Chapter Text
There's a shadow in Matt's apartment.
To the sighted, the figure standing by the windows would be a silhouette against the light of the billboard. A black absence, a hole in the field of vision. To Matt's senses, the outline of this intruder is a staticky shimmer. Aside from the strong smell of gunmetal and cordite, he fades between real and unreal, person and thing. His body is so still and so cool; his heart too steady for someone who broke into Matt's home, armed, clearly expecting a fight. He's calm, unexcited, unworried.
A shadow that breathes like a machine and is holding a gun.
Matt's footsteps slow on the roof access stairs. He still has his mask on but he has to assume that there's enough light for the intruder see exactly which Hell's Kitchen vigilante lives here.
'Who are you?' he calls out.
'Everett. William Everett.' The voice is low and quiet, nearly inflectionless.
'What do you want?'
'To find you.'
'Congratulations. You've found me. What's next on the list?' If he vaulted the handrail now, he could close the distance before Everett got too many shots off, and his Daredevil suit should be at least a little bit bulletproof at this range. The guy seems sturdy but not big, and if Matt could get the gun, there's no way this guy could take him in a fight. But Matt's distracted by the slowness of Everett's heart. It feels wrong somehow, altered, and each beat is loud and sour in his teeth.
A nearly-imperceptible click tells Matt that the safety's been flicked off, and Everett levels the gun at him in a two-handed grip. 'Come down. Slowly.'
Putting his hands in the air, Matt walks down the steps. 'You know this isn't going to work, right?'
'You aren't faster than bullets,' Everett retorts, his voice still soft, and Matt's steps eat up the distance between them. Closer, nearly. There's only the sofa and chairs between them now. Bring me that steady heart, Matt thinks, I'll make it race.
'I don't have to be. I just have to be faster than you.'
'Then you'll never find out what sort of takeout your lover had in his bag for your dinner.' The fist that has lived clenched around Matt's stomach since he was eleven gives a vicious squeeze. He stops walking.
'Where is your famed courage, Daredevil?' The voice doesn't rise. A gloat would be better. Sneering insults would tell Matt that he's dealing with a man who feels fear and can be hurt, but these soft words belong to a man who isn't remotely worried about losing control.
'If you've hurt Foggy, you're dead,' Matt grits out. In the pit of his stomach, he always knew that this day would come, but being loved by Foggy made his fears seem fuzzy and far away. He should never have let this happen, should never have let Foggy into this world. But Foggy made himself at home in Matt's life long before Daredevil did, and Matt never had the tools to keep him out for good. This is my fault. I should have known better.
Everett leans close. 'I'm not the one who's hurt him.' Stupid. Matt's moment of tantrum lets Everett right in his space. On any other day this would mean he has the upper hand, but now he's got the muzzle of a gun kissing his jaw, and it's only a little less frightening than Everett knowing exactly what he's thinking. Like he's a villain made out of Matt's worst fears.
'I don't believe you,' Matt says, more firmly then he feels. 'You don't have him. You can't hurt him.'
Everett pushes something into his hands. It's a braided leather bracelet. The one Foggy wears on his right wrist for good luck. He wore it during exams. He wore it when they interviewed for Landman and Zack. He wore it their first day as Nelson and Murdock.
'This might not be his.'
'Smell it.' Matt lifts it to his nose. He smells coffee, and salt, and Foggy. He pushes it down over his hand, tucking it under his sleeve.
'Don't hurt him. I'll do anything,' Matt says, squaring his shoulders.
Everett's dark 'I know,' sends chills up Matt's spine. 'Take off your mask.' Matt's adam's apple bobs against the gun. He reaches up and pulls it off.
'Pretty face.'
'I can't say the same.' The gun digs in a little harder.
'Keep a civil tongue, Daredevil, or lose it. How does the suit open?' Matt gestures to the catches and Everett undoes them one-handed before pushing the chest plate aside. Everett's leather gloves brush against Matt's belly when he pops the belt and lowers the fly.
'Clothes off.' The gun's still at Matt's throat, and he awkwardly shrugs off the top and steps out of the boots and pants. When he stands naked save for his boxers and Foggy's bracelet, Everett draws the gun down the line of his chest.
'On your knees.' Matt folds, fists tight against his legs. Everett's palm cups his jaw and it's unnervingly gentle. 'Open your mouth.' Matt's nostrils prickle with gunpowder and the muzzle pushes against his lips. He closes his eyes and curls his tongue around cold metal, inhaling sharply like he loves it. Everett's heart gives a single shuddery bump before falling back into rhythm, and Matt silently crows in triumph.
He moans and sucks more of the gun into his mouth, running his tongue over the ridges and flicking at the muzzle like it's the slit of a cock. As a sop to safety, he reaches up to make sure there isn't a finger on the trigger and then sinks his mouth down as far as he can. Hard edges dig into his palate and Matt chokes, but he forces his throat to relax and sucks around the barrel all the way down to the trigger guard. Everett swears, so softly even Matt has to strain to hear. He pulls off and runs his tongue over his lips.
'Did you like that?' he asks, smirking.
'I like that you got hard blowing my gun.' Matt drops his head. He'd hoped it was too dark to notice.
'Don't take it as a compliment.'
'Don't worry, I won't.'
'Am I blowing you next?' Matt asks belligerently.
'Do you want to?' Soft voice, nearly gentle. The back of Matt's neck prickles with sweat.
'I want to do whatever gets Foggy away from you.'
'And the thought of your lover's safety is what's given you wood?' Matt doesn't answer. He doesn't have one. 'Or perhaps it is me. That's very...complimentary.'
'Fuck you.'
'You'll ask sweeter than that if you really want it.' Two impressions overlay each other. Everett's bored, sibilant voice and Foggy's, so full of emotion when he says 'yes, Matt, yes—so beautiful, so good.' It makes Matt's head spin and his traitorous blood rush south.
He covers it with anger. 'You're gonna die screaming for this. I'm gonna open up your heart with my nails.'
'You already have.' Everett's voice is, strangely, nakedly truthful. Matt flashes back to his first impression—a shadow that breathes like a machine. Matt doesn't remember all his fights, but he's pretty sure injuring someone so badly they'd need a new heart would have stuck with him.
'Then this is revenge?'
'Let's just say it's deserved.'
'I don't know who you are!' Matt's frustrated, and cold, and his mouth tastes like metal. Foggy's out there somewhere but he's got nothing to go on, and as much as he burns with the humiliation of being on his knees, he's got to wait for his opening to make Everett bleed the answers he needs.
'You will.'
A cool, bare thumb strokes over Matt's cheekbone, and he flinches. He smells sweat on Everett's hands, warm residual leather, and spent matches.
'I saw you fighting once. You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.' Everett runs his fingers through Matt's hair, around his jaw, claws blunt nails gently along his throat.
'Where?' Stay focused. Gather intel. Matt scolds himself, but he can hear his own voice. He sounds dazed.
Everett huffs a tiny laugh. 'Around.' He pushes two fingers into Matt's mouth and wraps the other the other hand around Matt's throat. Matt scrapes his teeth over surprisingly delicate knuckles and sucks hard.
His skin tastes of burnt sugar and leather and it's devastating. Matt's senses throttle open so he can take in all of Everett, decipher his body down to the atom. He wants the skin of Everett's neck between his teeth—he wants the taste of his bicep, his navel, the inside of his thigh.
Everett pulls out of Matt's mouth slowly, and Matt certainly doesn't chase him with his tongue. 'I want you to touch me.'
Hesitantly, Matt inches his hand along Everett's inseam, but it's wrenched away.
'I want you to know exactly who has you on your knees. Use your hands, Daredevil, and see me.' Everett pushes at Matt's head, forcing it down, forcing his whole body into a submissive curl. Matt reaches out and finds a pair of shoes—assault boots with thick soles, laced tight around stocky ankles and calves. Sturdy, combat-style pants. A holster with a strap that runs all the way around his leg. Matt dips his nose into it and inhales gun oil and black powder.
'Please', Matt says. He doesn't know what he's asking for. He digs his fingers into muscled thighs and curls his knuckles into the hollows at the back of Everett's knees.
Everett's fist in his hair loosens fractionally, becomes something guiding and firm rather than a searing, captive grip. Matt rubs his face over pockets, rivets, the nylon webbing of a belt. He darts his tongue out and licks at a flat metal belt buckle. Above him, Everett's heart is steady and decisive as a metronome, and Matt is more turned on by that than when his mouth on the gun made it jump once. When he's done turning Matt to a slavering, whimpering mess, Everett's heart will still tick in that controlled, unemotional rhythm, and that's the most arousing thing of all.
Please, just please, he thinks, sucking at the corner of the buckle. A booted foot shifts between his spread knees and he grinds down on a hard shin as his hands travel higher. He makes fists in a shirt that's sensually soft on his palms after the rough weaves of khaki and nylon straps, but it refuses to be rucked up any further than a few inches. Matt forces his hands open and traces over a hard plate, some sort of armoured vest that covers Everett's stomach and chest. It's so in the way of the skin Matt wants to feel and he paws at the buckles along the side. Everett squeezes Matt's wrist brutally, warningly.
Matt dips his chin in a promise to be good.
'Can I stand?' His voice is almost all air. Instead of answering, Everett grabs the back of his neck and pulls. Matt sways wildly, his legs bloodless and cold, but Everett catches him around the ribs. It's a perversion of an embrace. He can feel the cold plastic of the gun rig against his cock through the fabric of his underwear and he whines. Even though he's nearly naked, Matt feels hot, feels in heat—if given permission, he'd rub off on any body-part allowed him: Everett's boot, his shin, the holster strapped around that tree-trunk thigh. He'd shove him back and ride the ridges of his body armour, just grind his cock against Everett's chest until he came in his boxers.
'Go on,' says that soft, even voice, and Everett lifts Matt's arm with barrel of the gun. It still smells of Matt's saliva. Matt finds the collar of a field jacket and sweeps his hands over broad shoulders and gorgeously solid arms. Everett's breath flickers over Matt's wet and bitten lips.
'Will you kiss me?' Matt asks, meek and overwhelmed.
'Not until you've earned it.' He lets go of Matt—he's standing on his own feet now—picks up one of Matt's hands, and presses it to his neck. The thudding under the skin makes Matt's senses whirl, each heartbeat is like a hammer on an anvil, a firecracker, a blow to the head. Coarse hair brushes Matt's knuckles and he taps his fingertips over a tidy, soft beard, short sideburns, and long hair scraped back into a compact bun.
Everett doesn't gasp when Matt's fingers brush his mouth, but Matt does. He wants to feel those lips—so lush and soft even though they're unsmiling—they'd burn, he thinks. They'd sear him, scar him. Everett's mouth would incinerate him, and Matt wants it so much. Everett closes his eyes under Matt's touch, and his eyelashes make the pads of Matt's fingers tingle.
Matt returns to the pulse beating in Everett's throat. He wants to run his tongue over it, curl up on Everett's broad shoulder next to that steady, immoveable heartbeat and just—expire.
'Do you know me now, Daredevil?' Everett's voice buzzes through Matt's fingertips.
Matt nods; he does know this man. 'Are you going to hurt me?'
'Yes.' Soft. True.
'And Foggy will be safe?'
'Yes.'
'Then do it.' Everett picks him by the hips and starts walking. Matt clutches at his shoulders, falls back on his elbows when his ass bumps the dining table. He can feel Everett's eyes eating him up.
'You don't need the gun. I'll behave.'
Everett holsters the gun wordlessly. He pushes off his jacket but doesn't move to take off anything else. He strokes his palm up Matt's thigh and his fingers disappear under the leg of Matt's boxers.
'Fuck,' Matt whispers. Everett's whole hand is snugged up inside his underwear, brushing his pubic hair, knuckles pressing behind his balls. With a growl, Everett fists the crotch of his boxers from the inside and tears them down Matt's legs. Matt's cock springs up and kisses his abdomen with a puddle of precome.
'Pretty,' Everett says, his voice almost breathless.
'Lick it, oh Jesus Christ, Everett, please lick it.'
He does—a broad, wet swipe over his belly, and Matt's elbows almost stop supporting him. Everett wraps a hand over Matt's cock, maddeningly slack, and Matt bounces his ass to try to get some friction from the loose channel.
Cold metal digs into the centre of his chest. 'That's not behaving.'
'I'll be good.' Everett works his cock slowly, deliberately, pulling almost all the way off before smoothing his hand down to the base. Matt's toes curl with the effort of staying still, and it burns. Everett doesn't change his rhythm, but jerks Matt's cock in time with his steady, unchanging heart. 'Please, won't you kiss me? ' Matt's lips form the words, but nothing comes out.
Everett seems to know anyway. 'Not yet,' he says, but he shoves Matt's knee to his chest and kisses his puckered hole wetly. Matt bleats in surprise and white knuckles the edge of the table. He wants his fists in Everett's hair, he wants beard burn all the way back to his tailbone, he wants his ass frenched till his eyes roll up and he wants it from this man, this immoveable force that pinned the devil with a handgun and insight.
But insight cuts both ways, and Everett scrapes the sensitive flesh of Matt's thigh with his beard before straightening.
'No,' Matt sobs, 'please, don't stop. Do it again.'
'I told you this was going to hurt,' Everett says, but rubs a tiny circle over Matt's hole with his thumb. Matt shakes and shakes but stays put. When he takes that away too, Matt feels cold without a hand on him.
'Let's talk about Foggy.' Everett walks a circle around the table, assessing.
'What do you want to know?'
'Do you love him, Daredevil?'
Matt's breathing is harsh. 'Yes, I love him. Oh god, please touch me.'
And what would he say if he saw you with another man's hand on you?' Everett strokes the head of Matt's cock.
'I don't know! Everett, I don't know,' he hisses.
'Would he leave? Would he slam the door?'
'No,' Matt pants, 'Foggy would never leave me.'
'He'd stay and watch. He'd get hard.'
Matt moans, imagining Foggy's blood racing so sweet and perfect from watching Matt getting fucked. He'd squeeze his cock inside his pants and tell Matt under his breath how much he liked what he saw. 'Oh god.'
'You wish he were here watching us.' Everett runs nails up his shaft and Matt's leg kicks out uncontrollably, his head dropping back. 'You want him to see this.'
Matt keens, shaking. It's too much to think about. He'd be deafened by the syncopated heartbeats, buffeted from both sides while Everett's hands roamed and Foggy's words lanced through his mind.
'I want to do.' He's panting roughly and it's hard to get words out with Everett torturing his cock with light touches and firm strokes at random, making Matt's spine tighten like a coiled spring. 'Whatever it takes. To get Foggy back.' It's as convincing as a wet rag, and the rumble in Everett's chest says he thinks so too.
Suddenly, Matt's ankles are by his ears and his ass is spread wide. Everett kneels down, bites him on the haunch and says, 'how heroic.'
Everett traces a finger over Matt's hole, then the tip of his nose, then his bottom lip, then his tongue.
'Please, oh god.' Everett's heart gives another tiny jump and he moans quietly into the cleft of Matt's ass. Everett licks him; a wet, filthy swirl over his sensitized hole and Matt bites his fist to keep from howling.
'Stop that.' Everett says. Matt thumps the table and prays for leniency.
He gets none. He gets a gentle lick and then Everett's pressing his tongue past the tight rim. It's hot and dirty and delicious and it goes on forever. Matt's head thrashes back and forth on the table as Everett sucks hard at his hole, flicks his tongue without mercy, eats him out like he wants to make Matt cry before he's through. Quietly, so quietly, he sighs like Matt's pleasure makes him happy, but before the observation makes it into Matt's conscious mind, Everett pries his cheeks apart even further and plunges his entire tongue in. Matt's eyes roll back in his head.
'Fuck, I'm so close.'
'Ask sweeter.' He snakes his arm between Matt's belly and bent-back thigh and wraps a hand around Matt's wet cock.
'Fuck!'
'Sweeter.' Soft, bored. Like he's asking Matt to pass the salt.
Matt stops shuttering the desperation in his voice. 'Please, I need it. I need to come. Fuck, please!'
'Ask me' Everett licks up Matt's shaft.
'Everett! Everett, please make me come!'
'Nearly. So close.' Everett stands and starts jerking Matt in earnest. 'Now, last chance. Who do you want to make you come, Daredevil?'
'Foggy! Foggy, I want Foggy!' Matt's legs are shaking and his orgasm is on a knife's edge.
Everett leans close—so close his beard grazes Matt's cheek and the plate of his body armour digs into the back of Matt's thighs. When he speaks, his voice isn't soft, isn't dead. It's full of wonder and love. 'I'm right here, Matt,' he says, and kisses him.
Foggy twists his grip and Matt clutches helplessly at his arms, crying out. Matt's bent in half but he fucks up into that hot, wet hand and shoots all over his belly, his screams bottled in Foggy's mouth.
Foggy keeps stroking Matt till he's dry and sobbing, keeps kissing his hair and sucking his neck. 'Pretty face,' he whispers.
'Foggy.' Matt doesn't know any other words. He pushes his nose into Foggy's damp hairline and inhales. Under the gunpowder and leather that Foggy used to disguise himself, Matt picks up the familiar smell that Matt will forever associate with home and love. 'Foggy.'
His legs twinge as they come down but Foggy runs calming hands over his sides and cleans him off with a sleeve. He kisses Matt when he makes overstimulated noises.
'I'm right here,' Foggy hushes, wrapping his arms around Matt and heaving him up into a sitting position. Matt's head lolls forward and he crosses his legs behind Foggy's thighs, holding him close.
Matt loves that Foggy can pick him up. It's clearly not easy for him, but he does it anyway because it makes Matt feel sleepy and adored. Matt twines his arms around broad shoulders and Foggy's hands go under his bare ass to gather him up.
In the bedroom, he deposits Matt on the bed and kisses him again. 'Get in bed. Quick nap. I'm just going to take all this stuff off.'
'No, I'm doing it,' Matt says, even though he's on the edge of consciousness. He undoes the buckles of the vest and pops the leg strap of the holster. When he gets on his knees to unlace the boots, Foggy palms his cheek and kisses him a third time. Traces of Matt's spit and come are all over Foggy's clothing, but they fade in strength as he throws each piece into the corner. He perches on Foggy's lap and kisses his upturned smile while he pulls the tie from his hair to feel it flow over his fingers.Then he yawns hugely. Foggy bundles him under the sheets before sliding in after him and pulling him close.
'You didn't come,' Matt mumbles into the pillow.
'I can wait,' Foggy tells the back of Matt's neck. 'You were amazing, Matt, so beautiful.' Matt smiles at how Foggy's heart thumps a steady, immoveable truth.