KITTY CAT !
matt murdock x reader / daredevil x black cat!reader
summary: in your teens, you and matt were a couple. years after you broke up, you meet again, but not in the way either of you expected.
you needed a lawyer, but you were involved in the situation in a way that reminded matt how much your youthful attitude put him in a moral dilemma.
warnings: 18+. rough sex on a rooftop (yes), unprotected sex. a little bit of submissive matt (just for a few moments). mention of blood, murder, and robbery. swearing. blasphemy.
content: a plot that then leads to rough sex on the rooftop with matt.
word count: 7781
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
Before Elektra, before Daredevil, there was you.
You were unlike any girl he'd ever met. At sixteen, almost seventeen, Matt had never encountered anyone like you who could shake his world so profoundly.
He lived in the orphanage where the sisters had raised him since his father's death. There, he found refuge, a set of rules to guide his tumultuous life, a faith to look to, and a role model to try to emulate. At his young age, Matt had lived through more than many people much older than him, which was unfair because he was still a teenager, so he tried—he really tried—to maintain a routine that wouldn't cause further chaos in his life.
Meeting you made him realize that you were the jolt of adrenaline he craved. You were the first hint of what was to come with Elektra. You were the first, the one who saw beneath his facade and knew that he needed some fire to feel alive.
You exuded a carefree attitude that he secretly envied. You smelled of danger, of someone who crossed the line and slipped back into it without a second thought. From the moment you started circling each other at such a young age, Matt knew you were trouble—which was precisely why he couldn't stay away from you.
You oozed confidence, you were so bold, and you never apologized for your actions. You were the kind of girl the nuns warned against getting too close to because you were a bad influence; the kind other students whispered about, whether it was something good or bad. It was unfair how easily you attracted attention, how easily you stole everything from him.
Being with you was like sitting on the edge of a cliff; it was dangerous because you challenged all of Matt's beliefs, the entire framework he'd established to stay within the lines. He didn't want to cross boundaries; he wanted to remain grateful to the orphanage and follow God's word.
It was easy, too easy, to start dating you. It was a teenage romance, one where both seemed to be slowly testing out this new sensation of feelings that neither of them controlled. He had his first time with you, and you with him; you both surrendered to an intimacy that only the two of you understood.
You laughed a lot that afternoon when you shared the intimacy of your first time—not just his, but both of yours, at how silly you both were. When you hugged him, and all that time you remained half-dressed, Matt felt safe in a place where he had no expectations. You didn't ask for anything in return, you didn't expect him to behave a certain way, nor did you expect him to control his every word. You loved him completely, even the darkness that lay within him. Perhaps because you yourself moved effortlessly from light to darkness, like a nocturnal cat that leaps between rooftops and then returns home without a second thought.
Matt felt whole with you, whole in your arms, in your loud laughter, and in those eyes he couldn't see, but knew held a danger that stirred everything inside him. Deep down, though, beneath that persona that liked to blur boundaries, Matt knew that you, too, felt safe with him. You allowed yourself to be vulnerable with Matt, to tell him about your problems with your mother, the debts your father left behind; he knew more about you than anyone else, and he even managed to wipe away your tears when you let your guard down.
You even showed him your love for cats, like sometimes saving up money to buy food for a stray kitten. You were kind, he knew it; you only had claws for those outside your life.
Matt loved you. Despite everyone saying that teenage love was just that—just emotions mixed with hormones—he loved you. He knew you loved him too; he could see it, he could feel it with every second he spent with you.
Unfortunately, for you it always had an expiration date; you never hid that what you and he had would be ephemeral.
The flame that ignited the gunpowder was a gift you gave him.
You had arrived very happy, you went straight to look for him at lunch and you pulled him to take him to the small courtyard of the institute. You took a small, carefully wrapped package—just for him—from your pocket and placed it in his hands, then kissed his lips briefly so no nun would see. You didn't care if you two got in trouble, but sometimes you held back because you knew Matt didn't like to misbehave in front of the women who had raised him since he was a child.
Matt carefully tore open the paper, revealing a velvet case; it was easy to guess it was a glasses case.
“They are red glasses,” you had said.
Matt wasn't as skilled at reading people as he is now, but he knew the sound of your heart, the warmth your emotions radiated, and the subtle sound your facial muscles made when you smiled. You weren't like everyone else; he paid extra attention to you.
“I think red looks great on you,” you said, as he opened the case and gently ran his fingers along the rim of the glasses. “That’s why I made sure they had lenses of that color; it suits you.”
The glasses were square with rounded edges; the frame surrounding the lenses was hard, yet incredibly smooth to the touch, as if these glasses had been crafted with the utmost care for the wearer's senses.
For someone like Matt, who lived with all his senses except sight, feeling such a meticulously crafted product beneath his fingertips brought a warmth to his soul, but also a touch of guilt.
“How…?” Matt whispered, running his index finger along the smooth metal of the glasses. “This feels really expensive,” he said your name, swallowing hard. “How did you do this? You shouldn’t have done this for me, this is too much.”
You huffed, he could almost feel you rolling your eyes. “Why the hell does that matter? It’s a gift for you,” you said, downplaying it.
But Matt couldn't let the matter drop. There was a certain weight to this gift that neither of them could ignore.
You didn't have money, not enough to buy something like this. Your mother barely had enough for your lunch, if she even remembered you were supposed to eat, so a gift of this magnitude didn't make sense; there was no way you could get it… at least, not in a good way.
“How did you pay for this?” Matt pressed.
The background noise—students eating and laughing during their free time, a nun scolding someone, blackboards being cleaned, a broom caressing the floor—faded away. Everything focused on you. Everything in Matt focused on you; your heart rate increased, revealing a nervousness that wasn't usually like you.
“It doesn’t matter…” you said, crossing your arms. “You don’t like the gift? You didn’t even try them on, Matty!”
Matt said your name firmly. “Did you steal them?”
He tilted his head slightly, just enough to hear your heart race involuntarily. Right there.
“I didn’t steal the glasses,” you defended yourself, just as firmly as he did.
You weren't lying, not entirely. It was a half truth.
“And the money?” he pressed, not noticing that his hands were trembling slightly.
Matt could feel your gaze on him, the weight of your eyes analyzing his every move, searching for any part of you still willing to confront his moral compass.
Your smile wasn't something Matt had truly expected, but there you were: smiling.
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t steal the money from anyone who needed it,” you said simply, shrugging dismissively. “Trust me, that man didn’t even notice he was missing a few dollars.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Matt said, in a tone he’d never used with you before.
Without forgetting that his control had to be maintained physically, he carefully closed the case—it was still something too expensive—and closed his hands around it, inhaling and exhaling several times so as not to get even angrier.
“It doesn’t matter if you stole from someone with money, this isn’t right,” he said, finally dropping your name in a curt tone. “Especially not giving me something with dirty money.”
That made you angry. “Dirty money?” you exclaimed, this time louder, not caring if you were drawing attention. “Listen, you little saint, all money is dirty, okay? Especially money that comes from someone who has tons of it,” you spat out with a venom Matt had never seen before.
The way you said those words surprised Matt. He had some idea of your hatred for rich people, but this level of resentment wasn't something he expected, not from you.
“You’re going to return the glasses,” Matt ordered, grabbing your wrist, but you quickly broke free with a speed that surprised even him.
You never ceased to amaze him.
“Give it back?” you said, laughing. “Yeah, right,” you scoffed, with clear sarcasm. “Why can’t you accept something nice, huh? It’s for you, a gift from your girlfriend. I don’t understand what’s bothering you.”
“I’m serious,” Matt said, taking a step toward you; he wasn’t trying to intimidate you, but rather appeal to a part of you he didn’t want to see grow any larger—he would follow you, if you fell into a bottomless pit, Matt would follow you, perhaps because he was intense or because, at almost seventeen, you were the most precious thing he had: “We’ll go together, you and me. It doesn’t matter if we don’t find the person you stole from, we can… we can use this money to do something good,” he whispered to you.
He didn't care about the sudden closeness between you two, or if other students saw you and told the nuns later. He just wanted to be sure he could help you, that you could both follow the same path. Matt was afraid your behavior would escalate, or that you'd make a mistake and lose your life because of it. The idea terrified him.
But you pulled away, you pushed him back, creating a distance he never thought existed.
“Fuck off, Murdock,” you said, forcing a toughness that masked a certain pain inside you. “I did something good… for you,” you whispered. “But do whatever you want, you’re still the nuns’ little saint, I don’t care.”
Perhaps it was age, the fact that they were still dramatic teenagers, but that was the rift between them. They were never the same again, and you didn't take long to break up with him.
Months later, you disappeared. Matt searched for you, using everything he knew to exploit his senses, his schedule, even disregarding the nuns' orders to find you, but he had no luck. It was as if the earth had swallowed you whole.
Several times he went to the usual places where the cats you fed were, but there was no trace of you. Your scent of wild herbs mixed with cat fur had faded for him.
For years, in college and even after, Matt still wondered what had become of you. Perhaps, if the two of you had lasted a little longer, he might have discovered that the darkness inside him could be used for something good.
Perhaps he wouldn't have been with Elektra, but he would have been with you, and together you could have blurred the lines between moral and immoral. You would even have supported him with Daredevil; he was sure of it.
Anyway, Matt would never be sure. He never heard from you again.
Of course, that was until Foggy told him that Brett had called to tell him about a new case for both of them. A bribe for Brett's mother. Cigarettes were Foggy's thing, and although Matt didn't agree with giving cigarettes to an older woman, he couldn't deny that when he heard your name while Foggy was reading the case, his heart started racing.
You were alive, you were in Hell's Kitchen, and you needed a lawyer.
Months ago, you returned to Hell's Kitchen after several years away. You'd always stayed in New York; it was your place. But you'd stayed away from your hometown until a friend called you because she needed your help. You're a good friend, so you went without hesitation. You could help; you weren't the teenage girl you used to be. You were an adult with more resources than anyone could imagine.
Things went wrong. You were only supposed to be taking a walk around the apartment, familiarizing yourself with the area, both inside and out.
There shouldn't have been any dead bodies, but unfortunately, a corpse became part of your promise to help; a bald idiot with too much money but very little self-preservation.
You knew he had a target on his back, and that's what made him perfect, but the dark reality of Hell's Kitchen had ensnared you again. It was a trap, not for you, but for your friend. Yet, you were the one who went to the apartment where a dead man lay, a man whose death was now being blamed on you.
Now you find yourself sitting in an interrogation room, your wrists cuffed to the table, surrounded by two police officers who clearly wanted to frame you, even though you weren't the one they were trying to arrest.
You didn't expect two men claiming to be your lawyers to walk through the door, much less one who, despite the years, you easily recognized as your ex-boyfriend.
Red-tinted glasses rest on his face, obscuring his handsome brown eyes. You suppress the urge to smile at the sight.
You couldn't smile; you had to pretend to be a damsel in distress being wrongly accused—and in part, it was true; you hadn't killed anyone. And it genuinely frightened you, despite your reluctance to admit it, to be involved in something that had a dead body as its welcoming symbol, but it was amusing to see that Matt had followed your advice after all these years.
Shortly after, your wrists were freed thanks to Foggy Nelson, the other lawyer, the one who wasn't your ex-boyfriend.
As they take the opportunity to sit across from you, you rub your wrists while trying not to look at your teenage crush.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” your voice comes out a little shaky. It wasn’t on purpose, but you can’t help feeling them.
Even though you're someone who generally tries to be in control of your feelings, the fact that someone had died and that it involved you was something that turned your stomach. This went beyond your usual comfort zone.
“When I entered the apartment, he was already dead,” you murmur, swallowing hard as your eyes search for Foggy’s.
“Miss…” Matt says; he uses your full name to get your attention, and you give it to him.
He's handsome, he always has been. You could perfectly remember the first time you saw him in the school hallways; a nun was talking to him, smiling slightly as he took her arm and they walked. He caught your eye the moment you saw him. You couldn't tell if it was his defined yet youthful face, his seemingly silky, warm brown hair, or the affected air he carried. You knew something about him wasn't what it seemed.
You needed to know what it was. He wasn't just a blind boy facing life (even though that was partly true). There was something more to Matt Murdock, so you made it your mission to find him as many times as necessary until he started looking for you himself.
You still remembered the warmth of his lips when you first kissed. How flushed he looked because you two weren't supposed to be kissing there; or how scandalized he was when you hungrily kissed him in his room at the orphanage where he lived.
That time, it didn't take much for Matt to get permission for you to go to his humble room at the orphanage. He was a model student, and it was supposed to be just for studying. That wasn't your plan, but Matt made it clear that you could only kiss once more, and that was it.
Nonsense, of course. You kissed him as many times as you wanted, even if he was quietly apologizing to God for disrespecting Him and the nuns.
Matt's voice interrupts your small stream of thoughts and you return to the present.
“Oh, yes, excuse me,” you say, licking your lips. “What did you say?” you ask Matt directly.
Your eyes scan his face; his jawline is defined, there's a stubble that accentuates the inner features of his face, and his always-pink lips look more appealing to you.
Oh, how you loved to bite his lower lip and make him whimper in embarrassment…
“As we understand it, the victim was found with a knife lodged in his back,” Matt says.
You know he isn't looking at you—he can't—but you've known him long enough to recognize that deceptively relaxed posture. He's studying you. You don't know how, but every movement, every shift in your breathing, has his attention.
“And when you arrived at the scene, you were wearing a pair of gloves,” he continues evenly. “Those gloves were later collected as evidence after investigators found traces of the victim's blood on them.”
Bingo.
“I… yes,” you blurt out after a shaky breath. “I… I went in and I-I saw him on the floor…” You use your genuine nerves with your deceptive skills to begin your act. “He… there was a lot of blood and I just wanted to help…”
That was true. The moment you saw the bald man on the floor, your first instincts were to try to help, to try to apply pressure to the wound around the murder weapon. That was your mistake. The first thing you should have done was disappear from the scene, but something inside you stopped you.
And the gloves? You wore them on purpose. You didn't want to leave fingerprints when you investigated the area and the apartment, but luckily they helped your case because your fingerprints weren't on the knife.
As you spoke, you started moving your right leg up and down; a well-known sign of anxiety, and in these situations, it suited you to appear as someone who wasn't in control of certain parts of their body.
“I know I shouldn’t have been there…” you say, swallowing hard, tears welling in your eyes. “But my friend, Stacy, asked me to pick something up for her… she didn’t want to see Kevin again,” you say, referring to the dead man. “So I did… but I… I didn’t…” you break down, easily. “I didn’t kill him.”
Mixing truth and lies was easy. You didn't kill anyone, and it was true that you were doing a friend a favor, although Stacy wasn't her name and you weren't a completely innocent damsel in distress; your intentions weren't entirely so.
“I know what it looks like,” you whisper, sniffing. “But I didn’t kill him… and I have no way to pay you back, but… but I need help.” You look at Matt. “Please… I didn’t kill anyone, Matt,” you say, in that pleading tone you always did so well.
You noticed something change in Matt's posture; it was momentary, barely a second, but that was enough for you to notice. It was on purpose; of course, saying his name in that tone was deliberate.
“Don’t worry, we’ll help you,” Matt says, not letting Foggy intervene.
You ignored Foggy's expression and, inwardly, couldn't help but smile at the thought that your little saint was still as good as he had been in the past.
Your two beloved saviors managed to get you released after you spent a night at the police station. You had no criminal record, and it wasn't as if any of the officers had filed charges, so your temporary freedom was guaranteed.
You and Matt didn't speak more than necessary, just a normal greeting with a comment that hinted at nostalgia. He let you go back to your apartment to rest, and you didn't want to talk to him too much either; you would see each other again because the case wasn't over, and part of you wanted to pull on that small thread that existed between you.
But now wasn't the time; you still had something to take care of. For your friend, you promised to help her.
The alleyways, rooftops, and guttering of Hell's Kitchen became your playground with ease. The night was your friend, helping you jump, slip, and run without a trace. You didn't consider yourself a hero; you helped others now and then, specifically the most vulnerable women—perhaps because they reminded you of your mother, your younger self. But you weren't a vigilante, you weren't a hero, and you never would be.
It was easy to move in now that you had the right gear, your suit and the hood that gave you a certain sense of personal security. When they caught you, you were overconfident; you weren't even wearing your suit at the time. You weren't planning to steal anything then, just to scout the place, study the placement of the furniture, the windows. It was stupid, but now you knew you couldn't push your luck again.
You found what you were looking for where your friend had told you it would be; whoever had wanted to kill Kevin (the bald idiot, according to your friend) hadn't found the pretty ring that now lay in your grasp.
It was heavy, the gleam of the gold could blind, but it didn't draw everyone's attention thanks to the precious gem at its center: a diamond, a blood diamond, no less. How many innocent people had died for such a trifle? It wasn't your concern, but it gave you satisfaction to know that someone like you could take it so easily from someone like Kevin.
You put the ring in the inside pocket of your suit, on your chest, so you wouldn't lose it amidst all the jumping, and you left without looking back.
You didn't want to spend another moment in that apartment. The carpet still had a large bloodstain, and there was something heavy in the air, something that made you uneasy. Usually, you were in control of yourself whenever you entered a place like this, but perhaps the murder that occurred changed things.
Jump after jump, you slipped through the bustling night of Hell's Kitchen with what you needed to keep your promise of help.
A feeling of unease lingered even after you landed safely on the rooftop of the apartment building where you lived. You knew soon enough, perhaps through some sixth sense that had developed over the years, that you weren't alone.
“I didn’t know you were a fan of mine now,” you say.
You turn around with a lopsided smile.
The heels of your boots clicked against the concrete roof of the building. They weren't high heels; you weren't stupid. But they were high enough to help you if you were in the middle of a fight (digging your heel in always surprised a thug), and because you liked the extra height they gave you.
“Mr. Devil, isn’t that you?” you say, knowing full well that he’s there. There’s no one else who could be so silent and agile as to follow you and you only noticed it now. “Sorry, Daredevil. Mr. Daredevil,” you correct.
You watch him descend gracefully from the water tank atop the building. His suit is red, perfectly outlining the body beneath.
Just like in the photos circulating online, the only visible part of his body is his mouth and that sharp jawline that evokes familiar feelings, but ones you wouldn't associate with the image of Daredevil.
It wasn't the first time you'd crossed paths with Daredevil, but your encounters were always brief. You never allowed yourself to linger longer than necessary because you knew your place and didn't want to provoke the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
Yes, perhaps you once or twice gave him a little help—a tranquilizer dart to some thug or leaving a door open somewhere he wanted to go—but that didn't mean you were partners.
Several times you managed to escape him the moment he realized you weren't just a vigilante.
You were a thief above all else.
No, you didn't steal from ordinary people, you weren't that kind of person. But rich people? Oh, that was a different story.
“You’re going to tell me what you went to do at Kevin Smith’s apartment,” he says. No, orders.
You smile briefly, then let out a fake sigh of tiredness. "Oh, come on, I don't think the man cares, does he?"
You shouldn't have said that. You didn't even expect such a silly comment to ignite his fury, but it did.
Quickly, before you could react, your body slams against the wall behind you. A gasp escapes your lips at the sudden impact, and your arms are trapped beneath the devil's strong hands.
“There’s a dead man,” Daredevil says, his fingers digging hard into your arms. “And you think you can joke about this? I thought you were smarter.”
You swallow, laughing a little nervously, but laughing nonetheless. “Yes, he’s dead, but I have nothing to do with it, darling, and nobody’s going to care what’s missing in that department. Believe me, it’s got plenty of luxury.”
Daredevil remains silent for a few seconds, you see him tilt his head to the side; that gesture, that tiny gesture, is incredibly familiar. You've seen it before, but years ago, in memories that now only fill you with youthful nostalgia at dusk.
His grip loosened, not enough for you to break free, but enough for you to notice. It's strange, you know it is, and you can't stop your eyes from drifting down to his lips, to his jaw. The stubble that adorns the only skin he reveals, those pink lips…
“Matt?” you whisper before you can change your mind.
He tenses up instantly and that's confirmation enough for you—plus, those seconds of uncertainty that attacked him serve you perfectly.
You drive your knee into his groin, fast and sharp. The strike doesn't do much damage—his suit takes most of it—but it disrupts his footing. It's all the opening you need. Tucking your legs beneath you, you throw your weight forward and manage to take him down with you.
You hit the ground on top of him and immediately pin him there, settling one knee between his legs and pressing down just enough to make your point.
“So the little saint was just a facade, huh?” you say, running your index fingernail along his jaw, or rather, you run a claw over him.
The nail lightly scrapes his skin. You use claws that help you both climb and tear enough to hurt someone.
“You surprise me, Matty,” you murmur, now in a lower tone and gripping his jaw tightly.
Matt's breathing is uneven beneath you, and you could almost swear you can hear the rapid beat of his heart—the same heartbeat you used to send into a frenzy when you were teenagers. The thought alone draws a smile to your lips.
“Bad, Matty, bad,” you whisper and press your knee against his crotch, against the hard fabric covering his balls.
You hear him choke slightly and that only makes your smile bigger.
“It’s wrong to follow someone at night, didn’t your dear nuns teach you that?” you say in a sugary murmur. He grunts at the comment, and you press your knee even harder, a whimper escaping him. Oh, he likes that. It hurts, but he likes it. “Tsk. Who would look at you now, Matty. Dressed like a devil and getting hard on a rooftop. Nuh-uh, bad, bad, very bad.”
You squeeze harder, enjoying watching his lips part slightly and a trembling gasp escape him; part of the protection in his suit prevents you from actually hurting him, but you're using force to elicit this kind of reaction. He can feel the pressure, he can feel your knee pressing against his balls.
At the same time, you dig your nails into the skin of his face so as not to miss a single expression, no matter how small.
You squeeze harder, enjoying watching his lips part slightly and a trembling gasp escape him; part of the protection in his suit prevents you from actually hurting him, but you're using force to elicit this kind of reaction. He can feel the pressure, he can feel your knee pressing against his balls.
You dig your nails into the skin of his face, not wanting to miss a single expression, no matter how small it was.
“I’m sure your dear God is watching us now and wondering: What happened to my dear Matt?” you whispered, your tone feigning prayer. “Oh, look at you now, Matty…” a soft laugh escapes your lips and you push your knee down harder, earning another groan from him. “You’re a bad boy, you disappoint me,” you whisper against his lips.
Your hair falls around his face, caressing the exposed part, and Matt could swear a shiver ran down his spine. Your scent is infused with an expensive perfume, a blend of cedar and something else, something more yours—wild herbs with a hint of cat fur, of course. It was you, it was always you.
The first few times he encountered Black Cat—you—Matt had smelled the strong perfume that clung to your body. It threw him off balance quite a bit, but now he knew it was just a disguise to hide your true scent—intentional or not—; you managed to slip away from him, to conceal who you really were.
If only you hadn't worn that strong perfume, maybe the first time Matt saw you he would have guessed it was you, but you were always the best at slipping through his fingers.
Now here you were, fearlessly squeezing his balls with your knee, causing him pain in his lower spine and a dark, aroused feeling. He liked it, the pain and the way you were practically on top of him, whispering how bad he was; scratching his face and hurting his balls. It was pathetic, truly pathetic.
The moment you moved your face a little closer, probably ready to mock him once more, Matt decided not to hold back: he pressed his lips directly to yours.
Lips against lips, teeth against teeth.
The swift union of his mouth with yours takes you by surprise, just enough to stop the pressure in his balls and allow Matt to seize the winning hand. It was easy for him to change positions: now you lie trapped beneath him, you're the one under Matt now.
“You really always liked pushing my buttons, didn't you?” He grunts and brings one of his hands to your hair, tugging and earning a moan from you. “You always thought you were so clever with your smart-ass comments…”
You smiled despite everything. In your youth, it was hard to break Matt's saintly facade, but now? Now you were facing the devil that had always lived inside him.
“Well, I'm a very smart person, so clearly my comments will be too…” you say and moan as you feel him pull your hair.
“Shut your mouth before I put it to better use,” he orders, and you almost managed to reply.
Almost because he smashed his lips against yours again, in the same way, with the same desperation and search for control that neither of you had anymore, especially him.
His tongue licks your palate as your sharp nails dig into the fabric of his suit, reaching his face again. You lightly scratch the skin there, and he groans into your mouth; he quickly returns the favor, biting your lower lip hard, sending a tingling sensation through your now-aching pussy.
Not even in your wildest dreams did you imagine meeting Matt again, much less kissing him like this and him kissing you back in the same way.
But there you are, using your nimble fingers to remove Daredevil's helmet so you can get a better look. You want to see his brown eyes, you need to, to see that darkness that was smaller in his adolescence and that Matt now lets out.
Matt settles more comfortably over you, straddling your legs, his on either side of yours, before firmly grasping your wrists and pinning them above your head.
Your heart races, filled with a sense of rebellion, freedom, and detachment from everything that's right in that moment.
Those heartbeats resonated strongly in Matt's ears, mingling with your soft gasps as he traced the skin of your neck with his tongue. His stubble tickled you, a sensation that faded as the moisture of his saliva replaced it, sending shivers down your spine beneath him.
“Fuck,” you moan as Matt decides to bite your neck.
It was a slightly rough bite, one you soon forgot when Matt decided to pull at your suit until the zipper snapped under his strength. Your scent and sweat are delicious to Matt; you were unintentionally sending blood rushing straight to his cock.
“You feel so good,” Matt whispers, running his nose along the skin of your neck and inhaling deeply.
You don't complain when he takes off the rest of your suit, nor when he efficiently sheds his suit enough to do what he wants—what you both want.
He's hard for you, hard because of you. Thanks to every action you took with him, intentional or not.
His movements are methodical; he knows what he's doing and how to guide himself. He's nothing like the boy you lost your virginity to; he used to be tender, shy, and awkward, just like you were back then.
The two people on the rooftop bear no resemblance to the teenage memories they both cherish. Now you're an adult, half-naked, under the watchful, methodical gaze of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
When you reach out to touch him, Matt firmly pushes your hand away and spreads your legs, settling between them. His now-ungloved hands roam over your hips, shamelessly tracing the contours of your body, as if memorizing them.
Finally, Matt lifts your legs to his hips, and one of his hands travels to your throat. He doesn't squeeze hard enough to suffocate you, but enough to let you know you're not in control anymore. He's in charge.
“You’re quiet now, kitten,” he mocks, squeezing lightly. “Where did your bravery from a few minutes ago go, huh? You were a different person when you were squeezing my balls without giving a shit,” another squeeze, this time hard, on your throat that easily makes you gag.
With his free hand, he reaches for the fabric of your panties. First, he runs two fingers along the slit where your wetness now hangs, testing the waters; it doesn't take long for him to forcefully tear the fabric, leaving your cunt exposed and your mouth slightly open from a gasp that escaped your lips as you felt him rip the fabric away.
“Those were expensive panties,” you say, panting slightly as you feel Matt begin to rub his cock against your wet folds.
You want to watch, you want to see how the pre-cum-covered tip of his cock slides through your folds, mingling with you, but the hand on your throat prevents you from taking your eyes off him, of his face.
“I hope you bought them and didn’t steal them,” he replies, and you see a lopsided smile appear on his face.
Before you can answer, Matt steals your breath again and plunges his cock completely inside you. Without warning, without any more foreplay, he simply decides to smash his cock deep inside you.
“Is this what you wanted, hm?” he says, licking his lips. “You wanted to be fucked stupid?” Matt murmurs, keeping your body pinned against him and the rooftop floor. “Come on, say something bratty now, bitch, huh. I dare you,” he says in a tone that almost makes you gasp. “Or should I say kitten?”
You arch your back at the sudden sting of being stretched without preparation, but it's not unpleasant; it's a vivid sensation, teetering on the line between pain and pleasure. A line between darkness and light, one you've always enjoyed crossing.
Matt lets out a whimper as he feels the heat of your body mold around his cock. He can hear your ragged breathing, the sound of your pulse hammering against his palms like a trapped bird. Tonight, there was no such thing as a saint; the week's exhaustion and the exasperating perfection of your demeanor had pushed him to the limit. He had truly believed you were innocent, and he knew that, in part, you were.
But you were still you, and you needed to play with life's morality.
Matt wants to drown your cheeky wit with something far more primal. This is revenge for you leaving him years ago, for disappearing like so many others in his life without a word. He needed to delve deep inside you to quell the raging demon within.
As he thrusts into you, the friction is electric, a searing sensation that clouds his senses, leaving only you and his hunger to possess you.
You can't stop the gasps and moans escaping your lips, your breath ragged, and the weight of his hand around your throat keeps you captive to his control, to his movements, to the deep plunge of his cock forcing its way into your now-filled cunt.
“Look at you…” Matt says, growling slightly. “You’re a liar, aren’t you? You love to lie, to lie to me…” He gives you a hard, deliberate thrust.
You arch your hips to find his; what he gives you isn't enough. You want some control, some movement that comes from you, not just him. Your hands roam over his arms until they both rest on the hand that holds your throat. Your fingers dig into the skin there, scratching, tearing, so he can feel the burning and the pleasure at the same time, just like you.
You can't help but let out a breathless laugh. “Little saint, who would have thought you could fuck like this under the watchful eye of your God, huh?” you mock, despite the way your voice trembles, you manage to do it.
Your eyes sparkle with a certain mischievousness characteristic of you, and you throw your head back as Matt thrusts his hips forcefully; a strong thrust, one that you felt deep inside you.
“I always knew there was a brute hidden inside you,” you manage to say between gasps, as your legs tighten around his hips. You pull him deeper, even deeper, your nails digging into his hand and forearm.
Matt's jaw tenses, a mocking smile appears at the corner of his lips.
“A brute? Seriously?” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice becoming a dangerous, husky whisper. “Then let’s see how much of this brute you can take before you start begging God for mercy.”
It doesn't surprise you when Matt increases the pace of his thrusts: stronger, more rhythmic, and brutal. Each one steals your breath, and you can't help but become a bundle of whimpers beneath the hand that tightens around your throat.
The sensation is wonderful, the way his hips slam against yours, the slap of his balls against your skin that makes your toes curl.
Matt shifts position and grabs your wrists, pressing them against the cold rooftop floor. His brown eyes are darker than usual, and you could almost swear they were fixed on you; you knew he was incapable of seeing you, but you remembered enough to know that Matt was looking at you in his own way. Everything about him was focused on you, everything.
And Matt desperately wants to feel the moment your courage finally crumbles, when you stop making shitty comments and surrender completely to the pleasure only he can give you.
So he brings your wrists together, holding them with one hand, and with his free hand, he cups your face the same way you had before, but without digging his nails into your lovely skin. Instead, Matt places his thumb on your lips and forces you to suck on it, the same thumb that, now wet, traces its way down the valley of your breasts, your abdomen, the curls of your pussy, all the way to your clit.
“Matt!” you moan this time without restraint, without smart-ass comments.
The sudden pressure on your clitoris makes you tighten your legs around him and makes your moans more frequent.
“That’s it… let me hear you,” Matt groans, his voice hoarse and authoritative.
The bastard knows he has you right where he wants you. He can feel every fluctuation in your heartbeat, every shiver, every tightening of your body. Matt is reveling in the way your vaginal walls grip his cock tighter and tighter.
He's basking in how your bravado melts into soft moans, uninvited whimpers, and steady gasps.
Matt feels the wetness of your arousal envelop him completely, making it easier for him to thrust. He knows that if he keeps this up, he'll come inside you, and that's not what he wants—he wants to finish inside you, but he doesn't want to do it before you. That would be a sacrilege he couldn't bear.
He fucks you harder, deeper, feeling the rhythmic contractions of your walls tightening more and more. “That’s it… give it to me, beautiful,” he moans into your ear, while his hips have a lethal rhythm and his thumb rubs and pinches your clitoris with the help of his index finger without any problems.
“Fuck…” you whisper between moans, now more needy. “Matt… please…” you beg. You beg for him.
You hear Matt gasp as he feels you getting closer, the wet heat of your pussy contracting in perfect sync with his thrusts. You can hear the wet, rhythmic sound of your bodies colliding; the friction sends shivers down your spine.
Matt doesn't hold back, and you're grateful, because all you want in this moment is to reach orgasm around him.
His cock plunged deep inside you, burying itself against the back of your cunt as he sought to fill every inch of your available space. The scent of your fluids mingling with his rose, an intoxicating cocktail of sweat and musk that fueled the desperate hunger of the man fucking you like there was no tomorrow.
Your breathing became increasingly uncontrolled, your now-free hands going to his arms for support; you didn't care about digging your nails in there, there was no time to analyze anything, you just wanted to pull him closer.
“Matt…” you moan once more, your voice tense and sensual, making his blood boil.
Matt's hands grip your hips as he tries to anchor himself to you, keeping your body exactly where he needs it to be so he can keep fucking your pussy the way you both discovered you liked. He feels the wetness of your clit brushing against him with each thrust, the friction creating unbearable tension.
One of his hands slides down your abdomen to your breasts, his thumb grazing a hardened nipple as he thrusts into you with relentless force.
“I’ve got you,” Matt moans, letting his head fall onto your shoulder, his lips brushing your ear. It’s a delight to be able to hear every gasp, every moan and whimper he lets out just for you.
You felt your muscles tense, the unmistakable sign of the climax you were about to reach, and you knew he was aware of it too. Matt increased the speed of his thrusts, the friction between you creating a hot, sweltering heat.
“Let it go, give it to me, sweetheart,” Matt whispers, panting against your ear. “I know you have it, just for me, right? You’ll stop being a disobedient bitch and give it to me, won’t you?”
That same tone makes you a wreck beneath him, completely letting go of the reins and coming all over Matt's cock.
As you orgasm, Matt lets out a muffled whimper, his own body tensing and trembling. He penetrated you so deeply one last time, his cock throbbing inside your wet heat as his semen spills inside you, filling you with a hot, thick torrent.
Silence doesn't reign between you because your short breaths are the only sounds you hear. Or at least, that's what you hear, because Matt can hear every tiny sound involving you: the rapid beating of your heart, the throbbing of your satisfied cunt, and the squelching sounds of the mingled fluids inside you and around him.
Your legs tremble, and Matt's hands, once rougher, caress your thighs from top to bottom as you loosen your grip around his hips.
You don't make a smart-ass comment like you usually would; you just let your body relax beneath his.
Matt is warm, his body hot against yours, whether from the sex you just had or because, unlike you, he's wearing more of his suit.
That leaves you even more breathless. The intensity of the sex was so intense that you couldn't even process that Daredevil had just fucked you, still partially in his costume, on the rooftop of your apartment building. It was surreal.
You swallow hard as you close your eyes for a moment, just long enough for Matt to cup your jaw in his hand, forcing you to pay attention.
“I know you didn’t kill him,” Matt whispers, his voice still husky. “But you’re still… you, aren’t you? You can’t help getting into trouble, crossing the line. Was it all because of that ring?” he says against your ear. It sends shivers down your spine again, but it’s impossible not to; you’ve got him soft and buried deep inside you.
For a moment you had forgotten the ring, you had forgotten the whole affair that brought you both here, that brought you back to Hell's Kitchen, but soon Matt's voice draws you back to him.
“You disappeared, you left me…” You feel him smile against your ear. “It won’t happen again.”
It's a warning. Matt is letting you know he won't let you slip through his fingers again. And perhaps, this time, you wouldn't try to escape.
notes: here we are! the truth is, this ended up being longer than i expected, but that's because i couldn't figure out how to do the ending right, and… well, i kept going over the same thing. this is a one-shot, not a series, so I decided to stop dwelling on it.
i still have my doubts about writing sex scenes, but i hope at least someone enjoys it.
if anyone reads this, i hope you liked it and enjoyed reading it! i appreciate comments and reblogs. <3
tag: @lostfallenangelsblog
