daredevilkink | Prompt Post #6

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Prompt Post #6

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the logistics are killing me but i'm filling this.

oh my god i don't know how the FEELS got in there and also this may be my single longest posted fanfic which is utterly ridiculous if you think about it. but, uh, anyway, i hope the language isn't too awkward given the number of characters with the same name. unbeta'd. also there's a little praisekink thrown in because, well, matt deserves good things. enjoy!

=====

Corollary

=====

At first it was a mess of overlapping heartbeats and sour-fear smell and too many too-similar voices in off-tune syncopation. Now the group seems to have come to some sort of uneasy equilibrium regarding who's standing where and how close together they can stand to be and all of it's centered around Matt as the linchpin in the middle of his living room given that every Foggy who's shown up in this universe -- last count three -- gravitated to his apartment one after the other like some sort of demented set of needles toward the North Pole.

As far as they can discern, it's happening all over the city: subtle variations of a person's life showing up in this universe, the differences as inconsequential as one version having chosen blueberry pancakes for breakfast yesterday and another version opting for plain buttermilk. Nothing earth-shatteringly different. Nobody, so far as any of them have heard, has met with their opposite-gender double or a version of themselves having opted to become a hermit in the
Himalayas unless they were already deep into their own hermitage. Just themselves, as near as to make no difference. Which is bad enough, really. At least then Matt would be able to make a distinction in his own mind between all the versions of his best friend currently eyeing each other in varying levels of dislike and freaked out-ness. But no, they all register as genuine, 100% Foggy to his senses, and he's trying to keep from circling in place to face one and then another like his own version of a demented compass needle.

The worst part is, he can barely identify his Foggy amidst the multitude if he's not concentrating. Matt is pretty sure his Foggy is the one hovering just to the right of him, possessive in the face of all his doubles and seeking reassurance. There are bruises on his shoulder and hip from where Matt bit him last night, he can hear the disordered blood vessels marking him out, and while the Foggy across from him slumped over on the couch also has those particular bruises, he also sports a hickey on his throat that Matt doesn't remember leaving. It still feels disloyal, somehow, that he can't pick his lover immediately out of a crowd. Even though it's a crowd of himself.

Though it could be worse. For a moment, Matt spares a thought for the other versions of himself who are currently missing their Foggys and winces internally. In that sense he's lucky as hell. It is, honestly, an embarrassment of riches.

Not that that's the most productive path his thoughts should be taking. Really. And also, the one with the hickey smells like Marci.

He's already called Karen and explained the situation. She'd choked a little and then laughed, slightly hysterical but on the whole more amused than alarmed. "You really should bring him in," she'd said. "Them. Whatever. We could get so much work done on the Jeffersons' case today with the extra manpower."

"Think of the overtime pay," he'd answered, as dry as he could make it, and she'd laughed again, conceding the point and telling him not to do anything too wild for the time being. Wild. Right.

Familiar footsteps at the door, familiar frantic heartbeat. "Matt, you in?" Door opening before he can answer. "There's something wrong, someone was in my apartment last night, the wallpaper's all--"

The footsteps stop short as their owner realizes he's walked into a more crowded apartment than expected. Matt sighs wearily as there's a pause and the third blurted, "What the hell--?!" of this morning.

Four and counting.

=====

"--so the Avengers just released a press statement saying they're on it and the matter should be resolved within twenty-four hours," one Foggy reports from where he's crouched over a laptop at the kitchen bar. "They say not to be alarmed and to, uh--" A snicker. "--to treat our doubles with consideration for the time being." Matt thinks about all of the denizens of Hell's Kitchen whose primary reaction is shoot first, hide the body, and winces again. Though the thought of two Fisks in the same universe, let alone the same vicinity is enough to sap any low-key dark amusement in that thought.

He'll deal with that if he has to, he decides. Right now, there's Foggy -- a lot of him -- to concentrate on. At least the deluge seems to have stopped at four.

"So," another Foggy says awkwardly, this one with his back to the windows, "who's up for a round of Texas Hold 'Em?"

"Or the most awkward game of Twister ever," another one mutters. Matt can't help but snort at the thought, then chokes when a third Foggy says, "Only if Matt's on the bottom."

"Hey!"

And that was definitely his Foggy, drawing nearer even as a sort of worryingly contemplative silence descends over the other three. From the disturbance of the dust motes in the air, Matt figures they're exchanging looks at this novel new concept. Something unnamed squirms in the pit of his stomach and he's not sure whether or not he likes it.

"Oh no you don't." Foggy has come straight up to his side and is most likely glaring at each of his doubles in turn. "You lot can wait until you get back to wherever you came from and then shag your Matts silly as a 'honey, I'm home' greeting."

Matt rubs his temples even as the Foggy at the kitchen bar says, slowly, "Uh. Matt and I aren't like that."

"Me neither." That's the one at the windows, the one who made the suggestion. Then says more brightly, "Though now that you mention it--"

"Hey!"

"I mean, not that there's anything wrong with being like that with Matt," the one at the kitchen bar continues over Foggy's objections in an uncoordinated rush, cheeks heating palpably with embarrassment, "and not that I wouldn't appreciate being like that with Matt -- my Matt -- it's just--"

"I'm not with Matt either," offers the one that smells like Marci, and really, Matt's resisting the urge to scrub at his eyes in exasperation and bewilderment. So much for the minor variations in lifestyle; apparently he and Foggy being together are the major but too-singular corollary to the rule of Nelson-and-Murdock. Why?

"--though I really want to be, don't get me wrong--"

"--seems like it'd be fun, you lucky bastard--"

"--and why am I telling you all this, you're not even--"

"Oh for fuck's sake," a voice rises over the crowd. And now Foggy -- his Foggy -- grabs him and pulls him into a soul-searing, spit-swapping, toe-curling kiss. In spite of their audience -- or maybe even because of their audience -- Matt's hands come up automatically to yank Foggy in, trying to climb inside of his skin as his world lights up with tongue and lips and heat.

Silence has descended upon his living room.

And then the Foggy on the couch swallows and says, thick-voiced, "Okay, yeah, that's hot."

=====

"You assholes don't know what you're missing," his Foggy says a few minutes later. "And if you're all me, you really are assholes and I should know."

"Foggy," Matt says, even as a pair of hands descends down his sides to his hips, their owner standing behind him and nuzzling at his nape, "it's -- it's not like we're preordained or something--"

"No, no, he's right." Another pair of hands is cupping his face, fingers warm and thumbs brushing the tender skin just under his eyes. "I know the first thing I'm doing when I get home."

"Fucking Matt Murdock senseless into his silk sheets?" the voice behind him suggests. That's met with an all-around hum of approval. The likelihood of their Matts reciprocating is high; the reason there's been so little variation in all of the doubles' lives is that the walls between the most similar universes are the thinnest, and therefore it -- it stands to reason--

"Nnhh!" The hands at his hips have dipped around to palm him through his slacks. There's some jostling and jockeying for position. His Foggy -- the one original to this universe -- is busy turning down his bed, hunting down lube and condoms while watching the goings-on with an assessing eye. There's the Foggy at his back, the Foggy standing before him now tilting his face up into a kiss, and the one on his knees between himself and the second working industriously at his fly and swatting at the roving hands interfering with his obvious aim.

"Jesus, you haven't gotten him naked already?" his Foggy says, exasperated but not displeased. Fond, even.

"Language," comes a chorus of four voices before dissolving into laughter. Somehow between distractions -- the one kissing him reluctant to pull back to allow Matt's undershirt to be pulled over his head, the one behind him marking his shoulders with open-mouthed sucking kisses -- they manage to get Matt down to skin and Matt allows them to guide him toward his bed and the impatiently-waiting Foggy there.

"On his back," Foggy directs. He seems to have taken charge of this little show, and for the moment everyone is on board with this from the way Matt is carefully and efficiently arranged across his sheets. Well. Maybe not so efficiently as someone takes the opportunity to sneak a grope and another tweaks his nipples. He hisses and he can't even tell which one's doing what, all of their presences blurred into arousal and excitement until they're almost indistinguishable from his Foggy.

Maybe they're all his Foggy, and there's a thought to pull the rug out from under him. His for now, anyway; for a wild moment, Matt is happy none of the others are with their version of him. He's not sure he could stand smelling another person on Foggy, even if it was his own double, and he certainly doesn't want to send any claimed Foggy back to a Matt smelling of someone who's not that Matt.

"So how are we doing this?" one of the smears of Foggy-lust is asking over his head. "I don't know about you but I've never had to consider the logistics of more than two people together at a time."

"No time to learn like the present," another says cheerfully. "Find a spot on him and claim it?"

"I'm not the Yukon Territory," Matt objects. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"You've got four people trying to figure out the best way to ravish you and you're complaining?" a Foggy in the middle of shucking his shirt says, muffled by thin cotton.

A frisson of desire thrills up Matt's spine but all he says is, "Duly noted." He doesn't manage it as casually as he'd like and from the spiking heartbeats around him, he's sure everybody else has noticed it as well.

All around him is the sound of clothing being discarded but Matt's attention is arrested for the time being by a shift of the mattress down near his feet. "Sit back and enjoy the ride, counselor," he's told before a naked weight settles between his legs, elbows slung over his thighs. Except for the other bodies around him, it feels just like any other time with Foggy, and Matt gives up on keeping track of who's who when someone licks a broad fat stripe up his half-hard dick.

That seems to be the signal for the others to descend upon him like wolves on a fresh kill. Appropriate: he feels like he's being eaten up alive, hands and mouths on his skin, moving over his body in feverish determination. Someone seems to really enjoy playing with his nipples, another is breathing hot and heavy into his ear as lips trace worshipfully over the delicate curve, and there is another tongue exploring each and every one of his fingers in a sequence of obscene imitation-blowjobs. The mouth on his dick seems to be taking cues from the one on his fingers, or maybe that's Matt's sparking brain getting his wires crossed. He buries his free hand in the hair of the Foggy sucking him off with extreme enthusiasm, sure that this is one who's not with a Matt. Lucky bastard, the thought floats by, 'cause this one's got a hell of a mouth on him--

Someone takes the opportunity to distract him from the Foggy currently making love to his cock by abandoning his ear to demand a kiss just as filthy as the blowjob. Another gently scratches down his stomach, muscles twitching under the skin in response. So many hands on him, all familiar, just enough to scramble his sensory input and make it difficult to keep track of who's doing what and so he lies back and just feels. Tongue laving over a stiff nipple, teeth now against his throat to mark him. Noises of appreciation, and then down below, a pointed hum--

Matt comes with a mangled cry of Foggy's name, hand tightening in sweaty hair and hips bucking as best they can under the restraining weight. Around him, Foggy swallows expertly before pulling back with a satisfied sound of a job well done and resting his head on Matt's thigh. There are further noises of appreciation from the others, plus a low whistle. "Holy hell, he's gorgeous when he comes."

"No shit." And that's definitely his Foggy, voice a mixture of proprietary pride and admiration. "Nice work."

"I get him next," a Foggy by his head says in the voice of one calling dibs, and there is a round of laughter.

"Define 'get,' Nelson."

"Making him come screaming our name?" From the tone of voice, that Foggy finds that this should be obvious.

"I don't think he's going to last four rounds of this," someone else observes, and through the fog of afterglow Matt has to admit that's probably right. His stamina is always more mental than physical, the logical consequences of being as sensitive as he is, and four rounds like this, four rounds with multiple people focusing solely, intently on him will destroy him. Yeah. He's not gonna make if it they all insist on bringing him to orgasm once each.

"So we double up," one of them offers as if that's the most practical solution. Again, it probably is. Matt whines a little at the prospect, and then chokes when a different Foggy asks, "Why stop at doubling?" in a dangerously thoughtful sort of voice. Oh sweet Jesus.

"Matt?" Foggy asks, and he's pretty sure this is the one who smelled so much like Marci. Still taking care of him, though. "You on board with this?"

"Logistics," he huffs out, trying for humor, and then goes suddenly still as someone places a quelling hand on his face. That is definitely his Foggy, the one he's already slept with before, who knows him inside and out and he won't take prevarication or anything but a solid, straightforward reply. Matt swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Oh. Oh god.

"Answer the question, Matty," he says, tenderly insistent. His eyes roll in Foggy's direction, wide now. He's not -- he's not going to -- not in front of all of these people, these versions of himself when one Foggy like this is so much to handle-- "Matt?"

He is. Matt licks his lips, squeezes his eyes shut and croaks, "Yes."

"Good boy, Matty," Foggy whispers, and he is absolutely certain the others are taking detailed mental notes as he whimpers involuntarily. Cause, effect. A crash course on his physical self, now with added graduate program on how to utterly take him apart mentally and emotionally. He should feel sorry for the other versions of Matt they'll return to because they have no idea what they're about to be hit with.

"He likes being praised," his Foggy is informing his rapt audience and fellow participants. "And if yours are as messed up as this one is--" Normally Matt would muster an objection here on principle but there are murmurs of agreement from all around and Foggy continues, "Just take it easy with him when you do. It can get overwhelming for him. Even though he's such a good boy, hm?"

Matt shudders, biting down on his lower lip to contain his reaction. "Hey, no." Someone brushes his mouth with a thumb and his lips part almost involuntarily. "We want to hear you. We want you to let go."

There seems to be a consensus on this as well. Matt sucks in short breaths against the thumb still lingering near his mouth, flicks his tongue out to taste the pad, moans. Moans again when someone murmurs, "Good boy" and he's almost sure it isn't his original Foggy. Pleased reactions all around, heart rates rising, catches of breath. "Good boy, Matty, telling us what you want, being so perfect for us." God, he can't, he can't--

"Jesus," someone whispers, and there's no admonition for language this time as Matt curls up as best he can under the weight of their regard. Someone is stroking his hair now, soothing. "Oh, Matt..."

It's not pitying as he half-feared. Wondering, maybe. A little odd sadness. And something else, something which even after all this time Matt's hesitant about putting a name to. Is it love? He's not sure. Whatever it is, it aches in the best way, and Matt reaches out blindly, wanting -- needing -- to be supported. Held.

He's immediately obliged, gathered up in strong arms, his head tucked against a warm shoulder. The same hand continues to pet his hair while another rubs circles on his lower back. "You're doing so well, Matty," the Foggy who's holding him whispers. "We love you, you're so good for us, so beautiful."

Matt heaves a shuddering breath but nods in acknowledgement, if not quite with the latter assessment. There's a quiet, almost reverent attitude around them, the others observing, thoughts palpably heavy in the air. This has shifted from a casual, unusual bit of fun to something on a deeper level, pervading the room like weighted blanket. Matt breathes, trying to adjust to the new atmosphere. From the silence, the others are trying to as well. It should feel like an excruciatingly private moment, exposed like a raw nerve with so many eyes on them. It's not. It's just... Foggy with him, after all.

"You all right?" Foggy asks after a few moments, and Matt considers carefully before nodding. He feels full to bursting with a tangle of emotion but it's not overwhelming anymore. Someone places a kiss on his shoulder, soft and loving, which almost tips the scales again but he sucks in air, holds it until his composure returns. It's a fragile net, almost unable to contain all the regard he feels from the men around him, who are all still Foggy even if one of them uses apple-scented body wash while another prefers strawberry. "Gorgeous Matty. Ready to try taking us on?"

It's enough of a lifeline to lighten the mood back up a little into the former levity, and Matt smirks deliberately into Foggy's shoulder. "I can handle anything you throw at me, Nelson."

"Oh ho, I think we've been challenged," a Foggy behind him chortles.

"We have to defend the Nelson honor," another agrees.

"Just remember -- you asked for it," another says, and there's a weight to those last four syllables which reaffirms that yes, Matt truly did, of his own volition, and that was something to be proud of. Matt swallows as around him, people adjust position.

"Here, let me--"

"Condom, condom."

A thunk. "Shit, did you just drop the lube?"

"I got it." Matt stifles laughter at creaking springs and grunts of effort, is silenced by an affectionate nip to his ear. "Laugh while you can, Murdock, you'll be singing something sweeter in a minute."

"Promises, promises," he says with another smirk, stretching indolently as he's moved off of his current pillow-Foggy's lap and laid back atop another one face-up. There's an assessing pause, a thoughtful hum, and he can feel the glances being exchanged once more over his body.

"So we're thinking--"

"--two of us fuck you--"

"--while another one rides you like a goddamned L-train--"

"--and the last takes advantage of your quite honestly to-die-for mouth."

"Sound kosher?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Prompt Post #6

Re: Multiple Foggies!

FILL: Corollary (1/?) (Foggy/Matt, Multiple Foggies!)

FILL: Corollary (2/?) (Foggy/Matt, Multiple Foggies!)

FILL: Corollary (3/?) (Foggy/Matt, Multiple Foggies!)