.
JUST HOW I LIKE IT.

this was almost the last part. i was totally going to end this fic with matt and foggy getting together around christmas, except then i considered that i wouldn't get to write the daredevil reveal for foggy and peter and karen and also there was that one prompt about matt getting hypothermia and, well. shit. XD

=====

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Happy Holidays! Deadline for Christmas orders is Dec. 14 for pickup/delivery by the 23rd. #wehavefruitcake #itsdelicious #noreally #noREALLY

November ticked into December and Matt turned out fruit and spice loaves, sticky toffee pudding, treacle tarts, caramel-pecan sticky buns, and rustic pear and cranberry galettes. He also unearthed the fruitcakes that had been ripening for the past year, heady with rum, cognac, and brandy. One customer broke down into tears after tasting a slice, telling him it was just how her now-deceased grandmother had made it.

While just as overworked as ever, Foggy seemed happier in recent weeks. He and Matt and sometimes Karen occasionally met for drinks after closing. He wouldn’t tell them what had him so upbeat, but it appeared to have lifted a weight off of his soul. Whatever it was, Matt approved.

Christmas came and went. Matt sank into the peace of Midnight Mass, breathed in candle flame and holy smoke, song and scripture and joy. Let the just rejoice, for their justifier is born.

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Auld lang syne! Jack’s will be closed from 12/24 to 1/10 to celebrate the season. See you in the New Year for more tasty treats and coffee!

Daredevil celebrated New Year’s by taking a swim in the Hudson.

The cold was like a physical blow, made worse by the disorientation. Being underwater was the closest Matt could get to being deaf and truly without sight. No air currents or useful temperature gradients, no clear sound with water pressing against his eardrums. No idea, even, which way was up. He came up choking, panic shrill behind his teeth, flailed desperately as he tried to orient himself toward the pier.

Distant traffic that way, gunshots and shouting this way. Lapping waves against the wall -- a ladder? Matt struck out in that direction even as cold stole the breath from his lungs. It’d be worse once he left the water, he knew. The wind chill was -10 tonight.

Ladder. His quickly-numbing fingers slipped on the first rung. Were they even closing about it? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t feel the pressure of the metal against his palms. Every second in the water sapped his strength, his awareness of everything but the cold. He tried again, slipped again.

Fingers locked about his wrists, hauled him out of the water. Matt almost screamed as the frigid night air hit his body, cold a living thing chewing into his skin with serrated teeth. He was yanked onto his feet but couldn’t keep them, stumbling against a firm body. Unlikely to be one of the gang members -- he flared his nostrils, trying to push past the searing agony to determine who had a hold of him. Male. Leather. Kevlar. Gunpowder. Coffee.

--well fuck.

Daredevil and the Punisher didn’t cross each others’ paths much due to an unspoken agreement: the Punisher stayed out of Hell’s Kitchen unless he was willing to use non-lethal force or Daredevil booted his ass out with extreme prejudice and an escrima stick beating about the head and shoulders. Frank Castle and Matt Murdock, however, occasionally exchanged a few words as Matt refilled his coffee or got him a croissant from the display case. Fuck.

“Castle,” he grated out, then started to wheeze. Lapsed into painful coughing, feeling the bite of water in his lungs. Goddammit. If he was lucky the best he could expect from his dunk would be a full-blown case of bronchitis.

“Nice night for a swim, altar-boy.” Castle supported him as he doubled over, hacking his lungs out. “Though even for a Catholic, isn’t this a little much?”

Matt didn’t have enough air to give that the response it properly deserved, settled for flipping him off instead. Eventually his coughing tapered off, even though any too-deep breath threatened to spark it off again. His chest felt like each individual alveolus was detonating inside his ribcage.

“Can you walk?”

His nod was immediate even though his muscles were cramping with cold. Damned if he was going to be carried around by anybody, especially the Punisher. From Castle’s disbelieving snort, he knew exactly how shitty Matt was feeling and wasn’t impressed by his bravado. But he didn’t call him out on it, turning away. “Follow me, you need to get out of the cold.”

Stumbling, Matt trailed after him, down a tangle of alleyways that were at least somewhat sheltered from the wind. He could smell gunpowder and fresh blood, cordite and shell casings. Seemed like Castle had put his inimitable touch on the scene. So much for leaving the gang members to the police.

A block away, Castle stopped in front of another alley with something large at the end of it. Matt’s senses sketched out a blocky shape with an array of equipment on top, metal and glass and rubber, gasoline -- a van? Dragging him forward, Castle hauled the side door open and then hustled him inside. Matt landed awkwardly in the emptied-out interior amid a tangle of shapes and smells, ammunition and medical supplies, guns of all sorts, other more esoteric objects. The grooved floorboards pressed painfully into his hands and knees as he struggled to right himself, clumsy with cold and shock.

Castle climbed in after him, leaning over the driver’s seat, the only one remaining in the vehicle, to get the van started. Cold air blasted out of the vents and Matt couldn’t help the pained sound, feeling each gust like a razor across his skin even through his armor.

“It’ll warm up in a minute. Get over here, I need to get this clown suit off of you.” Fingers that smelled of gun oil tugged at his cowl. Matt batted weakly at the invading hands but too late, Castle had it up and over his face. He nearly dropped Matt in shock.

“You?” He sounded astonished, and then angry. “What the hell is a blind baker doing dressing like an idiot and busting up weapons deals?”

“S-says the man who c-c-calls himself th-the P-Punisher,” Matt forced out through chattering teeth. Even to his own ears he was barely comprehensible.

Castle elected to ignore him, muttering, “Daredevil. Ha. Bakery Boy, more like.” And then a little louder: “How do you get this rig off?” Matt snarled weakly at the feel of hands moving over his body. “Shove it, choirboy, you want to die of hypothermia that badly? I promise your virtue’s safe with me.”

Matt moved fingers that felt like lead to the catches and zippers of his armor, but didn’t have the dexterity required to actually undo them. Castle took over, unceremoniously pulling off each section as he got it free. Soon Matt was left in his boxers, the cold wet silk clinging unpleasantly to his skin -- and then he didn’t even have that, Castle yanking at the waistband. “Off. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“F-fuck you.” He could feel the chilled blood moving through his body, sharpest in his hands and feet but widespread enough to make easy movement a monumental undertaking. Castle manhandled him like an uncooperative mannequin as he wrestled his boxers off over his hips and down his legs, his touch a brand wherever it brushed against Matt’s icy body. Matt heard him toss the sodden cloth aside onto the pile that was the rest of his gear, hunkered down into the smallest ball possible as best as he could when Castle set him back down to move to the back of the van. He rummaged around in a wall-mounted compartment before returning and bodily hauling Matt upright. His hands were still too hot but Matt couldn’t help but press into them, trying to draw that human fire into his core.

“Here.” Castle wrapped him up in a scratchy blanket that smelled of dust and stale exhaust, the weave of it rasping across his chilled skin. “Sit tight for a minute -- and keep your hands off the vents!” He slapped Matt’s hands away from where they’d crept toward the stream of warmer air now roaring from the ventilation. Matt growled. “Shut up. Warm your extremities up too fast, all that cold blood goes straight for your heart and you die of shock.”

He had a point. Reluctantly Matt drew his hands back and huddled under the blanket, pulling his arms and legs in as best he could to expose the least amount of bare skin. It was warming up in the van but not fast enough, never again fast enough. His heart thudded slowly in his ears, familiar background noise now dangerously sluggish. How far had his core temperature dropped? He was shivering, a good sign, but his extremities still felt too numb to be safe.

Castle climbed into the driver’s seat. There was a shift of gears and then they were moving. Matt nearly fell over, had to resist the temptation to just curl up on his side and screw staying upright as a waste of energy. Naked and exposed in the back of Frank Castle’s battle van was not the time to be taking a nap.

Now that they were actually on the road, the vents began to really pour out the heat. Fumbling a little, Matt managed to get the edges of the blanket over a vent, sighed as the warm air played over his naked body. Feeling started to return to his fingers and toes, painful but appreciated for what that pain represented. In spite of his resolve, it almost was enough to lull him to sleep, hard breaths easing a bit.

“You alive back there?”

“Mm.”

That seemed to satisfy Castle, who drove on in silence. The minutes passed by in a blur, Matt dozing off too much to track their route. Not that he had a good starting point of reference, but the noises outside gained a different quality than the docksides, calmer.

He jolted into awareness when they finally came to a stop. Castle shut off the engine and Matt whined softly at the loss of heat. The driver’s door opening and closing robbed him of a little more and he hunched over, trying to trap as much as he could within the blanket. Then the side door slid open and he nearly shrieked, icy night air whipping away any semblance of comfort he’d managed to attain. Large arms slid around him and the blanket, hefting him up against a heavily-muscled chest and he curled up, keening low in his throat in a purely involuntary reaction. He couldn’t help it, the wind was flaying him apart, needles in his lungs and a scalpel to each individual nerve--

“Hey, hey, stay with me.”

Somehow Castle got him up two flights of stairs and into what was probably an apartment without dropping him or anybody noticing and asking inconvenient questions. Automatically Matt tried to map out his surroundings but the world was muted against his skin, dulled by the cold. Small space, the echoes told him that. Dank, cold, uninhabited for a few weeks until now by the dust. Sparsely furnished -- Castle dumped him on a creaking couch and moved in the direction of what Matt guessed was a kitchenette from the counter he could dimly pick out against the wall.

Strange noises. Matt tried to track them as a way to focus past the chill that had reignited over his body but he couldn’t discern what Castle was doing. A metallic noise, pouring liquid, then the whirr of a microwave. Salt and warmed-over meat smells, the barest trace of limp vegetables. Heavy footsteps returning to him.

“Drink this.”

Canned chicken broth, anemic and laden with preservatives, but it would bring his temperature up. Matt sucked at the mug placed at his lips, managed to take in a mouthful of broth before it was pulled away. Swallowing proved to be a difficulty, until blunt fingers abruptly reached in to massage his throat and ease it down. He felt the warmth burn all the way down and hit his stomach and moaned softly.

The mug was returned to his mouth and he drank more eagerly this time. “Easy,” Castle admonished. “Not so fast, you’ll puke.” Matt swallowed again, nodded, then reached out for the mug. Castle let him have it and he wrapped shaking fingers about the cheap ceramic, both out of necessity to steady it and to soak in the warmth. When Castle was satisfied he wasn’t going to drop it, he went and fetched a heavier blanket from somewhere to drape over his shoulders.

Gradually Matt’s shivering calmed as he took careful sips of broth. Castle fiddled with the thermostat and a rattly furnace groaned to life somewhere in the basement. Soon it was almost comfortable in the apartment in spite of his still-damp hair intermittently dripping water down his neck. Castle tromped in and out, coming in with things from the van. He could hear the distinctive clack of his armor plates in one round, hoped that there was some sort of radiator to set them over.

After awhile, Castle settled into a chair opposite and announced, “Well, your lips aren’t blue anymore. I don’t think Hell’s freezing over quite yet.”

The mug now empty, Matt set it aside and drew an experimental breath. His chest still hurt but his throat didn’t feel quite like he’d been deep-throating a cheese grater anymore, so he risked speaking. “Where am I?”

“Hoboken. Near Castle Point. One of my safehouses.” He wasn’t likely to get a more specific answer out of Castle than that. “What the hell were you doing, blowing up a deal between Vasilevsky and O’Callahan? Wrong noise at the wrong time and those two paranoid assholes would have taken out a block mowing each other down.”

“Guns for girls, Castle. Was trying to find out -- where they’re holding them.” Matt coughed, tasting Hudson River water at the back of his throat like a curse. “Got something about near Holland Tunnel before you showed up. Wasn’t me blowing up that deal.”

“If I hadn’t had to save your sorry pasty ass, I’d have gotten that information.” He could hear the scowl. “Fuck. Working on this job for three weeks and you waltz in with your pansy-ass costume, screw the whole thing up.”

“Sounded like you got the results you wanted,” Matt said. “Did you leave anybody alive to interrogate?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Daredevil, we’re not in Hell’s Kitchen. Your pussy rules don’t apply here.” Castle grunted, displeased. “One or two got away when I went after you.”

“Thanks for that, by the way.” That, at least, was genuine. Matt flexed his fingers and toes. The pins and needles feeling of returning sensation was no longer quite so sharp, reduced to a persistent tingling instead of actively painful. “I might even get out of this without losing anything to frostbite.”

“Right. Explain to me how a blind civilian runs around the rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen like you do,” Castle said, then paused and asked suspiciously, “You are blind? The glasses and cane aren’t just for the most asshole cover story in existence?”

“I am blind,” Matt said. “That’s real. It does help my cover, though, you’re right.”

“Because there’s no way a meek blind baker is actually the infamous Daredevil.” Castle snorted. “No, seriously. How the hell?”

“There are other ways to see,” Matt said. “I work with what I have.”

“Right.” There was no way he found that a satisfactory answer but Castle let it go with no more than another snort. “Your clown suit is drying and I’ve got some spare clothes you can wear home. Your night’s over. I’ll find the girls.”

Matt’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Careful, Castle. People might think you actually have feelings.”

“I fish your horned ass of the Hudson on the coldest night of the year and this is the thanks I get?” Castle stood up, moving further into the apartment. Matt heard him rummage around in another room and he came back with an armful of musty-smelling cloth, which he dumped on the couch beside Matt. Matt reached out to sort through the pile: cotton and denim, shirt and pants and underwear, socks. There was even a battered jacket and a woolen hat. The clothes would hang on his smaller frame but they’d suffice to get him back across the river to Hell’s Kitchen.

“Get dressed. There’s a bus station nearby. The 126 will take you to Port Authority -- after that, you’re on your own.”

Matt shucked enough of the double blanket layer to shake out the shirt. “Thanks. Your next croissant is on the house.”

Castle’s huff was sardonic but amused. “Throw in free coffee and we’re even.”

thanks to the lovely nonny who beta'd the punisher sequence for me. they will get proper credit once i AO3 this sucker.

Notes: Foggy's soulmark is written using unusually large Fordyce spots, which are, in the real world, a totally normal anatomical variation:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fordyce_spots

Foggy's sister's othername is in Chinese, when it writes itself onto her arm. She was already taking Mandarin at school, so when she meets Li Zhe during a college summer study trip to Beijing, nobody's particularly surprised.

Foggy doesn't have one, himself. Never has: not the slow washing-in of writing on his skin, first an itching and then a contrasting drag of text under the skin. He used to look at himself all over with a hand mirror, a few times a year when the longing got bad. Nothing on his scalp – he shaved his head once, when he was fourteen and hopeful, and Maggie was wondering who Li Zhe was and how she'd meet him – or at the back of his neck. Not in the creases of his armpits, the outsides of his elbows, behind his balls, or between his toes. Not a mark on him.

It's not that unusual. Between five and ten percent of the population don't, in the United States. Most get married anyway, usually to people without othernames, or people whose others have died.

Matt's – something else. His best friend, for all Foggy wishes they could be more than that, but Foggy doesn't have a name anywhere on him.

Matt definitely does, from the way he blushed and smiled awkward and shy somewhere in the direction of the window, and said, "I've never seen mine, but I know it's there."

Foggy can't get in the middle of that. Him with no othername and maybe no other to find for himself.

Marci doesn't have an othername, either, so they work, like that. Not enough to stick, but enough to have fun together when they both want.

"I like these," she says, tracing her fingers over his dick. "I mean, once I realized they weren't herpes."

"Um, what?" he manages, pretty intelligently for a guy who's getting what is definitely more tease than handjob.

"These little bumps," she says, and strokes in what's probably intended to be an indicative way. "It's like your dick comes with pre-made ribbing."

"Oh," he manages, closing his eyes. "Oh, yeah, okay."

He supports his dick with one palm and tilts the hand mirror, trying to see. He gets a great view of his thumb. Tilts a little more – nope, that's his stomach.

He can sort of feel the bumps, but they're definitely not ribbing or anything, no matter what Marci says. Maybe bigger than the bumps on other dicks he's seen, but it's probably definitely not herpes; he doesn't have any of the symptoms.

It's not herpes, he decides later, after a lot of googling and way too many images of herpes dicks. It's probably just unusually large versions of stuff that's totally normal. Natural human variation.

So: it's sort of rude to ask people what their othernames say, but there's a long middle school tradition of asking their best friends. Which is why girls are always looking at him funny when they say things like What's Matt's othername, Foggy? and he just shrugs.

"Never seen it, and he's never told me," he says.

Which really, makes him think. It's not like he's been looking on purpose, okay, but Matt is a pretty amazing human being, between his mind and his drive towards justice, and honestly Foggy would've been crazy about him just from that, but. He's also really attractive, and Foggy hasn't been looking, but it's hard not to notice when Matt only wears boxers to bed on really hot nights.

If Matt's got an othername, it's probably under those boxers. Or on his tongue, or under his armpits, or between his toes. Foggy doesn't know. It could be any of those places he looked on his own body, when he was hoping his othername was on his skin and he could find it if he just looked hard enough.

Foggy stares at the tattoo parlor's window. He could get something done – well no, he couldn't, he is way too broke for that, but he can think about it. Nelson and Murdock. Something like an othername, but what would be the point? An othername is to let your other know that they've found you. It's their name, written under your skin, the way their name is meant to be written.

(Languages with no written form, or where the other is illiterate, don't give othernames, but the likelihood of Foggy meeting someone like that is pretty small, he figures.)

He doesn't know what Matt thought was going to happen. Maybe that he could keep it a secret forever. Probably. Just bottle it all up, with all the rest of his secrets and his guilt and –

Fuck. He can't – and Matt's sorry, that's the kicker. Foggy's still mad – he'll be a little mad forever, he's pretty sure, because that lack of trust is really just, no. But Matt's trying, and that means something. Foggy's letting it mean something.

He wants, on a lot of levels, for it to mean something. He wants to be able to trust Matt again.

"You're not worried that your other will just leave if you tell them about the whole vigilante thing?" Foggy asks.

Matt swallows. Licks his lips. Shifts his fingers on the beer bottle. "I used to."

"Not anymore?"

"No," Matt says. "Not anymore."

"Why?" Because that's a pretty big bombshell to drop on someone who's got your name on them. Unless Matt's othername is, like, Tony Stark.

Matt tilts his head, consideringly, then starts peeling the label off the beer bottle. "Because they know."

"Oh." You can't be jealous about what was never yours. You can't be jealous about what was never yours. "I didn't know you'd met."

Matt picks wet shreds of label out from under his nails, shedding them onto the table. It's kind of gross, but weirdly endearing.

"Yeah," he says, very quietly. "We met."

Great. Another secret. "And you didn't let me vet them?"

"Foggy," Matt says, maybe a little warningly, but this is more of the secret-keeping, and maybe a little jealousy, and Foggy's not – he's just not.

"I'm not asking to be given hourly updates, here," Foggy says, trying for even and missing it by at least a kilometer, if not whole miles. "I just – this is big, okay? Meeting your other. And you hid it from me. What, did they already walk away?"

"Foggy," Matt says again.

"Was it someone you saved?"

"No!" Matt puts down the bottle on the table, his hands shaking, and starts opening his pants.

"What the fuck," Foggy says, just as Matt stands up and shoves his pants and boxers down enough that Foggy can see, scrawled on Matt's hip, some lines. A crabbed signature.

"What the fuck," Foggy says again, "Why are, what," but he's sitting forward pretty far, and the table isn't really that wide. He recognizes that F and the N and the illegible below-the-line twitches of ggy in the shifting blue-bright light of the billboard.

"What the fuck," Foggy says, again. He wants to touch it. He wants to move Matt's hand aside and get a look at his dick.

"But you don't have one," Matt says, like getting doused in cold water.

"No," Foggy says, and only realizes he should've said something else when Matt pulls his pants back up and closes them and –

"I don't have to," Foggy says. "I still." He needs to say something, something that Matt will believe, that's unambiguous. "That doesn't mean I don't want to. Have your name."

Matt's still standing there, breathing hard. Shirt rumpled, hanging out over his pants. His mouth is open, skin paler than usual.

Foggy adds, "Because I do," and Matt makes a soft noise very different from the kind he makes when he's in pain, and sits back down on the couch.

"I wish you'd said," Foggy says, after a moment. "Do you know how much I-"

"It doesn't matter," Matt says. "Sometimes people don't match." His shoulders hunch, hands on his knees, like he's trying to build himself back up.

"Matt," he says. "I have been crazy about you since L1, and if – if you hadn't had my name on you and let me think it was someone else's, I'd have asked you out as soon as I knew you swung that way."

"Okay," Matt says, but his shoulders don't straighten, so Foggy gets up, walks around the table, and sits down next to Matt on the couch. Their thighs touch, pressure, no warmth yet.

Foggy puts a hand on Matt's jaw and just leaves it there. "I'm not leaving," he says, and this time Matt does make a noise like he's in pain, and leans into him, face pressed to his shoulder.

"Foggy," Matt says sleepily, halfway through a pretty sweet return favor of a handjob, "you have bumps on your dick."

"I know," Foggy sighs. "It's not herpes, I swear."

"I know it's not herpes," Matt says, voice getting louder and a lot more alert. "I know what herpes smells like. Have you ever actually felt these?"

"Um, yes, masturbation is totally -"

"I don't mean jerking off, just, feel these," he says, flailing an arm a little in the direction of Foggy's hand before catching it, then dragging Foggy's fingers along his own dick.

"This is definitely the weirdest handjob I've ever had," Foggy says, before he realizes what Matt means, that now that he's actually hard when he pays attention to them, the bumps feel kind of bigger even than usual, and neatly in lines – "Holy shit."

"You never even noticed," Matt says, very smugly, definitely tracing his own name raised on Foggy's skin.

"Needed to meet you first, apparently," Foggy says, and then, because Matt's smiling maybe bigger than he did when Foggy agreed to go start a practice with him, "I hear they feel really good during sex."

"They do," Matt says. "I can already tell."

aww, boys <3

also i really like the idea that these things appear later in life, so it seems there's an element of choice involved -- like, you get an othername based on the kind of person you're trying to be and the places you're likely to go, instead of having everything (up to and including matt's blindness) fixed from birth.

I THANK YOU FOR THIS FILL. MY HEART DOES NOT.

OP - this is my prompt! That I prompted ages ago and forgot about. It is wonderful and I love it. Thank you so much, going to work with a smile on my face now ;-)

They need to fuck like they need water. It's about senses. Matt started feeling the need for Foggy when his body smelled him and Foggy had to see Matt for his body to react to him.
When they see each other that spark lightens and they just need to be with each otrher and it's raw, animal. They dont care what they do or how they do it.
I love this.
This was a close one but im sure enxt time they will find temselves togetehr by mistake things will go down hill.
Man im having the worst kinks here. lol
One night Matt goes as Daredevil and he thinks things are going well and the bad guys kidnapped Foggy. Matt has to fight the arousal and the rage and has to save him and i imagine them fucking with Matt on his Daredevil suit, blo od everywhere and both loving it and not caring a shit about it after they apart of course.

this is so adorable. lovely! <3333333

(OP here)

Doris comes into the kitchen just in time to ask why Matt dropped a fork on the floor.

Ehehe, poor Matt. xD I love Ben.

Owlsley being a teacher made me laugh. I can see him being good at it, but he would be so bitchy. And Wesley is a student too! Uh oh.

Matt and Foggy are the cutest little nerds, their scenes make me smile so much. I would love to know what's going on in Foggy's head, because they get along so naturally which just makes the awkward moments so much more awkward. Poor guy must be so confused.

Maaaaaaattttt ;_;

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Page 171 of 184

Prompt Post #6

Re: Slavery AU; More Ideas HALP/3

Re: i got those jetpack blues 1/?

Re: FILL: Fracture Lines (4/?) (Matt suffers from DID)

giving the game away, 6/7

Re: giving the game away, 2/?

Re: giving the game away, 4/?

Re: i got those jetpack blues 1/?

Re: i got those jetpack blues 1/?

Re: FILL: Fracture Lines (4/?) (Matt suffers from DID)

Re: giving the game away, 6/7

[fill] Matched Your Own Beat (3/?)

Re: [fill] Matched Your Own Beat (3/?)

Minifill: Foggy/Matt. Foggy tells Matt he loves him to stop him leaving

Re: Minifill: Foggy/Matt. Foggy tells Matt he loves him to stop him leaving

Re: Minifill: Foggy/Matt. Foggy tells Matt he loves him to stop him leaving

FILL: Our Daily Bread (10a/?) (Matt the Baker/Superhero Magnet)

FILL: Our Daily Bread (10b/?) (Matt the Baker/Superhero Magnet)

some unreadable fate

Re: some unreadable fate

Re: Minifill: Foggy/Matt. Foggy tells Matt he loves him to stop him leaving

Re: some unreadable fate

Re: Fill (3b/?) (Matt/Foggy - compelled, not forced, to fuck)

Re: some unreadable fate

Re: [fill] Matched Your Own Beat (3/?)

Re: giving the game away, 6/7