daredevilkink | Prompt Post #6

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Prompt Post #6

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giving it a shot. whooboy.

author!anon to OP -- can you clarify if you want the two of them to end up together for realsies after the dust has settled or would you be okay with nelson and murdock bros for lyfe?

Hmmm, not OP, but if it matters any, throw in my vote for being totally down with a Matt/Foggy endgame.

(You current fill is awesome, btw. Great stuff!)

Also not OP, but ho SHIT I'd love it if they ended up together for realsies.

generally i hate posting partial fills but i figured this was the fastest way to get the OP's attention, since i need the above question answered about the prompt. ^^; also, i think it's mighty obvious that i only have a passing familiarity with doctor strange but he's appropriate for the setting. don't shoot me

=====

Of course Dr. Strange is no fucking help. Matt is sitting on one side of the Sorcerer Supreme’s apartment while Foggy is on the other and they’re determinedly not looking at each other, but it’s too close, they’re too close, and Matt has to wrench his focus back to what Strange is saying every few seconds while Foggy isn’t even bothering to pretend to pay attention, staring at Matt to the exclusion of everything else. Matt shakes his head sharply as if he can rid himself of the gaze scorching his skin and refocuses once yet again. “--nothing like this specifically,” Strange is saying, unhelpful, unhelpful. “There are compulsion spells of all sorts, of course, but as the generalized counterspell has already failed, I’ll need to do more research into the matter to find a reversal.”

“And there’s no way to -- to lessen the effects for the duration,” Matt says, voice a rasp. A whisper of movement and silken cape, a regretful noise.

“H-he just shook his head,” Foggy offers, drawing Matt’s attention to him. Mistake, mistake, Foggy’s presence filling his head, the minute trembling he can hear and feel as his best friend strives heroically to restrain himself, the heartbeat pounding in his throat and wrists, the sharp muggy smell of his arousal. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. He’s half on his feet without realizing it before Strange’s servant lays a gentle but restraining hand on his shoulder. Matt whirls, growls with bared teeth at the touch that is not the one he wants right now, and--

“Mr. Murdock, contain yourself,” Strange barks. Across the room, Foggy lets out a wounded noise high in his throat, rocking back and forth in the overstuffed chair he’s ensconced in as if that will keep him rooted where he sits. Matt growls again, hands fisting. To hell with everybody else in the room, he can take them all out without breaking a sweat and then he and Foggy can-- “Matthew, sit down.”

Fuck this. Matt can’t be here another minute or else something’s going to give, either his temper or his resistance. He staggers drunkenly for the door even though every cell in his body seems to have magnetized to Foggy. Each step away from him physically hurts, a tearing pain where the only cure is to wrap himself around his friend, bury his cock in him to soothe both their aches, and yes yes yes there’s a mouth under his, hands running over his body as he whimpers, dying for skin and for fucking--

And then there are hands on him that are not Foggy’s. The next few seconds dissolve into a pained series of blurs: being yanked away from Foggy, who moans piteously and lunges for him only to be restrained by another. Twisting with a snarl of commingled rage and deprivation in the grasp of whoever’s restraining him and denying him what he so desperately needs. Lashing out, his strikes expertly blocked before he’s placed in a come-along hold and dragged by main force back across the room.

This time Matt gets shoved out the door while inside footsteps indicate Strange hustling Foggy deeper into the apartment, further away from him. With a purely animal shriek barely trapped behind his teeth, his struggles against his assailant but his blows are clumsy with need and easily parried.

And then a switch flips in his mind: Foggy’s been brought past the threshold of this bullshit they’re under. The burning, keening ache in his body disappears like it never was and Matt gasps in relief, slumps bonelessly as that relentless driving force evaporates. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. When had his path turned away from the door and back to Foggy? He hadn’t even realized.

“Are you yourself again, Mr. Murdock?” Strange’s servant asks calmly. Wong, that’s his name, and thank god he knows how to fight because Matt would have gladly killed him for separating him and Foggy. Not trusting himself to speak, Matt nods. Belatedly he realizes he’s leaning against the man and tries to straighten up, but it feels like his muscles have tried to tear themselves off his bones. He’s shaking. The weakness is almost as disconcerting as the impelled desire, and he groans, jamming the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Fuck.

Their limit is about twenty feet. Fifteen if one of them is holding onto their willpower especially hard, which usually lasts for about all of half a minute. Within that range, there’s no stopping the soul-shaking craving that grips the both of them like a drowning man’s need for air, the lack of which feels just as fatal and three times as necessary. The twenty-foot limit is discovered through much trial and error. Error resulted in frantic make-outs before they could wrench themselves apart long enough for one of them to fling himself across the room past the threshold.

“So,” Foggy says, hovering just outside the limit with kiss-bitten lips. Matt knows they’re kiss-bitten; he made them that way. “Uh.”

“Yeah,” Matt agrees, keeping carefully still. Neither of them wants to make a sudden wrong move and come into affected range. “Uh.”

There’s a moment of strained silence, before Foggy bursts out with, “What in god’s fucking name is going on?”

“Language,” Matt says automatically, even though he feels much like cursing as well. Foggy snorts an unamused laugh.

“Worry about my potty mouth later, Matt, this is fucking serious.”

“I know, sorry.” Matt rubs the back of his hand across his eyes as if that will help the rapidly-developing headache. “Okay, so as long as we stay away from each other--”

“Oh, just so long as,” Foggy snaps. Matt flinches, knowing exactly how weak that sounded, and Foggy relents immediately. “Sorry. But we kind of have a law firm to run, Matt. Clients aren’t going to take it well if the name partners can’t be in the same room together without wanting to make like rabbits on Viagra all the time.”

Foggy is, if anything, understating their case. Matt flinches again, grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes now. Last night is a heat-ravaged mess in his mind starting from after he interrupted the transaction at the docks. Bullets flying, one hitting the wooden crate the men were in process of unloading. The heat and zing of electrical sparks, an odd shockwave that threw him off of his feet and back into a rebar-wielding Foggy peeking his head out of the alleyway he’d ducked into. Matt covering his friend with his body as the crate and its contents detonated brilliantly, heat and more hair-tingling energy crackling through the air. And then sirens, and hauling Foggy to his feet in a clatter of broken boards and splinters, and racing down the back alleys to safety.

It’s after that that details begin to blur. A rising heat. His armor constricting about his body, too warm. Needing... something, just on the tip of his tongue, tantalizing and close by.

Foggy’s place is closer to the docks than Matt’s. Matt takes to the rooftops once they make it a few streets away, paces Foggy on the pavement below to make sure he gets home safely. Foggy’s steps are uneven, faltering -- injured? No, Matt would have smelled blood, felt and heard strained muscles. He’s possibly, probably bruised from their collision, but not enough to impair his movement to this extent. He needs to check on him, he needs to...

By the time he finds his way to Foggy’s broken window, Matt’s past caring whether or not Foggy’s injured, or if anybody sees him enter in full armor. He is, in fact, past caring about his armor as well beyond what it takes Foggy to strip him out of it. Foggy seems to feel the same, falling on Matt almost before he’s fully inside and seizing him up into a brutal, messy kiss.

They wreck Foggy’s apartment. There’s probably no surface in there, horizontal or vertical, that they don’t frot or fuck on. It’s only when Foggy passes out after the umpteenth orgasm that anything like reason trickles back into Matt’s mind as he stares blankly at the unconscious form of his best friend sprawled across his rucked-up bedcovers. His best friend who, as far as Matt has known until this point, is perfectly straight. As is he.

Which, all right. He didn’t see this coming but they can work through it. Right? Nelson and Murdock, friends for life. Crazed marathon sex shouldn’t be anything they can’t work through. Except...

Foggy groans softly and Matt snaps to attention, senses trained keenly on him for any sign of returning consciousness because that means they can resume plowing each other’s brains out. It’s only when Foggy resumes snoring that Matt realizes he’s quivering in anticipation of continuing where they’d left off. And that’s not right; he knows himself better than that. He doesn’t act like this with his lovers, no matter how attracted he is physically to them. Even flings where an emotional connection isn’t much of a factor don’t elicit this sort of laser focus, this clawing desire to the exclusion of everything else. Everything else like consideration for his partner’s comfort and mutual enjoyment of each other’s bodies, not this raking need like hot coals in his gut that feels like he needs to slake starvation instead of sate a simple sexual desire.

Matt only stops to get on the acceptable bare minimum of clothing raided from Foggy’s closet before he flees the apartment. Cowardly. Doesn’t even leave a note, just the strewn-about pieces of his armor. But there’s something wrong, there’s something wrong, and the mere thought of Foggy conscious is enough to make his mind cloud over like a lotus haze. Because he won’t want to discuss things like they should while Foggy’s awake, he’ll want to return to fucking Foggy or having Foggy fuck him until neither of them can walk straight.

And yet, the instant he hits the streets, his thoughts clear like a veil’s been lifted, sunlight piercing through clouds. No lingering desire, no desire for Foggy at all. Just a sense of... it’s too complicated to pick out all of the components but there’s a clear sense of dawning horror. Of shame, of embarrassment.

How could I -- we -- have done that?

It’s not like Matt has anything against two guys having sex. He just never figured the situation would apply to him or Foggy, together or separately. Sure, there was a fleeting possibility -- never discount anything completely -- but historical precedent and empirical evidence both pointed to them being completely straight. Best friends together, but nothing beyond a deep platonic friendship. At least until last night.

But they can work through it, they can. Matt alone has done worse things to Foggy in the last three months than merely sleeping with him and they’re still Nelson and Murdock.

So why does Matt feel so sick about it?

Oh Matt you feel sick becauyse you liked it. You liekd being with Fioggy thatw ay. You want that ut you two cant just accept it yet. You see it like it's because the speel not something else.

Not the OP but that was amazing and even if you never posted any more it would still be amazing.

That said, if there is any more to be had...

(like I said not the OP but I would be happy if they ended up romantically together or platonicaly together in the end)

surprisingly less angst than i was anticipating. enjoy avocados being dorks together.

“Matt. Hey. We need to talk.”

Through the phone interference and hum of electronics pressed against his ear, Foggy sounds... flat. Dull. Carefully so, to cover the turmoil of what he’s really feeling. Matt’s heart twists and he wets his lips before replying, “Yeah, we do.”

“Meet at my place?” Foggy offers hesitantly.

Matt thinks about what they did the last time they were together at Foggy’s, now about twelve hours ago. Winces at the blur of memories running into another, more flashes of sensation than any discrete images: Foggy’s mouth on his dick, Foggy’s spit-slick fingers in his ass. Biting frantic kisses all over Foggy’s shoulders, licking his nipples until he comes from that alone. A thick thigh between his, the two of them grinding together like graceless teenagers and lasting just about as long.

The silence has dragged on and he fumbles a bit, hoarse: “Maybe it’d be better if you came here.”

“... yeah,” Foggy says after another moment. “I, uh. I haven’t gotten a chance to clean up, yet.”

Matt squeezes his eyes shut: he can only imagine the mess Foggy’s faced with right now. Environmentally and personally. Dammit, he shouldn’t have run off, left Foggy to wake up alone in the wreckage of his apartment, his feelings, no matter how discombobulated he was. Murdock, you utter heel.

“I’ll bring your gear,” Foggy is continuing. “You, um, left most of it here. Last night.”

“I know.” Matt feels a stab of true gratitude; the hand-crafted armor would be a lot harder to replace than the get-up he’d cobbled together from internet purchases. “Thanks.”

“So... maybe we can talk over something to eat?” Foggy’s attempt at a laugh is anemic at best. “After the workout we put each other through, I could use a few thousand more calories or so. And protein, lots of protein.”

“I’ll order something in,” Matt says in a hasty attempt to distract from why they both need to load up on protein. “Thai all right?”

“Thai sounds great. I’ll see you in a bit?”

It’s a tentative version of their usual arrangements but Matt’s grasping at anything resembling normalcy. “Yeah, I’ll call it in. See you in a few.”

Fifteen minutes later Matt can hear Foggy’s familiar heartbeat outside in the street, elevated with perfectly understandable nervousness. Matt tracks the rapid th-thump as it makes its way up his building and approaches his door from down the hallway as he moves across his living room to let Foggy in.

Halfway to the door, arousal hits him so hard it leaves him dizzy, reeling and clutching at the wall to keep upright. Dimly he hears Foggy gasp, then groan, scrabbling frantically at the doorknob. How Matt finds the coordination to stagger down the hall and unlock the door to let him in, he has no idea. Foggy falls into him, all hungry hands and teeth, and Matt yanks him inside and slams the door behind him.

They wreck Matt’s apartment too.

And now here they are, Foggy still staring at him from across the ruins of his couch and Matt turned deliberately away from his friend as he paces his end of the living room. Thank god it’s the weekend and they don’t have to explain to Karen why one of them can’t be in the office as the same time as the other right now. They’ve already scarred the delivery boy.

“I was going to say that last night was a mistake,” Foggy starts. “A sexy as hell mistake because, you know, I’ve seen you, but still a mistake.” He pauses, grits his teeth; Matt can hear them grinding from across the room. “I’m starting to think it was more than just a mistake.”

“A -- a--“ Matt searches for the right word, uncharacteristically thick-tongued. “A compulsion.”

“An artificial one,” Foggy concurs. “Because it’s not that I don’t love you, man, but not like this, you know?”

“I know.” There’s a small, shameful part of him that’s relieved to know Foggy feels the same way about all of this: that it’s wrong, forced on them by some outside influence. Nothing they’d do if they could retain their right minds around each other. Because he loves Foggy, his friend, his brother, but not like that.

“It’s got to be related to that thing you busted up last night.”

Matt’s long since come to the same conclusion. There’s nothing else it could be, no other weird incidents common to the both of them. Though it was only chance that had Foggy out near the docks, waiting to meet a skittish client before getting tangled up with Daredevil’s impromptu raid. He bursts out, “Foggy, I’m so sorry--”

“Yeah, no,” Foggy interrupts with a sharply-raised hand. “How about we both agree to cut each other some slack on this one? You can’t help wanting to fuck my brains out, I can’t help wanting to fuck your brains out, and we certainly both can’t help wanting to get our brains fucked out by each other. So let’s table any blame for now because they sure as hell never covered wacky pan-dimensional brain scramblers when discussing consent in any of my sex-ed classes and I doubt the nuns at whatever Catholic high school you went to did either.”

In spite of the situation, Matthew snorts at the mental image of Sister Mary Eunice addressing the intricacies of giving consent while under the influence. Alien, that is. “There we go,” Foggy says approvingly. “Always look on the bright side of life.”

“Mm.” Matt sobers again. “Still, this is my fault. If you hadn’t gotten caught up in that mess--”

“--someone else would have taken it in the face and you’d be fucking a complete stranger instead. I’m not thrilled about this but at least you’re sucking face with your best friend instead of a John or Jane Doe who might have more of a life to wreck than me. Or one of the guys you were previously beating on. Ugh.”

“In spite of how incredibly, excruciatingly awkward this makes our friendship,” Matt feels he has to point out. He’s a masochist, he has to be. He hears Foggy’s hiss of breath, can almost picture the wince in his mind’s eye, winces himself.

“Yeah, well. The situation isn’t perfect, I admit it.” Foggy shakes his head. “But it still isn’t your fault.”

“Mm.” It’s a placeholder noise, an I-don’t-agree-with-your-assessment-but-we-have-more-important-things-to-worry-about noise and they both know it, but Foggy tacitly agrees to disagree on this point for the moment when he doesn’t call Matt out on it. A brooding silence descends, broken only by what sounds like Foggy collecting scattered couch cushions for lack of anything more effective to do.

“I suppose it could be worse,” he offers after a moment of putting the furniture back to rights. Matt blinks, arches a brow in inquiry, and he points out succinctly, “We could be trying to kill each other rather than trying to fuck each other.”

The thought is enough to make Matt blanch. In a physical altercation between the two of them, it’s Matt winning ninety-nine times out of a hundred, and if he were to attack Foggy with any sort of lethal intent-- “You have,” he manages, throat dry, trying to erase the thought of Foggy’s neck in his hands, “a very good point.”

“I generally tend to.” A whumph of displaced air indicates Foggy collapsing onto the couch. “So we’re agreed that something is messing with us, correct?” His voice is directed at the ceiling; he’s likely staring up at it. “In a really fucked up but thankfully non-terminal way?”

“Agreed. The pertinent question seems to be: now what?”

“Well, I’m going to go home and not-have a crisis of sexual identity,” is the matter-of-fact reply, eliciting a snort of amusement from Matt. “Though maybe a shower. Definitely a shower. You are going to call the Thai place to try to get off their delivery blacklist, and also find something to eat as originally planned.”

So, damage control. As much as they can manage separately, and for the short-term, but damage control. “We should also clean up our respective apartments,” Matt says, rueful. He’s going to need to be careful for the time being; furniture’s been shoved out of place everywhere and he doesn’t fancy stubbing his toes on everything because he got careless.

“I may douse my entire place with hand sanitizer,” Foggy tells him. “No offense.”

“Some taken, but I may have to do the same.” It reeks of sex in here. It’s going to reek of sex for days. Matt actually considers buying a candle or lighting incense because otherwise every minute spent in his place is going to be an olfactory reminder of what he and Foggy have done and he really doesn’t need that right now.

“Oh. Right.” Planning stalls into momentary silence as Foggy seems to realize just what that means for Matt and his enhanced sense of smell. But he forges on, bringing up another pertinent point: “So what do we tell Karen?”

Matt presses his lips together, the thought of explaining this mess to their friend becoming a hot embarrassed glow in his stomach. “Hopefully we can resolve this before it becomes necessary,” he says, but that’s not an answer and he sighs. “I don’t know. One of us can call in sick for the time being, but it’s obviously not a long-term solution.”

“And I don’t think she’ll buy ‘whoops, we got drunk and accidentally fell on each other’s dicks’ as a reasonable excuse for avoiding each other,” Foggy says, then pauses as Matt hides his face in his palm.. “Too soon?”

“Too soon,” Matt tells him from behind his hand, then sighs, shoulders slumping. “Though maybe she would. Half the people we know already think we’re dating anyway and the other half seem to be waiting for us to start.”

“True enough.” Foggy accepts this as a matter of course. They’ve both dealt with misunderstandings of this nature multiple times as just another aspect of their close friendship. “An awkward drunken hookup to kick things off leading to avoidance until the both of us get over ourselves and talk it out like rational adults -- sounds plausible.” A bit of a mischievous grin enters his voice as he says, “After we fix this, want to stage a messy breakup?”

“So soon?” Matt asks, miming hurt and a shot to the heart. Foggy laughs and he smiles, glad to hear it in the midst of this mess. “Might be fun. Though it can’t be that messy, we still have a business to run together.”

“I get custody of Karen,” Foggy says immediately. “No offense, buddy, but your WPM is shit.”

“I make better coffee,” Matt fires back. Foggy hums in an exaggeratedly reflective manner, audibly weighing the pros and cons.

“A salient point. Partial custody in exchange for a Keurig machine?”

“In your caffeine-addled dreams, Nelson.” Foggy whines, and it feels nice, it feels great to be able to banter with Foggy like normal in spite of what has occurred between them. What might occur again, no matter what precautions they take. Matt’s smile is fond as he says, “You know, in spite of everything, I’m sort of glad you’re the one in this with me. Even if you only love me for my coffee-making skills.”

There’s a sweep of air; Foggy seems to have dipped into a sitting bow. “Matt Murdock, you’re the only one I’d want to be compelled to fuck,” he says grandly. Then he pauses, audibly winces. “Wait, no, that came out wrong.”

Matt laughs, warm with appreciation for his friend. “I get it, don’t worry.”

“Oh good, because I’m not sure I do.”

They are taking thi so cool. Light "we are bros that fuck now but that isnt on us, we hav been compelled" things will go outta hand I can feel it.

JUST FALL IN LOVE, YOU IDIOTS.

Ugh oh, I feel like something really bad is going to happen, they're too--zen and happy. Something terrible like 'they're going to have potentially life-threatening withdrawal symptoms' and shit like that.

author!anon: :D

you're absolutely right, they're too zen and happy. things are about to go to hell because foggy joking and matt Not Thinking About Things can only last so long.

OH MAN. I am so happy you're filling this! Because it was such an irresistible prompt, and I wanted it so badly, but ... ugh, so much to so easily go wrong with it.

But look at you! You're handling it so delightfully! I love that you're actually putting real work out, fleshing it out with conversation and narration, and handling the boys' voices so well. I love how they're approaching it calmly and rationally and still speaking to one another even though it's awkward.

and as much as I love, love, love get-together fics and would be madly cheering for this to be one, I think I would love and enthusiastically re-read this even if they remain just bros. It'd be a funny 'superhero antics' story to tell, no?

and now reality catches up with our boys.

=====

First step: find out what the hell had been in that crate. That’s a job for Daredevil. Matt spends Saturday and Sunday night scouring the docks for any information about what the men had been transporting. Nobody he shakes down seems to know anything more detailed than how much money exchanged hands -- a startlingly high amount -- and that the item was some kind of energy source. A now rather spectacularly-exploded energy source. There’s also no indication that anyone else who’d been caught in the back blow is affected like Foggy and him; either that or nobody is gossiping about it, which is unlikely. Matt storms home in frustration as Monday morning dawns to catch a scant hour or so of sleep before he has to face Karen.

Concurrent first step: get an evaluation of their situation. This is broken down into further steps such as carefully selecting who to go to and then obtaining a meeting with whomever ends up being the unlucky bastards they lay this out for.

Foggy’s first choice is the Avengers because, as he puts it, “They should be used to dealing with mind-altering bullshit like this by now, right?” As the one with the secret identity to protect, Matt is charier of approaching the Tower and its denizens. Especially one Tony Stark, who seems to have made it his life’s mission to turn over any electronic stone he chooses in order to satisfy his own curiosity. Privacy of information simply doesn’t exist around the man. Not to mention the horde of reporters that habitually stake their territory outside Avengers Tower, hoping for a scoop or to harass the people coming and going. No way in hell is Matt Murdock going to expose himself to the rampant speculation of the Fifth Estate if he can help it, especially given the personally-sensitive nature of their issue.

They consider the Fantastic Four. Reed Richards is reported to be as familiar with strange technology as the Avengers, even though as far as Matt knows, the Fantastics don’t deal with it on quite the world-ending scale as Stark and his motley crew. And this isn’t world-ending, really. Inconvenient, and embarrassing, and at times horrifying, but not world-ending. It seems like the most ideal solution to their need for assistance.

Like things ever work out that well. In the end, Matt has to concede the point by default when the Dr. Richards and the other members of his team end up on a mission that takes them out of the country with no word on any sort of return date, leaving the Avengers as the only locals with who might have the resources to figure out what the hell’s going on with them and more importantly, how to fix it.

Even though Matt has a sneaking suspicion this isn’t science-based in nature. The lack of chafing and raw areas after two monster sessions of sex with barely any consideration for niceties such as lubrication is a bit of a giveaway. Logical disinclination aside, physically he feels poised and ready to fuck Foggy into next week. Into next year.

But they’d agreed: scientific approach first. The next problem is actually wrangling an appointment with the scientifically-oriented minds on the Avengers. For the average person on the street, they’re not exactly easy people to get a hold of (with the possible exception of Captain Rogers, who is known to show up at street art festivals and random playgrounds just because).

Foggy pulls strings from their time at Columbia, because Foggy is friends with everybody, and manages to unearth an acquaintance who’s been working for the Stark Industries Legal Department since slightly after the Battle of New York. She promises to send a message up through her own closely-guarded channels, see if they can get a meet with Dr. Banner, but it’s a waiting game for now. Matt is privately hoping that this thing will wear off on its own before they have to call in outside assistance anyway.

In the meantime, there’s Karen.

Matt drags himself to the office Monday morning feeling as if someone’s scoured his eyes out with a spoon and stuffed the raw sockets with steel wool. The rest of him doesn’t feel that much better, come to think of it.

“Hey,” Karen greets him from where she’s coaxing their coffee maker into spitting up something that has more than a whiff of tar. “Foggy called earlier, said he’s taking a personal day. Do you know what’s up?”

Matt shrugs uncomfortably. The fact of the matter is Foggy decided he’s the one who gets to call out sick because according to him, Matt doesn’t have a hickey on his neck that would require a Broadway makeup team and the White House Press Secretary to successfully cover up. He makes his way to his office, leans his cane against the wall, sets his briefcase down on his desk. Just another day at Nelson & Murdock, if missing a pertinent component of Nelson and Murdock. He finds himself breathing harshly through his nose, filling his head with the chemical smell of their cheap carpeting, the fug and fumes of the streets outside. Anything to distract him from the scent of his partner, the invisible presence of him in this office left behind even in his physical absence.

“Matt?” Apparently his shrug has been insufficient to assuage Karen’s worries. She comes to stand in his door with her coffee in hand. “Is something going on?”

“Maybe he’s sick,” he offers as he unpacks his laptop. From the swish of her hair, Karen has just shaken her head.

“I just shook my head,” she says. “If that were the case, he would have told me he was sick.”

They’d agreed to keep it as low-key as possible. Play it off as nothing serious. But as the scattered memories of what transpired Friday bubble up once more, his shoulders hunch in defiance of their plans. Foggy’s mouth on his neck, the feel of teeth on sensitive skin enough to make Matt’s entire body jerk in reaction-- “We. Um. We.” Where’s all that eloquence he paid three years’ tuition to learn? Lost in the sense-memory of Foggy’s skin under his tongue.

Karen pauses, and then says with terrible sympathy, “Did you have a fight?” She also sounds worried. Given the atmosphere around the office the last time her employers had an altercation, Matt can’t fault her. But there is also concern, for both him and Foggy, because she’s a good person. Far better than either of them deserve, on the scale of things.

“Not exactly,” Matt says, landing heavily in his chair. “We...” He trails off, unsure how to finish.

Not also is Karen far better than they deserve, she’s also scary-smart. A gasp, and then: “Oh my god, you slept together!” she accuses, hands over her mouth. Matt’s wince is only half-feigned. “Oh god, did it not -- did it not go well--?”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Matt snaps, more harshly than he means to. Karen’s jaw snaps shut with a click and there’s a palpable air of hurt in her shocked breath. Tension sings in the air like a drawn piano wire before he sighs and reaches out toward her. “Sorry. I -- sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Karen’s touch on his hand is gentle; apology accepted. “It’s complicated,” he continues, smile a touch pained, wry. “We agreed he should take the day off while we sort things out.” So much for acting like it’s nothing serious.

But how can he? The sheer violation he feels -- he can’t downplay it to himself no matter how he tries. It might be the worst part about all of this. Not because of Foggy, no, never Foggy. But something has invaded his mind, his body, and there’s nothing he can do to control it if he and Foggy are within range of each other. He’s tried, he’s fucking tried. Meditation doesn’t even put a scratch into that all-encompassing desire. His mind isn’t his own, his body isn’t his own, and he can hear Stick sneering at him from across the years.

Matt manages a stronger smile for Karen. “Don’t worry about it, we’re still talking to each other. Did you turn up the housing records on the Gonzales property yet?”

As the day drags on, Matt revises his initial conclusion. The worst part about all of this, the very worst part is being forced to avoid Foggy, his best friend, his brother. He’s used to seeing him every day, to interacting with him face to face. A day without Foggy is a day with a hole in it.

Tuesday rolls around and it’s Matt’s turn to stay home. He updates Foggy on the work he and Karen got done the day before, then hangs up and stares sightlessly at his phone. For all they’re playing their avoidance off as fledgling relationship issues, there’s more than a grain of truth to the awkwardness that underlies their scant interaction. The conversation was stilted, short. The easy banter between them in Matt’s apartment has evaporated. Maybe with more time to consider things, Foggy’s ability to deal evenly with the situation is decaying.

Matt feels like he’s losing something, but he’s not sure what.

Then again, how can Foggy stand to even talk to him right now? The consequences of Daredevil’s actions have never spilled over onto him before so directly, so personally. Not even Foggy finding Matt half-dead in his apartment comes close because if things go wrong, he won’t be able to walk away. He could walk away then. He almost did.

Matt is desperate to not fuck this up, to not fuck them up like he almost did over Daredevil. He’s got an amazingly bad track record in the area. But if they can just -- hold on, manage the situation, maybe things will work out. Maybe they’ll look back on this years later over drinks and laugh.

And then on Wednesday they accidentally run into each other while having had the same idea to pick up breakfast from Joselita’s.

He should have been paying more attention. The majority of the time he tracks Foggy automatically, his friend’s heartbeat and presence in the wind of the city more familiar to him on occasion than his own. He should have detected him from three blocks away, more.

But he’s caught up in his own private misery and that’s enough, that’s just enough of a distraction that he doesn’t realize and then it’s too late. Matt is approaching the entrance to the busy café-bakeshop when he feels the switch in his head flip on and he freezes in place on the sidewalk, choking on his need. Ignoring the cursing of people whose way he’s impeding, he turns his head this way and that, triangulating, trying to find Foggy in the crowds around him. He has to be here, he has to be.

He doesn’t have to search very hard. His automatic filtering of the world already picked up on Foggy’s presence long before it enters his active awareness: there’s a calm heartbeat three doors down, as dear as his own breath, as necessary. Foggy’s body is humming along normally -- the compulsion doesn’t seem to have affected him even though he’s in range, which, thank god for small blessings. He can still recover from this, he can walk away with Foggy being none the wiser before he does something irrevocable to him, to their friendship, in front of God and man.

He doesn’t want to walk away.

Matt scrabbles for any sliver of clarity he can, any moment of rational thought so he can pull up, salvage the situation, but all he can come up with before it’s swept away along with the rest of his higher-order decision-making is: thank god public lewdness is only a misdemeanor in New York. Their reputations and careers are about to take a nosedive but they won’t be disbarred over their imminent arrest.

One drunken step. Another. Pushing past people, ignoring their annoyance. The footsteps coming up behind him are just another rhythm in the background hum of the city, until someone says, “Murdock. What a pleasant surprise.”

His name being spoken barely registers in his consciousness, and the person saying it is brushed aside as a nonentity on his current list of priorities. There’s a surprised cessation of the sharp heels clacking on pavement before the cadence resumes, more rapid now and arrowing straight toward him. “Murdock? Matt? Matt -- hey, I’m talking to you!”

Expensive floral perfume approaching him is just another note in the symphony of things-that-don’t-matter. The hand that reaches out to his shoulder, however, is a factor he is less able to ignore. Matt shakes off long manicured nails, irritation a faraway thing under the drive that points him toward Foggy. A tighter grip then, trying to yank him around and in the wrong direction, and his teeth bare in a silent snarl as he pulls himself free. The prickle of irritation returns, swells into anger, fueled by the delay in reaching his goal. It’s something else beyond the all-consuming need -- he latches onto it with the desperation of a drowning man finding a piece of driftwood, hauls his senses back in to analyze: perfume. Expensive shampoo. Lingering scent of a curling iron. Her own rising irritation a heat in her skin. Familiar, familiar. Hold on, focus.

Marci steps around him directly into his path, uncaring of any sort of etiquette that might be socially demanded, especially to a blind person. He has to draw up short or run straight over her, her heels planted in a stance it would take attention-drawing effort to shift. A part of him doesn’t care, that as man grappling with a woman on a busy New York street his actions might be interpreted the wrong way. The Devil in him rages.

Give Marci credit, she stands firm in the face of an anger that has sent some of the most hardened of Hell’s Kitchen running for their lives, demanding, “What the hell is your problem, Murdock?” as she pushes further into his space. Matt barely keeps his lips over his teeth this time. “I know we’re not bestest buddies but it doesn’t mean you can brush me off!”

She continues, vicious and displeased, but his focus is slipping off of her already, back onto Foggy, tracking his actions. From the start-and-stop manner of his movement, Foggy is waiting in line at the register. Soon he’ll come outside and spot him and that will be it, they’ll maul each other in the middle of the street and kiss all they’ve worked for together goodbye. Not much time, not much time. Is he heading for the door? He is, and Matt swallows. He can’t -- he can’t--

Marci gets further into his space and he takes an automatic step back. And that -- that is enough, just enough. Matt draws on the will that carries him through pain and injury and night after endless night, the Devil that lurks and paces, right now furious that it’s being denied what it wants but equally furious that his mind has been hijacked by forces he can’t control.

It’s like sweating blood to turn around and walk away. But he does, one step, two. And just for a moment, he thinks it’ll be okay, that he’s made it safely away, that he’s beaten this--

Foggy’s heartbeat spikes.

Matt knows the instant Foggy’s seen him, can feel the sharp breath he pulls when recognizes his retreating form and tumbles under the influence. The bloom of arousal, the sweat that suddenly beads his forehead, it all weaves a tantalizing spell around him as Foggy’s obvious desire inflames his own. At this distance Matt can hear him gasping for breath like they’re standing right next to each other, the needy low whines he’s uttering in between.

No no no no no -- he staggers back, nearly losing his balance, then whirls around and runs. Even as he flees he can’t help but track Foggy’s heartbeat, his proximity as Foggy lurches in his direction. A whimper, broken and pleading: “Matt...?” Why are you walking away from me? Why are you leaving me behind?

And oh god. Matt white-knuckles his cane so hard it creaks dangerously in his grip. He can’t turn around, he can’t, for Foggy’s sake if not his own, dear God, please, if you grant me one mercy today, please let me have the strength to keep going--!

Somehow, somehow, he makes it to an alley about half a block away. Ducks in, wheezing for more breath than that short sprint should have cost him. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Marci has followed him, is staring in shock as he doubles over with his hands on his knees, panting and fighting not to be sick with reaction. “Jesus Christ, Murdock, are you on something?”

He might as well be. He certainly feels strung out. Wrung thin and strained over his bones, shaking with the near-miss. And he still can’t keep from listening:

Someone is drawing Foggy aside, hand on his arm, concern in their voice. Leads him back into Joselita’s while saying something about calling an ambulance. He wants to crush the fingers of this interloper, one who dares to touch -- is able to touch -- what he wants so badly. He wants to rip Foggy away from them, back him against a wall and tear his slacks off so he can wrap his lips around his fat cock and drink him in. He wants Foggy to kiss bruises all over his body. He wants--

And it hits him then, what they almost did. In public. The situation is easier to brush off in the privacy of their own homes, where there is no one around but themselves to witness their actions. To fall victim to their compulsion in front of others would only confirm the problem, cement it in place as their current reality as something they’re unable to take back, erase from the timeline of the world. They almost made it real.

Matt would have fucked him on the street and Foggy would have welcomed it. Matt would have ruined Foggy’s life and neither of them would have cared.

Maybe Foggy should walk away while he still can.

There’s an ambulance approaching now, pulling up to the curb. EMTs emerge, brisk and efficient, enter Joselita’s. It’s only a few moments later that they come back out of the building with a familiar heartbeat supported between them, still elevated, still beating its lingering compelled desire for Matt. He tries again not to be sick. What this almost cost the both of them...

“Murdock, I am ten seconds away from calling 911,” Marci says, and he thinks he can almost imagine a hint of concern in her voice. “Or Foggy, he should know that his business partner is apparently too hungover to come in--”

Matt waves weakly in her direction. “Sorry. I’m not. Not feeling well. Not hungover,” he adds. “I should -- go home. Sorry.”

He can feel Marci’s disbelieving look, but she lowers the phone she has in her hand. “This better be because of a plate of bad sushi, Murdock,” she says, then huffs. “Then again, what do I care if you’re screwing yourself up worse than usual?”

Matt suspects she cares at least a little bit, because she waits until he actually makes it back out onto the sidewalk before leaving him with one last “Get your ass home, Murdock, and call Foggy.” For a moment he stands there as her heels clack away. The ambulance is gone, that particular bit of street theatre concluded. The crowds ebb and flow about him like water around a stone, but he feels like he could be washed away at any moment, lost to his unthinking desire -- everything that makes him who he is swallowed up by whatever this fucking thing laid on them is.

The rich scent of sex is still pervasive in his apartment, enticing him with Foggy-Foggy-Foggy even after all of the steps he’s taken to clear out the air. Matt retreats to the roof to call Foggy, but it helps only a little.

“Matt.” He sounds tired.

First things first: “Where are you?”

“ER at St. Vincent’s. Waiting on an EKG. Someone called 911 because they thought I was having a heart attack.”

Matt swallows. “Yeah. I heard them. The ambulance -- take you away.”

“Of course you did.” Foggy sighs. “Where were you?”

No point in trying to misunderstand. “Just outside and down the street.” Matt laughs, harsh and bitter. “I was going to get a muffin. Maybe a scone. Cranberry-orange, if they had any left.”

“They did. Those are good.” God, is this really the two of them? Left with banalities because anything else is too fucked up, too twisted to focus on. “I thought you’d have beaten a path to the front door to get to me. Literally.”

“I almost did,” Matt says, heavy. “I got distracted just enough.”

“How?”

“We owe Marci a fruit basket, even if she’ll never know what for.”

“Jesus,” Foggy groans. “What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing. She may have left under the impression that I’m a closet addict having a bad morning.”

The resultant snort of disbelieving laughter is weak but enough to draw Matt’s lips up into a smile. “Yeah, I know. What can I say, it wasn’t pretty.”

“Ouch, Matt. Talk about taking one for the team.”

“Given the alternative?”

He tries to downplay it, what almost happened; maybe then Foggy won’t tell him to fuck off a pier like he should. Thankfully Foggy seems to have recovered his sense of humor about the whole thing. “Not the way I’d want to make our reputations,” he agrees. “And it’s not like you’d be the first member of our profession to be shooting up in the bathroom between sessions.” He chuckles. “First we’re dating, now you’re a junkie. What’s next in the soap opera of Nelson and Murdock? You’re having Karen’s baby?”

“The way this is going, I’m probably having yours,” Matt says, and then freezes. What the fuck, his brain. At least Foggy finds it amusing, snorting another laugh before emitting an annoyed sound.

“I’ve gotta go, they need to put the little tabs on me.”

“I’ll call Karen, tell her where you are.” Matt pauses. “She’s going to find it strange that I won’t visit you at the hospital even considering what we’re supposedly going through.”

“I’ll make your excuses for you,” Foggy said. “I’ll call when I get out, all right?”

“Right.”

Matt ends the call. Repeats to himself: hang on. They just need to hang on. They’ll be okay. They’ll be okay.

(They’re not going to be okay.)

MATT IS BREAKING MY HEART
I just wanted you to know, I discovered that you'd updated just before work and spent the entire time angsting about what the update would be like AND THEN IT WAS THIS. Which is so good! BUT SO SAD. And yet I laughed. BUT POOR FOGGY AND MATT??? D: Nooooo ... don't get awkward about it! It'll all be fINE.

“The way this is going, I’m probably having yours,” Matt says, and then freezes. What the fuck, his brain.
MATT NO omg matt

I, too, want them to get this resolved before involving the avengers o h my gO d no. no no. that's too much. I'll be too embarrassed

Ooooh ok ok ok sO
- magical device (probably)
- only affecting them (in this way)
- respects foggy being asleep
- Matt seems to respond most when Foggy responds
- victims have to be aware of each other for a response (Matt affected before Foggy re:senses)
- i had a few more bullet points but i just got off work and i am tired and it is late
BUT CONCLUSION: device only makes you act on your innermost desires

okay, probably not, but an argument can be made

OH MAN AUTHOR!ANON, This is soooo good. I love everything about it, from your descriptions to matt's narrative to the cONTENT! I love how Matt's freak-out crept up on him and swept on over him, and I love that Marci appeared to save the day, I love your descriptions of Matt's whole desperation and struggle to resist! Man, reading that is like sitting right there with him, chewing your nails and not sure what's going to break first! Aaaaah, I really look forward to reading more!

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.

ANOOOOOON WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOING TO MEEEEEEEEEE

god i just. ok i was biting my fucking nails reading this bc it's so RAW AND TENSE AND AAUAHAHAHDH

AAAAH I just checked this for updates and am so happy I found some, this is great, I love everything about it!!

I was really hesitant about this story at first because noncon is not my thing and dubcon is only my thing when the catalyst for their actions are playing up preexisting sentiments, but holy god, your writing and characterizations are so on point that I'm in love! This is so good!

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Prompt Post #6

Re: Matt/Foggy - compelled, not forced, to fuck

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