daredevilkink | Prompt Post #1

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He asks her to tell him what he looks like while he's eating her out. Claire's no poet, but she does her best.

oh my god yes please, seconded!

I am writing this on my phone while at work, and I work on-call, so, uh -- it may take a bit to get up? pls bear with my nonsense. also, bless u for this amazing prompt btw and apologies for my weak-ass attempt to fill it, but it's been burning at me since I started snooping around here a week ago

and in the endless pause

It's not like she ever pretended to be immune to bad decisions -- Claire fished a masked man out of a dumpster on nothing but good faith, after all -- but this is decidedly a different level of stupid.

Claireclarieclarie what are you doing?

Claire sighs outwardly, as Matt brushes his thumb over the corner of her mouth. He never just takes, he always needs her to -- he needs her to ask, and it's worse like that. It's so much worse like that, because it's one thing to be caught up, it's another thing entirely to make a calculated decision to do the wrong thing, and -- that's what the Devil of Hell's kitchen is, really. A calculated decision to do the wrong thing. Something she's encouraging by being here, by arriving in the nick of time every time the stupid thirty-dollar Nokia he gave her buzzes like a hive full of angry wasps.

Something she's colluding with him in every time Matt squeezes her hand, or touches her face, and she doesn't say: "this is the last time," and actually mean it.

A part of her likes what he's doing. She sees the evidence of a broken city day in and day out, the worst of what survives the ER filtering up to the ICU. It's hard not want to go past fixing, helping, to arrive at wanting to stop, to hurt, to punish. It's not hard to want Matt.

"Hey," Matt hazards from the couch, his thumb not moving. He's been sitting up for a while, his eyes lazy and unfocused, darting around the space of her body in a way that reminds her of startled deer. His voice isn't really back to normal yet, the mottled wring of ugly red and purple around his neck and clavicles, the little pin-pricks of red in his sclera, all ready to stand witness to this night's suffering. Claire can't stop a wry grin from twisting her face, because while it's probably the most visible mark of his nightly penance, it's not the worst of it.

and what are you gonna do the day he comes calling and needs an actual OR, pendeja?

"Hey," she parrots back, wrapping a hand around the wrist belonging to the fingers on her face and stands from where she was kneeling in front of him -- running her free hand over the knife wound she stitched up running a full three inches right in the middle of his fourth intercostal space. She runs her fingers over the catgut mattress sutures, wonders for a minute if it's wrong to think of it like a braille record of his guilt.

She lets her eyes dart away from his face. "I can't stay."

There's a short chuff of aborted laughter, and he threads the fingers of the hand she's holding through her own, squeezes gently. "You do remember I know when you're lying, right?"

There's a simple goodness to the warmth of his hand, to the gentleness of his face. Not for the first time, Claire wonders if this -- not the ratty black thing dumped by the washer -- is his true mask. Claire works her jaw trying to rephrase what she wants to stay. "Staying would be a really bad idea."

"You didn't seem to think so last time," and at that, Matt brings their joined hands back up to his face. Noses along her knuckles, breathes deep. She can see the stains from the iodine preps on her hands, and finds herself suddenly forgetting if she put lotion on before leaving to come here.

Last time Matt had called, Claire had come -- like she always does. And after she'd patch him up, she'd. They'd. She does her best not to sink into the memory of Matt's hands on her, Matt's mouth -- but can tell from the way Matt rumbles a breath out against her exposed skin that it's not working very well. She hadn't gone home like she should have. It was a miscalculation, a really damn lovely oversight, but --

"Claire," and Matt sounds somehow hoarser now, despite the hours between this moment between them and some thug trying to crush his trachea.

Claire pulls her hand away like she's been burned.

"Last time was a mistake, Matt," she sighs, and it's not a lie. She'd come back from a few weeks in Puerto Rico visiting her sister and it hadn't even been a full 48 hours before Matt had called her. It hadn't even gotten to the second ring before she'd answered it despite being back at work. Distance hadn't afforded her the clarity and solidarity she'd hoped it would, and he'd been in such bad shape.

broken glass in his neck missed the carotid by a finger's width of space; God how close to having nothing to put Humpty Dumpty back together again

Any attempt at shaking his gravity had evaporated into thin air. He'd been conscious for most of her doctoring -- she'd taken off early from her shift claiming family emergency and dodging the concerned looks Shirley had leveled at her as she filled out the Citytime AFL for the emergency leave -- trying to joke his way through the removal of several impaled improvised weapons. It had been heartbreaking, the silence after she was done. The way he searched for the right words to thank her for coming back. It was nothing to take his hand, to kiss his palm. To kiss his mouth when he gasped, half-startled, half-elated.

He'd left a mark with his mouth over her right hipbone that had lasted a full week. Claire runs her fingers over it now, hesitantly, like somehow the ghost of the sensation will still somehow remain so long after. She watches Matt lick his lips now, and that... doesn't help.

Her eyes move up and try to take in the whole picture of him now on the couch, and God damn him if he doesn't look lost -- hands loose and half open like he wants hold. He tries for a smile but it breaks into pieces before it even steps onto his face.

"OK," Matt sighs. It sounds like longing, and loneliness -- not like the flare of anger she would've expected at rejection, but maybe he knows her reasons better than most. Can taste them, feel them on the air the way he always seems to be able to. A part of her wants him to be mad, wants him to demand what they both shouldn't want, to be contentious, to fight to keep her here with him -- but she watches Matt deflate and sag back into the couch, all the fight he has for the week already cut out of him in inches. Claire knows he won't ask.

She should take the opening and bolt for the door, now. But Claire finds herself rooted to the spot, watching Matt breathe, his mouth slightly open.

and damn his mouth, at that

"It's just -- we can't let this get complicated," she finds herself saying suddenly. And she has nothing like Matt's senses but she knows her words must stink of compromise.

Matt stops breathing all together.

whoever you are, anon!author, I love you for this

seconded

God bless.

Aaaah this was amazing

Prompt Post #1

Matt/Claire - cunnilingus

Re: Matt/Claire - cunnilingus

FILL: and in the endless pause 1/?

FILL: and in the endless pause 2/?

Re: FILL: and in the endless pause 2/?

Re: FILL: and in the endless pause 2/?

Re: FILL: and in the endless pause 2/?

Re: FILL: and in the endless pause 2/?