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pedrito-friskito · 2 years

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no control - matt murdock x vigilante!reader

summary: matt’s been thinking too hard, and needs you to…help.

warnings: mentions of canon-typical injuries, sub!matt, religious mentions(?), oral (f receiving), p-in-v sex, reader bends matt to her will a little and here we are

a/n: no thots head empty matt murdock on his knees (putting this under the kitten and the devil cuz technically it is but this is mostly just smut, not a lot/zero plot 😋)

| series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 |

Matt feels like his brain is on fire.

He can’t stop thinking, can’t stop worrying, can’t stop running through ten million different what ifs and scenarios in his mind. The state of his city, the state of his world, the state of his life. It’s overwhelming, making his throat go dry and his knuckles tense around whatever he can get his hands on; his cane, a cup of coffee, your hips. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat. He paces the apartment while you doze in his bed, worn out from your own patrols and general bad-assery. You’d come in early, clutching your arm, the coppery taste and smell of blood lighting Matt’s senses.

It was a shallow cut, nothing major, and you’d whined more about the hole in your suit more than the gash in your arm. He’d stitched you up anyway, kissing your forehead when he was done and tucking you into his bed.

Then he’d paced the apartment, chewing at his nails, the scent of you back home easing him slightly but doing little to stop the madness of his mind, the anxiety in his gut. Eventually, he fell asleep in the living room chair, neck twisted at an awkward angle. You’d been too tired to notice he hadn’t come to bed, but when he woke, there was a blanket draped over him, and the familiar imprint of your lips on his cheek.

He can hear you humming a familiar tune — Sinatra, he’s pretty sure, Fly Me to the Moon — and it rouses him as he puts the blanket aside, gets to his feet on aching joints. Then he pads into the kitchen to find you standing at the stove, your back to him, spatula in hand. The savoury scent of hash browns fills the air, your favourite spice mix invading his nose, and there’s fresh coffee in the pot.

You’re wearing one of his button ups, none of the buttons in their rightful places, the sides hanging open and just barely covering your chest. It makes his cock jump in his sweats just hearing the rustle of the fabric against your skin. As soon as he’s close enough, he puts his arms around your waist, reaching up to pull the shirt collar away from your neck so he can bury his face there, stubble scraping your skin and making you hum, the song forgotten and replaced with the pleased noise.

“Forgive me, kitten,” he whispers against your pulse, “for I have sinned.”

He closes his teeth around your neck then, sucking a bruise into your skin, eyes rolling back at the taste of you and the way he hears your heartbeat stutter in time with his ministrations. He lets both hands go wide, one resting against your stomach, the other moving lower, sliding down your thigh and then squeezing the flesh, feeling your muscle jump.

He hears the curve of your grin, playful and sweet. “You realize we’re not in a church, Matthew,” you say quietly, reaching up and turning the stove off. You turn slowly in his arms, and he lets his hands slide across your body as you move, his palm coming to rest at the small of your back, fingers settling in the notches of your spine. His other hand reaches up, tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, nails scraping lightly down your jaw. “Most of the things we’ve done within these walls are anything but holy.”

Matt grins, pushing at your back, closing the small distance between your bodies. You make a mewling sound when his hips press into yours, the clothed outline of his cock against your stomach. “True,” he admits, and slides his hand into your hair, gathering it in his fist and tilting your head to the side with his newfound grip. “Even so, I need…help.”

“Help?” you repeat, your breath hitching when he lowers his face into your neck once more, mouth working at the bruise he’d already left, making it bloom further. “Tell me what you need, Matthew.”

Matthew. How is it that something as simple as his full name can render him so vulnerable to you? He’s still trying to figure that out. “I need,” he says against your pulse, “to stop thinking. I need to stop trying to be in control. I need you to do it for me. Just for a while. Please, kitten.”

You slide your arms around his shoulders, hands roving his bare back, tracing his scars and kneading his flesh. It makes him moan against you, gathering you closer to him, finally feeling that knot of worry start to unravel within him. “I can do that,” you whisper, and he lifts his head, mouth not leaving your skin, travelling up the curve of your chin until he reaches your mouth, kissing you roughly, sinking his teeth into your bottom lip. “Just for a while.”

He melts into you, drinking down the taste of you like a man dying of thirst on a deserted island. Your hands start to move, tracing his outline, finding more scars to trace, more muscle to outline, more flesh to press. You move backwards, guiding him away from the still-hot stove, towards the small wall between the kitchen windows. He hears your back impact, shoulders shifting against the brick.

You plant both hands on his shoulders then, your nails digging into his muscle just enough to make his lips part. You push gently at first, just enough for him to take the hint, and then the push grows firmer. He’s slow to sink down, using his hands on your hips as leverage.

“On your knees, Matthew,” you whisper, your voice husky with lust and like honey to his ears. “Kneel.”

It’s exactly what he needed. You catch his chin in your hand, thumb rubbing across his stubble, up and over his bottom lip. When you push the tip of your thumb into his mouth, he moans, closing his mouth around the digit and sucking, revelling at the taste of your skin. Then you push on his shoulders again, and he goes.

He worships you all the way down, pushing away the fabric of his shirt on you body, dragging his tongue down the middle of your chest, over your sternum. Your nails dig in deeper when his knees finally hit the hardwood, his face level with your underwear, and he ghosts his mouth across the fabric, sighing into you when your scent intensified, thighs quivering as you adjusted your stance.

“Take them off,” you whisper, “like a good boy.”

He can’t stop himself from groaning, pushing his face closer to your core, cock throbbing between his legs when he feels the fabric grow wetter, the taste of you tainted by the barrier between but delicious all the same. But you stop him, one hand moving to the crown of his head, knuckles locking in his hair, yanking his head back. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to remind him what he asked for. He grips your hips tighter, instantly drunk off the feeling, eyes rolling back as your nails drag along his scalp.

“I said, take…them…off.”

He obeys, the worry unravelling completely, unspooling through his body and leaving only tingling nerves behind. It’s a miracle he doesn’t shred the fabric, and though all he wants to do is dive in when you’re bared to him, he stops, tilting his head back, waiting. Asking.

You reward him with a smile, your grip on his hair loosening. “You know what I like.”

God, does he ever. Permission granted, he slides between your parted legs, hooking one shoulder under your thigh until your knee bends over him, heel dragging down his spine. Your scent overwhelms him now, his brain going empty of all thought as he puts his mouth to the inside of your thigh, lapping at your skin, swallowing down the wetness already gathering. You’re always so wet for him, so pretty, so perfect.

“No teasing,” you chide, your hand tightening again slightly. He nods dumbly against your skin, lifts his jaw, and drags his tongue up your slit. His tastebuds implode with the combination of your scent and taste, and he moves up slightly so he can suck at your clit, rejoicing in the moaned echoes of his name falling from your lips and the way your heartbeat picks up when he gives you just a little bit of teeth.

Your body folds in half when you cum, choked moans of his name reaching his ears and both your hands wrapping around his head, holding him buried in his favourite place on earth. He takes whatever you give, licking you through it, hands wandering around to squeeze your ass.

He can hear the heave of your chest when you start to push him away, nudging his head and pulling your leg from his shoulder. He goes, almost unwillingly, daring one final swipe of his tongue from your still-dripping entrance to your clit. It earns him a harder nudge to the centre of his chest, but Matt doesn’t care, leaning back on his knees, tilting his head towards you, licking the taste of you from his lips and chin.

“On your back,” you demand, pushing at his shoulder, and he goes, twisting his knees under him until he’s flat on his ass. You lower yourself, his shirt landing in a puddle of fabric on the counter as you go, and he feels your knees either side of his ribs, wet hot heat hovered above him, messing with the temperature of the air in the most perfect way, leaving him itching to touch himself, to give himself some sort of relief.

You do it for him, reaching back for the waistband of his sweats, pushing them down his hips until his cock springs free, smacking against your ass. It makes his whole body jolt, every nerve doubly sensitive. You adjust, dragging your drenched core along his length, and he keens up into the touch, hands reaching for your body, your hips, your ass, anything he can grab onto.

But you beat him to the bunch, fingers curling around his wrists, and you force them back, over his head, pinning him down, leaving him at your mercy. His head is empty, save for the scent of you, the feel of you, the taste of you. “I’m in control, Matthew,” you purr, your mouth close to his ear, and he arches up into the sound, jaw going tight. “It’s my turn.”

You have good aim to start with, and he’s grateful for it now, with the way you nudge your knees slightly wider, curve your back, and slide right onto his achingly hard cock. It’s an easy slide, your wetness guiding him into your heat, still tight and delicious and making his eyes roll back so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall right out of his head.

You feel like heaven, just like this, your hips flush with his, cock buried deep inside you, your strength keeping him pinned in place. He’s wanton with his moans, praying to God that you’ll kiss his mouth, his neck, his chest, anything; he just needs to feel your mouth on him somewhere.

You feel like heaven, but then you start to move.

It’s an uninterrupted pace. You find your rhythm and run with it, hips lifting and falling onto his so hard he actually sees stars, white dots shooting across his flame-tinged vision. Every slam and he’s that much closer, every deep grind and he’s straining in your grip, but it’s exactly what he needs.

No control, no control, you’re in control. He doesn’t need to be, not right now.

“Matthew,” you call, pulling him back to himself, his name high-pitched in your throat. “Baby, I’m gonna cum.” You release his hands, straightening your back, and there’s only one thought in his head: you’re gonna cum, and he’s gonna help you get there.

One hand reaches for your chest, grasping your breast, pinching your nipple between his knuckles, while the other moves down your body, falling into the curve of your hip while his thumb lands on your clit. A few tight circles, a hard press, and you’re gone again, body going taut and your core so tight around him it makes him cum, surprising you both.

He gathers you into his chest in an instant, fucking up into you with what little stamina he has left. He cums so hard he forgets where he is, for a moment, teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder while you sink a hand in his hair and tug.

You both collapse onto the floor a moment later, chests heaving, hands still half-clinging to each other. You blow out a breath, head lolling towards him. Your eyes flutter shut, and you tilt your head, pressing your mouth to his shoulder in a soft kiss.

“Let’s just stay here,” you whisper, “just for a while.”

—————

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