daredevilkink | Prompt Post #1

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Prompt Post #1

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Shhhh, so, I don't know, I am all about intense!Matt.

leverage

His mouth tastes like blood and his blood tastes like the street—foul grit under someone's boots—watery oil cast across pavement. He wants something to drink, something that burns clean. There's beer in his icebox, but that won't do the trick. His left eye is swelling shut. Maybe last month, he would've stumbled home, choked down half a tube of toothpaste, and listened to the neighbors' headboard cracking into plaster two floors down as a lullaby. It's not last month. It's an early spring in Hell's Kitchen and the rain is soaking into his bones, gluing him together. It's cold and he wants whiskey and Foggy's place is seven city blocks away.

If Matt were smart, he'd go home. But everyone's made a career out of telling Matt to become different kinds of smart, and tonight he decides fuck them. Fuck them all. His face hurts. His head hurts. He wants a drink.

He can do that kind of thing, now. Go see his—go see Foggy. Absorb all of Foggy's outrage and worry, let it feel good on his skin, like the buzz of electricity inside a telephone pole—like someone humming into Matt's palm. Yes, like that. It makes his toes curl sometimes. It makes his chest feel tight.

He doesn't think anything's wrong. Not until he's jacking up the window to Foggy's apartment, breathing in the scent of four-day-old Chinese leftovers and an overworked iron, taking a big inhale, holding it inside of him. Then he realizes his hands are shaking, his stomach's awash in bile. He's going to throw up. Concussion? No, but there's a wanting in him, an awful edge that's blurring all of his boundaries and sending him desperately to safety. Matt slams the sash behind him and listens to himself drip on the linoleum. Every droplet threatens to drag him beneath the undertow.

Sometimes he's just so sick of seeing nothing but fire—of feeling nothing but pain.

Matt drags the mask off of his face and drops it in a sodden heap. He listens for the slight vibration of glass in the cupboards—a fat bottle clinking against another full of syrup, there, the whiskey, half-empty but promising—and he's prying it free when Foggy stumbles into the kitchen. Foggy must be wearing pajama pants, because the hems drag on the floor.

"Hey," Foggy says, baffled. "Okay. Hey."

Matt sucks down a mouthful of alcohol and it's good, sharp like a cut, puncturing the taste of alley way swill so neatly he could cry. "Hey," he agrees, but it comes out all wrong, in pieces.

He wipes his cheek.

Foggy is probably about to say something—but his heartbeat stutters—a sign Matt recognizes well—and like a flare gun, it wakes up something in Matt that knows that stutter, that knows how to respond to it. He takes another swig from the bottle and heaves himself over. He's never touched Foggy much, because he'd always thought Foggy didn't feel comfortable with that. So it's a shock to the system to have warm, living skin beneath his hand. Foggy is solid, big. He smells like his home.

"Matt?"

He smells so fucking good. Like a real person. Like a good person. Matt shudders and slides his hands down a stomach that's kind of soft—there's hair winding down, coarser—the waistband of his pajama pants, the slightly inflamed ridge where the cord dug in too tight. Foggy is saying something, but the world is narrowed and small and quiet. It's such a relief.

Matt leans forward until his forehead bumps into a nose. Foggy's still talking to him. If he tilts his head up—yes. Yes.

He doesn't kiss him. He just presses his mouth against Foggy's mouth and breathes him in, like it hurts. It does hurt.

It's enough to just taste him: banana Laffy Taffy, a crown that's starting to decay. But Matt must make a noise, he must crumple a little, because Foggy frames his face with his hands and tells him it's okay. "Hey," he says, "hey hey hey. You're okay. We're okay."

"I want," strangles Matt, and can't finish.

"We're okay," Foggy says, clumsy and earnest. "God, is this why you can't keep a woman?" He strokes Matt's cheeks with his thumbs, pulls him in close. "You gotta calm down. This can't be good for your heart, man."

It hurts, but Foggy kisses him, drinks him all in, and that's—good. That's better. Usually Matt likes to take it easy, likes to drag his lips across a woman's, likes to lift the imprint of her gloss and learn her teeth. This isn't slow-going, but it is slow, Foggy licking him open and sinking in, hungry, sweet. He kisses all the air out of Matt. It's not right, Matt thinks in distraction, that Foggy never gets the girl, that everyone passes right over him, because he's got technique, and he means it, nothing's for show.

It goes straight to Matt's cock.

He's always gotten hard quickly, but never like this. Matt burns where Foggy's fingers press in, as if he's been branded and made pliable. Arousal creeps hot and low in his belly, and he wants to be touched more. He wants hands on his hips and under his thighs and pressing down on his sternum and light against his ankles oh Jesus oh god. He wants weight keeping him down, pocketing him against the sheets. He wants out of these clothes.

Foggy must know. He must, because he sucks in a word hard and holds it. Then he wheels Matt into the kitchen wall. The impact rings in Matt's skeleton like church bells. Someone next door is watching the television on mute, because the power is on but the unit's making no noise. That's how Matt feels, too.

"Matt," rasps Foggy, his name a scratch of sandpaper against his jaw. He kisses Matt again and squeezes his sides—presses in like he can compact him—fingernails scraping the bare skin above Matt's hip.

The scratch is like an electric current up Matt's spine. He pants and digs his heels in. Rubs against Foggy like a teenager, his zipper digging in uncomfortably. But even that feels good, that little pinch. His heartbeat is in staccato.

"Easy," Foggy is saying, "easy." He presses damp, soft kisses against Matt's stubble, hiding them in his throat. He keeps stroking Matt's groin through his jeans, thumb digging into the seam. "C'mon, buddy, you gotta relax."

"No," says Matt. He scrambles for the cord at Foggy's waist, pausing only when he feels the swelling beneath cotton—hot, and he hadn't expected it somehow—that Foggy would be hard, too, that they'd both be prickly and wanting.

Foggy laughs. "The look on your face."

"You smell like sex," says Matt, feeling stupid as soon as he says it.

"I don't think that's my fault," Foggy says. He pops the button to Matt's jeans; the experience of someone else tugging the denim there fucks with Matt's head in all the best ways. He shudders and impresses back into the wall as Foggy unzips him. "Although if you don't like it, that's cool. We can stop?"

"Foggy," he says, and the syllables resound in everything. They drown out the alley cats—they dampen the soft wet breathing of children to nothing.

"Gotta open your legs some," murmurs Foggy. "C'mon, let me, Matt."

His hand presses in between Matt's thighs, groping, searching. The pressure—small as it may be—wrecks Matt.

"Fuck," he gasps, grinding down against Foggy's palm. "Oh god—oh no, no."

"No?" Foggy asks, worried, but it doesn't matter. The world is already careening and Matt comes clutching a fistful of pajama pants and Foggy's wrist, holding him in place. He's not even touching Matt's cock, not really. Matt hasn't even—he's still wearing his jeans, and it's humiliating, and it's amazing, and—

"Oh. Oh wow," says Foggy. "Really?"

His heartbeat, fluttering beneath Matt's fingertips, says something else.

For a long minute, Matt can't do anything except try to catch his breath. He's sticky and his face hurts again, but not like before. He doesn't realize he's still clutching Foggy's hand until Foggy shifts and grazes his thigh. When he does realize, he swallows.

"I should—" he starts to say, and stops. Then, "I'd like to. I'd like."

"Oh," Foggy says, in a different tone. "Really?"

(When Matt gets on his knees, he can feel the tiles quiver in time with the southbound train. He mouth tastes like blood and his blood tastes like something newly born, iron-rich, like their shared saliva. He presses a kiss into Foggy's hip in personal blessing—a benediction—the free and full forgiveness of school boys over spilt wine.)

Oh wow, this was amazing. Hot and intense (just like Matt *g*). <3

Yes yesyesues ok YES, this. Yes.

\o/

Holy fuck that was hot. So well written and obscene in the best way and just hnnnnnng. Hnng. yes.

Literally everything about this is just great. It's great.

BANANA LAFFY TAFFY IS THE BEST LAFFY TAFFY.

Even aside from that: this is so good.

This is freaking poetry, yo. Lovely lovely lovely. Love all the details, how unvisual they are, love the bit about hearing the TV on mute, how electric they both feel together, their desperation, and Foggy's kindness. Great stuff!

OP:

Thank you! This is exactly what I wanted and more. Your descriptions are so perfect and this is so, so hot. I really liked Matt comparing himself to the muted television.

Holy fucking hell, this is the best thing I've read in forever. Love it, love it, love it.

OMG, this is so great!

DAMN. That's broken and hot and beautiful.

Bless you, this is so hot.

HOLY SHIT THIS IS SO GOOD

This was FANTASTIC oh my goodness. Incredibly hot and an absolute marvel of writing, especially when you think about the fact that you necessarily have to avoid visual descriptions. (I loved the detail about the drag of Foggy's pyjama bottoms on the floor. Wow.) Thank you so much for sharing!

i can't get over your story omg, i keep rereading it bc it is so amazing

This is fantastic

love it!

Oh my god this is amazing

I think this is my favorite on the whole of the kinkmeme. I must have read it two dozen times at this point.

Mmmmm, this was great! Thank you for filling it :)

This is so good!

I feel like this is not something I should be reading while in my university library. I am so glad I'm alone in the room, otherwise this would be extremely embarrassing. A+ writing, got my blood pumping faster and I was barely able to catch my breath, SO HOT. Unf.

I just recently got around to watching DD, and this has been a while, but good grief, that was hot. I really love it, because they sound so much like themselves but with that little extra kink the show won't give us. Thank you for writing and sharing, I appreciate it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Prompt Post #1

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation

Re: Matt/any, super senses = premature ejaculation