daredevilkink | Daredevil Prompt Post #12

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Daredevil Prompt Post #12

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This post is for prompts involving characters from Netflix's Daredevil.

Now that The Defenders prompt post is live, all crossovers between anyone in the four individual shows should go over there. Prompts only including characters that appear in Daredevil should still go here.

Rules:

General
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4. RPF is allowed. Crossovers, characters from the extended Marvel Universe and comics canon are allowed, but must relate to the 2015 TV show in some way.
5. Prompts focusing on characters from other Netflix Marvel shows or the comics should go on their respective prompt posts, but crossovers with Daredevil can go here.
6. Drop a comment on the mod post if you have any questions or problems.

Prompts
1. All types of prompts are welcome.
2. Use the subject line for the main idea of your prompt (pairing or characters, keywords, kink).
3. Warnings are nice, but not mandatory. Get DW Blocker if there's anything you really don't want to see.
4. Reposted prompts are allowed once one round has passed - e.g. prompts from post #2 cannot be reposted until post #4. Please include a link to where it has been previously posted.

Fills
1. When posting a fill, either add [FILL] (or something similar) to the subject line, or change the subject line to the title of your fill.
2. Announce your fill on either the Completed Fills Post or the WIP Post.
3. Long fills can either be posted over multiple comments, or posted on AO3 and linked back here.
4. Multiple fills are always okay.
5. Fills can be anything! Fic, art and vids are all welcome.

Please post any prompts related to Season 2 of Punisher over on the dedicated Punisher prompt post, and put SPOILERS in the subject line!

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Rooftop sex: it's kinda their thing, until it's not. They fall into Matt's bed, and sex goes from hard and rough to unexpectedly soft and meaningful, and Matt can't deal. He can't afford to care about anyone else. Not now, and especially not Frank. So he lashes out: biting, begging, pushing, scratching... until Frank finally manages to calm him down.

How Love Is Still Unrooting You

***

It's the fucking sleet that drives them inside.

It’s been weeks since they last encountered each other, even longer since they last—since they last did whatever it was they do between their fights and fuck-ups. At least, Matt thinks it’s been weeks. He's not sure. The days and nights— Time, it— It sort of slouches together in shadow and flame and drops out of his orbit in a way it hasn't since—since—

"Dad, I can't see! I can't see!"

—Yeah. Since right after that.

It is bitter cold but the blood on his mouth is warm, Frank's blood on his knuckles burns even hotter, zings through him like—

There is teeth, there is always teeth, biting his lip, scraping along the line of his jaw heedless of bruises and cuts, pressing into wounds until Matt's hips jerk up and writhe against empty air because Frank always steps back and watches Matt hump against the ghost of his body heat, watches for that one second where Matt throws his head back, chasing teeth, exposing the column of his throat to Frank like some kind of—

Then there is the sleet, and the wind, and a vortex of ice shavings slicing into their cheeks, through their clothes. They are close to his apartment and there was no way Matt was denying himself this tonight.

Their hands are numb and they are shaking by the time they crash inside. Inside— it was the first time they—inside was new. And Frank was shoving and tugging at the seams of Matt's armor and scraping teeth and biting when the collarbone was exposed and—

oh

—that was new, too.

They fight all the way through the apartment, like they've fought across roof tops the past few months, tripping and punching each other into corners or against massive and loud HVAC units, fighting and biting and shoving until one of them—the winner—shoves his hand down the pants of the other first.

Frank bites down on the juncture of his neck to hold him still while he claws at the body armor. Matt groans, thrusts deeply against Frank's hip, takes what he wants against the other, and then elbows Frank when the teeth get too hard. Frank reels back half a step, never as off balance as Matt wants him, always fucking immovable, but Matt still manages to get the kevlar off. He digs nails and fingertips into the thin material of Frank’s t-shirt and the ripping fabric sounds loudly above their heavy breaths.

"Fucking hell, Red," is all the warning he gets before an arm wraps around his waist and a shoulder slams into his solar plexus and punches a feral laugh out of him as they crash painfully to the bedroom floor. Frank sits on top of him and wrestles Matt’s top off, grinding down on Matt's belly, taking what he wants. Matt gets Frank's heavy boots and then the three guns and the belt in one jerk, thrusting and flipping them over in a slinking motion that has Frank scrabbling.

Matt drags blunt nails fast and hard down Frank's chest, smiles with blood in his teeth, palms himself through the armor even as he feels Frank hard against—

There's a flurry, cursing, a blow to his upper ribs, the goddamned teeth—

And then they're standing again, both naked and the skin—the skin is new, too. Usually it's just—it's just hands and mouths but the sleet is driving down outside and even they're not crazy enough to brave the elements like that. But now they're inside and they're naked and Frank's just this human thing beneath the kevlar and the clothes—all bruises and heat and the smell of stale coffee and unscented soap and marrow and bones and skin and scars—

Matt's not even sure who won this time, who stripped the other first, who got their hands on the other first because Matt's gripping Frank hard and challenging but Frank's already jacking him off in loose movements, maddeningly soft even when he's pulling Matt's hair so hard Matt gasps, mouth falling open just so he can swallow Frank's teeth and tongue.

"Red," Frank says when he moves teeth just behind and below Matt's ear and he jerks, breath and shoulders shuddering. "Gonna fuck you."

His whole body clenches at the thought, something dropping low and hungry in his belly, but Matt just pushes Frank's head away, follows up with his own tongue against the swell of Frank's throat even as he boldly reaches around and clutches the flesh of Frank's ass, nails digging in for purchase, marking and bruising. "You sure about that?"

He feels it coming too late, fights it belatedly when Frank hooks his heel around Matt's ankle and pulls him off balance long enough for Frank to get a grip around his hips and push him up and over into the bed. Matt free falls, another half-crazed laugh ripping out, and Frank rides him down, unwilling to give him room to retaliate.

Frank's weight nearly crushes lungs and break ribs and by the time Matt breathes again things are—it's somehow changed. The smell, the sounds, the feel of the room—the feel of Frank—is suddenly and inexplicably transformed.

There's no more teeth, but warm and rough lips on his collarbone, feather-soft and reverent. Frank's hand is back around his dick and it’s—it's gentle and firm and—and—giving. Matt's not even touching Frank any more and Frank is moving against Matt but only slowly and ponderously, like he forgot about taking and winning.

And then those lips, those lips are on his. No teeth. No tongue. Just a tentative touch and—

—It's like de ja vu, like a phantom pain of lost sight, and he's not even thinking of her, hasn't thought of her in weeks and weeks (lie) but suddenly all he smells is Karen's perfume and all he feels are her soft, tentative, questioning lips and—

"What?" Matt breathes out shakily, hands falling to rest against Frank's sides, fingers twitching, trying to read this language he suddenly doesn't understand.

Frank rumbles nonsense and when he speaks its with an unexpected awe as he lays his body lightly on Matt’s, skin-to-skin wherever he can touch, an offering of himself as a barrier between Matt and the world.

"So good, Red."

"So good for me, Matthew," Elektra purrs as she drapes over him, laying skin to skin, parting her thighs so he can smell the wetness of her, pressing her breasts against him so he can get lost in the softness of her, pressing her lips against his mouth so he reads the reluctant tenderness in her smile. She hooks an ankle around his calf, anchoring them down, anchoring him to her as she becomes his world and what is beyond her is shut out.

His chest—his chest, he can’t breathe—

"What? Frank... Frank..." He chokes out before his lungs constrict completely.

Frank shushes him sweetly, lips at Matt's mouth, one cupped hand running down his side and what is this bullshit he almost snarls, suddenly engulfed in unfurling anger and something deeper, something uglier and smaller and so, so weak.

“I got you, Red,” Frank whispers, promises in a soft cadence that Matt’s never heard before and—

And Matt explodes into motion, his world a dripping, red flame. He kicks out, his heel colliding with a shin and Frank curses above him. Matt sneers, reaching down, gripping Frank’s length punitively and bites at the man’s jaw. “Thought you were going to fuck me—”

“Christ,” Frank hisses, shaking in Matt’s grasp, caught between pain and pleasure. Matt can’t see his face, can’t see anyone’s goddamned face in a world on fire. But Frank’s hands are still soft, still gentle, and he’s stroking Matt’s hip and belly now, calming, giving. “Red, Red—”

“What the fuck were you doing, Frank?” Matt rasps, twisting to dislodge Frank’s hand. Frank’s forehead falls into his neck, the skin burning hot but the hair that brushes against Matt’s ear is still icy from the sleet and wind outside. He’s shaking over Matt and Matt jerks him harder, unforgiving, trying to force the other man back on track. “Got my armor off and got me in some goddamned silk sheets and—what? What was that sentimental bullshit? Did you forget who you were fucking?”

One of Frank’s hands slams around his throat and squeezes, shutting off air, compressing his voice.

“Watch your mouth,” Frank warns and the teeth are back and Matt would crow around his bloody smile if he had the air. The hunger is back, made bigger and deeper by the wrath that burned bright but transient. He arcs up into the body above him, undulating, challenging, seeking something to abate the gaping nothingness—

Frank moves his hand and Matt gasps, cool air painful in his throat and chest. He grins up at Frank, bloodlust singing through him and—

Frank’s still again, covering him with his body, moving Matt’s hand away from his length and then stroking his sides and his hips and his chest all smooth and strong and reassuring and—

And Frank cups the side of Matt’s face with his hand. “Red, Red, it’s OK, I’m—I don’t… well,” he huffs, all strained and rueful. “It’s going to be OK.”

Matt feels his eyes widening, feels his face go slack, feels his hands freeze as he stares into the dark corners and he helplessly asks himself again, what is this bullshit?

Frank’s thumb is pressed against his cheekbone, warm hand against his ear, fingertips reassuringly cradled around his skull.

And no one—no one’s touched him like—a big, masculine hand against his face, cradling, comforting, giving since— since—

Calloused hands, blood and leather and sweat, so strong around his face, holding Matt’s head up for him when it seemed too heavy. “I gotcha, Matty.”

Yeah. Since that.

It comes unbidden, that de ja vu phantom pain and he’s not even aware he’s remembering his dad until he is and—it should be—it’s weird to think of him right now—he’s naked in a bed with a man for Christ’s—

—and Matt’s a fucking adult, anyway, an animal of teeth and nails and definitely not something made of soft skin and silk sheets and he doesn’t need a-a memory of—he doesn’t want—

They leave. All those—all those touches lead to empty spaces and you’re left with gaping wounds where they used to be, he reminds himself savagely, ruthlessly. They leave, all of them do in the end. I won’t— Not again.

He can’t breathe again and inside, inside he’s made up of a black hole, a hungry emptiness that distends and starves him and it hurts in a way he can’t describe, in a way he didn’t feel until someone tried to shut out the world for him, until Frank fucking Castle touched his face and—

“No, stop,” Matt hisses. He tries to push against the shoulders above him but he can’t seem to separate Frank’s dark corners from his own.

Frank runs his thumb up and down his cheek and Matt can’t help but close his eyes. Frank’s thumb catches on a drop of sleet, long melted into rain, caught between Matt’s lashes. When Frank runs his thumb down again the water streaks over Matt’s cheek. He’s suddenly incredibly exposed, too vulnerable, too soft.

He can’t breathe.

“Red… Matt…” there’s something bleak in Frank’s voice, but he keeps running his thumb over Matt’s cheek and he can’t—he can’t think past that point of contact.

“Please, please stop,” he whispers with tight lungs, through a jaw gritting down on pride. But once he starts he can’t stop. “Please, please, pleasepleaseplease—”

Frank lets his face go, rolls to the side, and his wake the world accelerates into Matt’s senses but the black hole inside just swallows it all and grows bigger and fathomless until Matt’s shaking with an emptiness he can’t comprehend.

And then—and then there’s skin and callouses pulling until Frank and Matt are on their sides, facing each other (except Matt will never see anyone’s face ever again and he—sometimes he wonders if he could see faces then maybe he would—but that’s pointless and stupid and soft).

They’re close, breathing each other’s air, and Frank’s shaking when he reaches out and draws Matt in close so Matt’s pressed to Frank and Frank’s face is buried in Matt’s wet hair.

Something breaks inside him, some sort of quelling, and it hurts but it also—it also feels—good isn’t right but maybe there’s a sense of relief.

“Frank,” Matt whispers. His throat is tight and his eyes are burning. “Frank, I don’t—I don’t want—”

Frank tightens his hold, breathes into Matt’s hair. He’s trembling, just as hard as Matt is, and Matt suddenly hears Frank’s heart decelerating down from a cacophony of panic. Matt thinks about dark corners and how his were tangled up in Frank’s.

That small, weak thing in Matt shifts, coils to run, and Matt can’t help but mirror it, can’t help but take a breath to tell Frank to leave, can’t help that his legs are already scrambling to roll out of Frank’s touch.

And then Frank holds on tight and says, “Please, Red.”

And there’s really nothing else to do after that. So Matt reaches out, wraps his arm around the skin of another, tentatively presses lips to Frank’s jaw, presses his face against Frank’s to shut out the world. He gives.

end

Wow. Just... wow.

So much feeling and emotion in this piece and god it hurt. Really enjoyed it and I would not be devastated if you continued this. Please continue this?

Thanks so much! :) Not sure if I'll continue this, but I might end up touching it up (and possibly expanding it a little?) if I decide to post this to AO3 (not sure I will, so no promises!).

Thanks for replying and I will be happy with however you deal with it. It is so good.

I... am continuing this, after all. Sort-of. Uhm. >.>

It won't be long. I'd say I'm probably already about 1/3 of the way through. I was cleaning up the first part and just kind of maybe kept writing. A little. Uhm. <.< It'll probably be a few days, though.

:)

oh my god, this is beautiful!!! i haven't visited this kink meme in forever and to be blessed with this masterpiece on my return?? thank u god (and OP)

Thanks! :)

This is fantastic! Would be great to see a continuation, if you're up for it. I absolutely love your writing style. Love. Love. Love.

I did continue it, actually! *points down the thread*

Thank you! :)

I went from "I'm not going to continue this" to "hey, I might continue this but in a few days."
Apparently by "a few days" I really meant "around 2-3 hours." ~~Christ, I have an actual paper I need to write, what am I doing here.~~

Companion/follow-up to How Love Still Unroots You (above).

Unseen, Unsayable

Unbidden and unwanted, their simulacrum of violence gives way to softer things.

Not everything gives way between them. There is still morality and there is still the mission and those are still, for the most part, mutually exclusive linchpins of their identities.

And it is not all the time. They punch and claw and bite more than they don’t, pummeling against the indomitable shores of the other. But, sometimes, increasingly, there is no pain, there is no taking. They just kiss gently, touch reverently, and give away to the other what little they hoarded or collected of themselves over the previous days and weeks.

Softer things. Once, when Matt stopped to think about it, he wondered if the soft touches and the way Frank might occasionally hold him close somehow grounded Matt for a few days afterwards. Like the soft touches of the night blended the sharp edges of Matt back into his surroundings so, for a short time afterward, Matt didn’t feel like he walked apart from the world as an exposed and raw nerve.

But Matt doesn’t think too closely and tries, generally, not to stop and think about much. Hesitation leads to fear. He wouldn’t be Daredevil if he made a habit of hesitating.

A week and a half after they—a week and a half after they stayed in Matt’s apartment during the night of sleet, Frank finds Matt on his way home from a quick patrol of the docks. He only has two guns on him and three knives. He’s carrying a bottle of whiskey and doesn’t seem inclined to offer an explanation (it occurs to Matt, later, that Frank might not’ve even known what to say then). Matt lets him follow.

Inside, after Matt’s changed, he finds Frank on the couch with the whiskey open, two glasses out, and a gun disassembled and neatly compartmentalized. Matt has no fucking clue if he reads the situation correctly—Frank hasn’t even punched him yet, there’s no paradigm to follow. But he doesn’t hesitate. He throws himself on the couch with the same grim rush that makes him jump from rooftops, careful to connect hip-to-hip, knee-to-knee, shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s uncomfortably close and Frank has to adjust so he’s using his left hand predominantly to clean the gun. But he doesn’t say anything.

They drink a lot. Matt’s never done that before. He doesn’t really drink much on his own because alcohol messes with his senses (“hey, do you get the spins?”), he’s more of a sociable drinker and, really, that started because Foggy—

Drinking for the purpose of getting drunk is new. The world starts to tilt soon enough, and there’s a point when taste becomes too acute and he thinks his palate can pick up on dirt from hands, mildew from the casks, even copper from the still. Nausea creeps up, but then his taste sort of spins out with the rest of the room, slumps together with smell until its too confused and he can ignore it again.

The alcohol is one last barrier, a contrived excuse for this—whatever this is. Because fists and bullets are their constituent parts, they’re more animals than men, meant to die bloody and live bloodier. They have singular, existential purpose. Soft don’t fit, impairs the primary and secondary and tertiary function of their being. Sacrifice upon sacrifice rides on the back of the names they made themselves into and to do anything besides their mission is a betrayal, a weakness, and makes them wonder what is the point of them?

So they sip on whiskey excuses until Frank has to guide Matt to bed. Matt has to hold Frank up. They lose their shirts and wrap up in each other, locking ankles together, making themselves too heavy to be swept away. Matt’s fingers dance across Frank’s skin, trying to decipher a pattern. Frank holds on tight enough to bruise.

They get in each other’s way and they fight but it’s less and less like it was before—desire and dominance, teeth and claw.

They drink a lot.

They don’t talk.

Outside, Frank takes down a drug cartel edging in from Chicago. Matt’s able to save most of them, especially Frank. Vindictively, he sends his billy club into the temple of the guy who’s about to stab Frank in the back of the neck. Frank doesn’t turn to Matt, doesn’t say thank you.

Outside, when Matt’s reconnaissance of Midland Circle Financial turns into a hasty retreat from a small army of armed thugs and two members of the Hand, Frank appears at his back, keeps the thugs off of him while Matt deals with the Hand. Matt loses his billy clubs but Frank tosses him a knife in the same motion he uses to kick an assailant in the chest. Matt catches it, throws it into the gut of the oncoming ninja, rolls, and comes up hard under the jaw of the thug aiming at Frank.

Inside, the flow of alcohol tapers minutely, and sometimes Frank ends up lying on the couch, sometimes with his head on Matt’s lap, fingers rolling the dial of a hand radio on the floor while Matt listens to case files or an audiobook and rests his hand on Frank’s chest. Matt skims finger pads on the inside of Frank’s bicep and Frank usually responds by refilling Matt’s empty glass. Frank sometimes catches Matt’s hand in his own and Matt will bend down in response and align their lips.

Inside, the morning after they fall asleep on the couch or entangled in silk sheets and each other, Frank usually stays. Sometimes he’ll sleep until noon, make the bed, fold their clothes, clean the glasses, and leave while Matt’s gone. Sometimes he gets up and cooks breakfast. Matt will walk in, skin warm and damp from a shower, and Frank will hold out his hand from his place over the stove. Matt will hand him the milk or the paprika or the salsa.

They go entire encounters, hours and hours, without speaking.

Softer things. Eventually, they talk more, but they don’t actually say much, and they mean what they say even less.

“Shitty timing, Red,” Frank grumbles as Matt’s billy club bruises his wrist and wastes his last bullet. The pimp turns to run and Frank, irritated, throws his gun at the guy’s head and misses.

A billy club takes the runner down, ricochets off the wall, and wobbles back to Matt’s hand. “Even shittier aim, Castle.”

“Brought Thai,” Matt says when he walks in his apartment another night and Frank is already there. It’s the first time—eating together will be new, if Frank stays.

Matt senses Frank stiffen and then force himself to relax. “Not that place on the corner?”

“Of course that place on the corner.”

“That place is shit, Red. The one on 43rd and 10th is better.”

“If you like overpaying for beef-that’s-not-beef saturated in MSG, sure.”

“At least it tastes like something authentic.”

“…Frank, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you might be a psychopath.”

Now, three weeks later, Matt cooks (though it’s 3 a.m.) as Frank sits on his counter, sewing kevlar into his jacket.

“Night court is the armpit of humanity,” Matt decides out loud over the fish he’s frying.

“Night court?” Frank asks incredulously, words slurred around the needle and thread in his mouth.

“Well, night shift at the courthouse, anyway—I’m working as an A.D.A right now. Lost a witness on a big case, got booted to night shift because the D.A. is an actual bag of dicks.”

“Mm,” Frank responds because he’s usually unimpressed by hyperbole.

“A literal armpit,” Matt continues, because Frank is also unimpressed with the ironic use of the word ‘literal’. On cue, Frank breathes sharply through his nose, annoyed.

“You talkin’ ‘bout the lawyers or the cases?” He ties off the thread, shifts the jacket around, straightens to stretch his back, and hands Matt the serving plate when he holds his arm out for it.

“…The lawyers,” Matt concludes after a serious internal debate, turning to serve the food. He eats while he stands and Frank doesn’t move his work off his lap but reaches down to shovel a mouthful without lifting the plate, half of the food falling from the fork back to the plate or all over Matt’s counter. With Frank on the counter and Matt standing they’re almost too close to each other to manage eating and sewing, but they do. “Because the hazing is getting old. They were excited, maybe, to have me on board at first. But then I had to leave abruptly a few nights ago and had to shove my case load on the next shift and I guess I sort of…” he shrugs.

“Lost your appeal?”

Matt’s own undignified snort surprises him, as does the chuckle that jabs out of him. He smashes his face against Frank’s arm, muffling how helpless he is to stop the laughter once it starts. He suddenly remembers that it’s been a long, long time since he laughed.

Frank buries his nose in Matt’s hair and laughs silently with him. Softer things.

They hadn’t fucked around—not really—since before the night they first ended up in Matt’s apartment. There’d been kisses, hot and deep. There’d been tongues and mouths on each other’s throats. Occasionally they’d rutted against each other, clothed, until they were sticky but warm and supple enough to chase sleep together. This was probably because they were too drunk to get it up, at first. And also because of things unseen and unsayable, equal parts dark corners and softness that neither could bear.

Tonight they bypass couch, whiskey, and clothes. Tonight Frank uses teeth again, but so lightly, so teasingly, Matt is a quaking mess, breaking out into a sweat and panting Frank’s name. Eventually, it winds to a soft, quiet close as Matt leans back against Frank’s chest and Frank pulls him in tighter, hand low on Matt’s belly. Frank angles in slow, though Matt’s already open and wet from fingers and tongue and fingers again. Matt shivers, hardening again as Frank moves in him.

“Jesus, Red,” Frank murmurs in disbelief and want, digging the heel of his hand in Matt’s lower belly, fingers reaching down to tease the length of him, mouth busy with the side of his neck. Matt presses his damp forehead into the sheets, moans, reaches back to pull Frank in closer still, mouth open but the words unsayable.

In the morning, Matt leisurely drifts into wakefulness. The smell of brewed coffee permeates the apartment and their clothes from last night are neatly folded on top of the dresser. He can feel the cold radiating from Frank’s feet from where he just settled back in from walking the cool floors. He can’t see Frank’s face, but knows Frank is looking at him, so he reaches out, runs his fingers lightly over sleepy features. Frank leans into the touch and Matt pulls him the rest of the way in, laughing when Frank’s cold feet touches his, and hiding a smile in Frank’s arm as the other valiantly struggles to tuck silk sheets back around them.

Frank falls back to sleep first, tucked against Matt, and Matt falls, too, giving way to softer things.

end.

You are freaking fantastic. When I asked for a continuation I felt really bad being greedy. So looking forward to reading this, so thank you.

this was amazing and lovely, kudos

Accidentally falling quietly and softly in love is my kink this is so good

This is absolutely beautiful.

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Daredevil Prompt Post #12

Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

[FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

[FILL 2/2] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL 2/2] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL 2/2] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL 2/2] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings

Re: [FILL 2/2] Frank/Matt, Rooftop sex leads to unwanted feelings