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daredevilkink2015-08-14 07:00 pm
ddk_mod) wrote in daredevilkink2015-08-14 07:00 pm
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Prompt Post #6
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Fill (3b/?) (Matt/Foggy - compelled, not forced, to fuck)
(Anonymous) 2015-09-12 07:03 am (UTC)(link)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.)
Re: Fill (3b/?) (Matt/Foggy - compelled, not forced, to fuck)
(Anonymous) 2015-09-14 04:49 am (UTC)(link)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!
Re: Fill (3b/?) (Matt/Foggy - compelled, not forced, to fuck)
(Anonymous) 2015-09-15 07:14 am (UTC)(link)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.
Re: Fill (3b/?) (Matt/Foggy - compelled, not forced, to fuck)
(Anonymous) 2015-09-16 05:46 pm (UTC)(link)god i just. ok i was biting my fucking nails reading this bc it's so RAW AND TENSE AND AAUAHAHAHDH
Re: Fill (3b/?) (Matt/Foggy - compelled, not forced, to fuck)
(Anonymous) 2015-09-17 04:48 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill (3b/?) (Matt/Foggy - compelled, not forced, to fuck)
(Anonymous) 2015-09-17 06:14 pm (UTC)(link)