Dear everyone, thank you for the comments. I keep refreshing the window to see if there are more, because I am slightly pathetic like that. This is crossposted on AO3. Just search 'Soft Focus' in the Daredevil (TV) fandom. Also, sorry(?) for sudden somnophiliac Wesley. I figured he should tie up loose ends like he always does, and then I thought it would be nice if he could get in on the creepy.
**DD**DD**DD**DD**DD
One of the many things Wesley likes about his employer is that, ninety-five percent of the time, unless Wesley asks for guidance or clarification, Mr. Fisk never tells him how to do something. He simply says something needs to be done, and he leaves Wesley to his own judgment.
So. Vanessa and Mr. Fisk have left the hotel. A brief phone call woke Wesley from his own light sleep - he's learned to grab morsels of rest whenever he can - in another room in the same building. He gave his assurances that he'd take care of the rest.
Now he's pondering the unconscious form of Matthew Murdock, inexperienced but surprisingly competent attorney at law, who is completely naked except for the blanket draped over him.
Vanessa was probably responsible for the blanket. She's more prone to sentiment than Wesley finds strictly comfortable to be around (Wesley maxes out at giving a damn over one person besides himself), but he finds her agreeable all the same. She might not be ideal for Mr. Fisk's focus on his ambitions, but unlike all his employer's unsavory associates, Wesley only cares about Mr. Fisk's empire to the extent that it makes Wilson happy. Vanessa makes Wilson happy.
((As a bonus, when Wilson is happy, he makes an effort to help Wesley pursue a few of his less convenient interests, such as this one.))
In the morning, Matthew needs to be placated and sent home, or his office, or wherever he wants to be sent. The man is wary of everything and everyone, so he hasn't told them where he lives. He's currently sweat-soaked and lipstick-smeared. Vanessa was sensible enough not to leave marks, since even a blind man might feel raised skin with his fingers, or have someone else notice and ask him about such things.
Wesley regrets having to be sensible too. He peels back the layer of cloth hiding most of Matthew's body from view. The young man lets out a tiny sigh and curls in on himself, damp skin prickling at the sudden cool. Interesting, so he's still reacting somewhat to stimuli. The biochemist said that was within the realm of possibility, but that only a minimum of nine hours after dosing or an injection of an antidote would actually make him wake up.
After this Wesley should send the relevant emails to make sure that woman and her girlfriend are downgraded to minimum surveillance. And send one of those thank-you cards that says job well done, much appreciated, your payment is in your bank account, tell anyone about this and everyone you love will be filmed being cut to small pieces over a period of forty-eight hours. Standard.
He also has a governor to schmooze with at a wine tasting. At least it'll be good wine. And have a chat with a barista who heard something zie shouldn't have. And Madam Gao has invited him to a round of mah jong this coming evening, presumably because you need four people to play mah jong and most of the people she interacts with who've heard of the game can't see the tiles, and you don't say no to that woman...
((Stop thinking about work, James. Wilson's given you free rein and tacit permission to mix in some pleasure. Your king has given you a sleeping prince to play with and you're thinking about Madam Gao?))
Earlier, waiting for his part to step onstage, Wesley had exchanged his suit and tie for sweatpants and a white tee, to nap in. They're good for crawling onto the empty half of the bed, too. After removing his glasses and silenced smart phone, of course, neatly placed on the bedside table. He clicks a second lamp on, though the lighting remains soft.
((The better to see you with, my dear.))
Theoretically, Wesley could do all sorts of things to all sorts of people. Once you're threatening bodily harm on people and their loved ones, even if you're almost never the one actually carrying it out, a bit of somnophiliac molestation isn't much of a leap. The problem is that he has no attraction whatsoever to sniveling victims. He likes seeing someone helpless, but only if they're someone who commanded his respect first.
It's remembering Matthew's wariness upon meeting Wesley, even as his golden retriever of a law partner groveled, that makes running fingers over the curve of his hip satisfying. He has an impressive amount of muscle tone, Matthew Murdock does, and on that day he looked like he'd been barely holding back from physically shaking some straight answers out of Wesley.
Matthew shifts sometimes, as if agitated. He doesn't turn away. Maybe it's the heaviness of the sedation, or maybe his subconsious doesn't actually dislike Wesley's gentle handling all that much. Wesley isn't aggressive about any of it. He's not one for that. Roughness with this pale, pliant body would be like chugging a well-aged vintage from a mug (the simile makes him shudder inside).
He gets a little bolder, though still with a light touch, as Matthew continues to sleep through it all. Tracing his jawline. Barely scraping teeth along his neck. Mouthing at a swell of collarbone. A sweeping line down his back. Palming a firm buttock. He teases the slumbering cock just a bit, two fingers and his own avid eyes, but nothing happens and he leaves it alone from then on.
A flash of memory: Wesley entering the back of the courtroom, Murdock standing for a closing speech. In that moment, Wesley saw a bit of his employer in the young lawyer. Murdock's words were weighty and thoughtful. His conviction was solid, vibrant, so like the guiding star Wesley fixed himself to so many years ago. Murdock was poised. He was sincere. He was unyielding, in his quiet way, that transcended all the tragedy that marked his past.
Wesley kicks off his pants and takes himself in one hand. He tilts Matthew's face in the other so he can see every eyelash and pore despite having taken off his glasses. He starts with leisurely strokes, as the hush seems to demand. Soon he doesn't so much speed up as intensify.
Matthew's mouth is just so red in this low light. If Wesley believed in sin as something other than a tenacious cultural buzzword, he'd say that's how red his silent bed companion's lips are. Red as sin. Capable of charm, and wit, and piercing questions, and words that sway blind justice in his favor. And now they have no choice in their fate, no agency whatsoever.
Wesley presses his own lips to those. Briefly indulging in the fanciful, he imagines his tongue is pressing a brand onto Matthew's, something invisible, intangible, that will always catch every word about to leave those scarlet lips. Wesley imagines Matthew stumbling a little every time he speaks from now on, not knowing why.
((Just like he might ache a little sometimes, not knowing why. Ghosts on his skin. The better to eat you with, my dear.))
He lets himself come on that bare chest and stomach. After all, Wesley is going to roll Matthew onto the collapsible wheeled cot stored in the closet, get him into the generously sized en suite, bathe him, and replace the bedsheets. If he can't sculpt, he wants to paint.
Wesley only gives himself two minutes or so to recover. He has a lot to do.
If he intersperses all those tasks with an impractical number of kisses and fondles, well, nobody needs to know that.
Soft Focus 4/5
Dear everyone, thank you for the comments. I keep refreshing the window to see if there are more, because I am slightly pathetic like that. This is crossposted on AO3. Just search 'Soft Focus' in the Daredevil (TV) fandom. Also, sorry(?) for sudden somnophiliac Wesley. I figured he should tie up loose ends like he always does, and then I thought it would be nice if he could get in on the creepy.
**DD**DD**DD**DD**DD
One of the many things Wesley likes about his employer is that, ninety-five percent of the time, unless Wesley asks for guidance or clarification, Mr. Fisk never tells him how to do something. He simply says something needs to be done, and he leaves Wesley to his own judgment.
So. Vanessa and Mr. Fisk have left the hotel. A brief phone call woke Wesley from his own light sleep - he's learned to grab morsels of rest whenever he can - in another room in the same building. He gave his assurances that he'd take care of the rest.
Now he's pondering the unconscious form of Matthew Murdock, inexperienced but surprisingly competent attorney at law, who is completely naked except for the blanket draped over him.
Vanessa was probably responsible for the blanket. She's more prone to sentiment than Wesley finds strictly comfortable to be around (Wesley maxes out at giving a damn over one person besides himself), but he finds her agreeable all the same. She might not be ideal for Mr. Fisk's focus on his ambitions, but unlike all his employer's unsavory associates, Wesley only cares about Mr. Fisk's empire to the extent that it makes Wilson happy. Vanessa makes Wilson happy.
((As a bonus, when Wilson is happy, he makes an effort to help Wesley pursue a few of his less convenient interests, such as this one.))
In the morning, Matthew needs to be placated and sent home, or his office, or wherever he wants to be sent. The man is wary of everything and everyone, so he hasn't told them where he lives. He's currently sweat-soaked and lipstick-smeared. Vanessa was sensible enough not to leave marks, since even a blind man might feel raised skin with his fingers, or have someone else notice and ask him about such things.
Wesley regrets having to be sensible too. He peels back the layer of cloth hiding most of Matthew's body from view. The young man lets out a tiny sigh and curls in on himself, damp skin prickling at the sudden cool. Interesting, so he's still reacting somewhat to stimuli. The biochemist said that was within the realm of possibility, but that only a minimum of nine hours after dosing or an injection of an antidote would actually make him wake up.
After this Wesley should send the relevant emails to make sure that woman and her girlfriend are downgraded to minimum surveillance. And send one of those thank-you cards that says job well done, much appreciated, your payment is in your bank account, tell anyone about this and everyone you love will be filmed being cut to small pieces over a period of forty-eight hours. Standard.
He also has a governor to schmooze with at a wine tasting. At least it'll be good wine. And have a chat with a barista who heard something zie shouldn't have. And Madam Gao has invited him to a round of mah jong this coming evening, presumably because you need four people to play mah jong and most of the people she interacts with who've heard of the game can't see the tiles, and you don't say no to that woman...
((Stop thinking about work, James. Wilson's given you free rein and tacit permission to mix in some pleasure. Your king has given you a sleeping prince to play with and you're thinking about Madam Gao?))
Earlier, waiting for his part to step onstage, Wesley had exchanged his suit and tie for sweatpants and a white tee, to nap in. They're good for crawling onto the empty half of the bed, too. After removing his glasses and silenced smart phone, of course, neatly placed on the bedside table. He clicks a second lamp on, though the lighting remains soft.
((The better to see you with, my dear.))
Theoretically, Wesley could do all sorts of things to all sorts of people. Once you're threatening bodily harm on people and their loved ones, even if you're almost never the one actually carrying it out, a bit of somnophiliac molestation isn't much of a leap. The problem is that he has no attraction whatsoever to sniveling victims. He likes seeing someone helpless, but only if they're someone who commanded his respect first.
It's remembering Matthew's wariness upon meeting Wesley, even as his golden retriever of a law partner groveled, that makes running fingers over the curve of his hip satisfying. He has an impressive amount of muscle tone, Matthew Murdock does, and on that day he looked like he'd been barely holding back from physically shaking some straight answers out of Wesley.
Matthew shifts sometimes, as if agitated. He doesn't turn away. Maybe it's the heaviness of the sedation, or maybe his subconsious doesn't actually dislike Wesley's gentle handling all that much. Wesley isn't aggressive about any of it. He's not one for that. Roughness with this pale, pliant body would be like chugging a well-aged vintage from a mug (the simile makes him shudder inside).
He gets a little bolder, though still with a light touch, as Matthew continues to sleep through it all. Tracing his jawline. Barely scraping teeth along his neck. Mouthing at a swell of collarbone. A sweeping line down his back. Palming a firm buttock. He teases the slumbering cock just a bit, two fingers and his own avid eyes, but nothing happens and he leaves it alone from then on.
A flash of memory: Wesley entering the back of the courtroom, Murdock standing for a closing speech. In that moment, Wesley saw a bit of his employer in the young lawyer. Murdock's words were weighty and thoughtful. His conviction was solid, vibrant, so like the guiding star Wesley fixed himself to so many years ago. Murdock was poised. He was sincere. He was unyielding, in his quiet way, that transcended all the tragedy that marked his past.
Wesley kicks off his pants and takes himself in one hand. He tilts Matthew's face in the other so he can see every eyelash and pore despite having taken off his glasses. He starts with leisurely strokes, as the hush seems to demand. Soon he doesn't so much speed up as intensify.
Matthew's mouth is just so red in this low light. If Wesley believed in sin as something other than a tenacious cultural buzzword, he'd say that's how red his silent bed companion's lips are. Red as sin. Capable of charm, and wit, and piercing questions, and words that sway blind justice in his favor. And now they have no choice in their fate, no agency whatsoever.
Wesley presses his own lips to those. Briefly indulging in the fanciful, he imagines his tongue is pressing a brand onto Matthew's, something invisible, intangible, that will always catch every word about to leave those scarlet lips. Wesley imagines Matthew stumbling a little every time he speaks from now on, not knowing why.
((Just like he might ache a little sometimes, not knowing why. Ghosts on his skin. The better to eat you with, my dear.))
He lets himself come on that bare chest and stomach. After all, Wesley is going to roll Matthew onto the collapsible wheeled cot stored in the closet, get him into the generously sized en suite, bathe him, and replace the bedsheets. If he can't sculpt, he wants to paint.
Wesley only gives himself two minutes or so to recover. He has a lot to do.
If he intersperses all those tasks with an impractical number of kisses and fondles, well, nobody needs to know that.