His smile is the glint of a blade, sharp and sure, but his kiss is all Matt, soft and sweet and careful, so careful. She feels like the empty shell of a robin’s egg, precious and hollow, but it's not her choice. He's making her feel this way.
She'll make him stop.
Karen slides her hands up, gripping his helmet - except it's not his helmet, the evidence of her fingertips outweighs that of her eyes. She knows how it should feel: she touched it once before, that night in the dying light of their office, while Matt stood and waited for her benediction or her curse. But this isn't the smooth, hard curve she remembers. This is Matt's hair, thick and soft between her fingers, and no matter how tightly she digs into his scalp that doesn't change.
Karen tugs. Hard. She wants to startle him out of this gentleness, but he's so damn insistent with it, so worshipful, and maybe there’s a time that she would love it, but this isn't it.
There’s a wall behind him, rough exposed brick. Some abandoned building? His apartment? It's all the same to her as she pushes in close, braces one palm against the brick, and kisses him. Shows him how sharp she can be. Pulls on his bottom lip and lets him feel her teeth.
The body armor melts away, and he's in a tee and sweatpants, soft things, soft things, and Karen twists her fingers in his hair in exasperation.
But it’s fitting, because Matt never could quite hide his strength from her in those. That day in his apartment after his quote-unquote car accident, there'd been no chance of hiding his injuries in the morning light, and no chance of hiding the rest of it, either. The heft of his biceps. The breadth of his chest. And she’s learned, since then, what those arms feel like around her, and she knows -
She knows he's hard, and getting harder.
Karen presses against his body, shifts her hips, gets him nice and heavy and thick right at her center. Only his sweatpants and her sleep pants separate them now - soft things, but his fingers are branding her waist, and his hips are jerking up.
And up. He doesn’t want to stop.
Her heartbeat is an ocean in her ears. His breath, Christ, his breath is the roar of a hurricane. They're on the verge of something, she and Matt, and any moment now the roll of her hips and the throb of his dick will drive them to that tipping point, and she won’t feel fragile, and she won’t feel hollow, and nothing will be hidden away -
Streetlights cast a yellow glare on her ceiling, and Karen’s sheets are twisted around her waist. Her fingers are kneading her thigh, and she slides them over, gives herself what she needs.
[FILL] Matt/Karen, Daredevil's rage/violence turns her on [3/?]
His smile is the glint of a blade, sharp and sure, but his kiss is all Matt, soft and sweet and careful, so careful. She feels like the empty shell of a robin’s egg, precious and hollow, but it's not her choice. He's making her feel this way.
She'll make him stop.
Karen slides her hands up, gripping his helmet - except it's not his helmet, the evidence of her fingertips outweighs that of her eyes. She knows how it should feel: she touched it once before, that night in the dying light of their office, while Matt stood and waited for her benediction or her curse. But this isn't the smooth, hard curve she remembers. This is Matt's hair, thick and soft between her fingers, and no matter how tightly she digs into his scalp that doesn't change.
Karen tugs. Hard. She wants to startle him out of this gentleness, but he's so damn insistent with it, so worshipful, and maybe there’s a time that she would love it, but this isn't it.
There’s a wall behind him, rough exposed brick. Some abandoned building? His apartment? It's all the same to her as she pushes in close, braces one palm against the brick, and kisses him. Shows him how sharp she can be. Pulls on his bottom lip and lets him feel her teeth.
The body armor melts away, and he's in a tee and sweatpants, soft things, soft things, and Karen twists her fingers in his hair in exasperation.
But it’s fitting, because Matt never could quite hide his strength from her in those. That day in his apartment after his quote-unquote car accident, there'd been no chance of hiding his injuries in the morning light, and no chance of hiding the rest of it, either. The heft of his biceps. The breadth of his chest. And she’s learned, since then, what those arms feel like around her, and she knows -
She knows he's hard, and getting harder.
Karen presses against his body, shifts her hips, gets him nice and heavy and thick right at her center. Only his sweatpants and her sleep pants separate them now - soft things, but his fingers are branding her waist, and his hips are jerking up.
And up. He doesn’t want to stop.
Her heartbeat is an ocean in her ears. His breath, Christ, his breath is the roar of a hurricane. They're on the verge of something, she and Matt, and any moment now the roll of her hips and the throb of his dick will drive them to that tipping point, and she won’t feel fragile, and she won’t feel hollow, and nothing will be hidden away -
Streetlights cast a yellow glare on her ceiling, and Karen’s sheets are twisted around her waist. Her fingers are kneading her thigh, and she slides them over, gives herself what she needs.