doe-writes-stuff

[doe-writes-stuff]

A/N - Thank you to those who enjoyed my last post! I'm really excited to bring you some spicy content as well >.> Enjoy <3

Words: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Explicit smut, body worship, cunnilingus, strong language, tending to wounds, blood, light mentions of domestic abuse, Vigilante!Reader

The devil's not supposed to have a heart. That's why these no-name, no-face, no-strings-attached flings had worked out. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have forgotten that.

Panting, half-bent at the waist against the pain radiating in your shoulder where the bullet had penetrated, you watched as the—understandably—terrified woman ran for her life back towards the city proper, leaving the pier behind with haste. A groan from below made you snarl, anger coiling in your injured body like a snake. A booted foot kicks out at the squirming man, and your attack silences his pathetic whimpering.

The sudden kick caused a sharp pain to flare through you, and you curse under your breath, stepping back away from the now-unconscious man, taking stock of the situation. A split lip, gunshot wound, and what was certainly a few bruised ribs were the least of your problems tonight, however. Oh, no, that would be the motorboat speeding off under the cover of night, and with it your intended target.

This was all wrong. So fucking wrong. You should have been faster. Smarter. Then maybe the bastard wouldn't have gotten away...

Kidnappings weren't a common occurrence in the Kitchen. Spriting away an entire person wasn't an easy feat with a population dense place like this. People heard things, saw things. Friends went to the cops when they felt something was wrong. Broken routines didn't go unnoticed. Sure, they still happened, but most petty criminals weren't brazen enough to try something so bold, day or night. Only the truly hardened, or those without anything to lose considered it at all. Even then there were so many factors that could go wrong during the attempt, most didn't take the risk.

Conrad Clausen had tried anyway.

A career dirtbag and misogynist of the highest order, the bastard had thus far successfully and consistently toed the line of legal technicality against his ex-girlfriend, McKenzie Grissom. Conrad, infuriatingly, made full use of his minor in criminal justice to make her life a living hell after she'd filed for a restraining order, finally fed up with the abuse. Civil suits and private investigators, exploiting services written in her name, and more. The poor woman couldn't catch a break.

The last straw was when she'd come to the Domestic Violence Resource Institute, straight into your protective jurisdiction, looking for help in the wake of his vindictive crusade. That hadn't sat well with him at all.

You should have seen the signs coming, the moment all of his manipulative tactics suddenly ceased for over a week. Should have known something was up. He wouldn't have given her up so easily. You hadn't thought he'd go so far as to enlist his best friend into the plot of kidnapping and doing who-knew-what to poor McKenzie, but here you were, standing over the dude in question. He'd even brought a gun, the very one responsible for your shoulder freely bleeding.

If only you'd managed to get Conrad himself, but he'd given you the slip. With no way of catching up to him, and no knowledge of where he'd hide away to plan his next move, you stood there above his friend's unconscious form, seething.

On paper, this was a success. McKenzie had been saved, and you'd managed to apprehend on of the kidnappers involved. But Conrad was smart and wicked and cunning, and now on the loose. A rabid dog off his chain and unpredictable in what he'd do next. He'd be more careful, more patient, the next time he tried to take her and oh...you knew for certain he would try again. Men like him wouldn't ever stop, no matter how many times it took to get it right.

In the end, you'd accomplished not much at all, and the tension in your shoulders and back felt suffocating.

You needed to move. You needed to do something. Anything.

Biting back the urge to scream, you stoop down and fish Conrad's friend's phone from his jeans pocket, dialing 911 with swift fingers. The Hudson River beside you brought with it a chilly breeze, as you waiting through that first ringing of the line. A woman's calm voice answered moments later.

"911, what's the address of your emergency?"

"There's been an attempted kidnapping at Pier 92. One of the men responsible is unconscious and will need medical attention. The other just got away in a motorboat. Send in some units." Is your reply in monotone, not waiting for her response before ending the call. You weren't worried about the report being ignored. Some precincts may be corrupt, but the 15th was alright in your books. They'd follow through.

Tossing the phone aside, you step over the man's body and roll back your shoulders, trying and failing to alleviate some of the tension that had settled there. Your dark suit chaffed despite being tailor-made to fit you perfectly. Months of sewing it yourself had meant it shouldn't be this uncomfortable, which only served to further set your nerves on end as you tromped through the darkness back towards your motorbike.

The last 10 minutes play back through your head in a spiraling loop. Picking apart your decisions, playing a depressing game of should've-would've-could've until self-loathing joined the anger and resentment that kept your muscle tight and high-strung.

Breathing labored and heavy, you make it to your bike, jamming the helmet on your head and starting up the engine with a rough twist of your wrist. It roars to life with a thunderous growl that echoes beneath the concrete pier caps overhanging above.

Knuckles white beneath your black gloves, tightly gripping the handles, you rocket forward in search of the next crime-in-progress. Hopefully Hell's Kitchen would deliver.

A quiet night was typically a good thing when it came to your nightly activities. It meant the city wasn't at war with the scum that coalesced in its dark corners. It meant peace and safety to those that lived there.

Tonight, though, you loathed the peace.

The door to your foxhole swung open with such force, you're surprised it hadn't fallen off its hinges. Barely giving it any attention, you stomp with a fury inside, hearing it slam shut behind you. The noise was good. Loud. Angry.

Down a set of stairs takes you to the relatively open space that had become your landing point at the end of your vigilante patrols—with the building mostly gutted it was difficult to tell what it had been before, maybe a spacious storage closet? Complete with a semi-comfortable cot and a few cupboards and shelves with storage for your medical kit and suit repair supplies, it was a home away from home that kept your identity safe from those who might have followed you. Despite the space, it still felt stifling amidst the chaos in your head.

There'd been nothing to help you release the tension from your failure that night. No muggers to beat within an inch of their life. No burglars unlucky enough to cross your path. Every alley way and street corner you could think to look had been confoundingly crime-free. Fucking nothing.

Clenching and unclenching your fists, you pace back and forth in the dingy yellow light from the standing lamp in the corner, chest rising and falling in pain and rage that built higher with each sharp ache in your ribs and the dried blood pulling away from the makeshift bandage on your shoulder. Careless. Slow. Useless. That's what you were. McKenzie was in more danger now than she had been before. Conrad would wait for a better time to strike, and next time you doubted you'd be so lucky as to be there when he did.

The mental image of the smarmy bastard getting what he wanted was your breaking point. A guttural yell spat past your lips, and your fist shot out to punch at the nearest wall with as much strength as you could muster.

The drywall caved into a hole with the force of the hit, and you were just lucky to have missed the stud behind it. Pain radiated from your knuckles immediately after, but at least it was something to focus on other than your tumultuous thoughts. In the moment, the violent impulse had felt good. You drew your hand back, half-tempted to repeat the action.

"What did the wall do to deserve that?"

Alertness raises the hairs on the back of your neck within a split second, but recognition follows just as quickly behind it. Closing your eyes, you somehow manage to resist the urge to punch your visitor. In all your anger, you hadn't noticed another presence in the room. Rookie mistake. Had it been someone looking to harm you, they'd have had every opportunity.

Drawing your hand back down to your side with measured calm, you turn your head just enough to spot the red-suited vigilante leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. The opaque, blood-red lenses of his mask somehow managed to exude a tempered curiosity, gaze directed a few feet to your left. His lips were upturned in the barest hint of a grin, posture relaxed and at ease, a stark contrast to the coiled tension of your own.

If he noticed or was put off by your visibly wrathful mood, he gave no indication.

Jaw set, you turn and walk with purpose to the row of shelves off to his left, unclipping your arsenal of equipment from around your waist and thigh holsters. They find their places with heavy clunks in the empty spaces.

"Why are you here?" Your question comes out dripping with malice, though you're not entirely sure if any of it was truly directed at him, or the shitty night you'd just endured. It took everything in you not to yell at him to get the hell out.

Instead of answer, his head tilts in that way it always did. Several seconds pass before a frown settles his mouth downwards. "You're injured."

"No shit." Another flash of annoyance, another clunk onto the shelf.

"I smell blood," he remarks, pushing away from the storage cupboards as he zeroed in on the front of your suit, "and gunpowder. You were shot?"

"I'll live." When he tries to come closer, you push past him to remove the exterior protective jacket of your suit, painfully shrugging it off and tossing it onto the cot that would be your sleeping arrangement for the night. No need to bring your anger home and risk your own apartment's walls.

A tight-fitting black shirt was underneath the outer jacket, and you waste no time in removing it, unbothered that the other vigilante was mere feet behind you. Nothing he hadn't seen before—minus your face, of course, the mask always stayed on—but you were growing restless with his presence there the longer he remained. You hadn't expected company.

The shirt joins your jacket, and you're left with your sports bra and the makeshift bandage you'd cobbled together at some point during the night. The cloth you'd torn and packed against the wound had stained a deep red, saturated, but at least it had done its job and stopped the blood flow. It would need to be replaced with something clean and proper, though. Removing it now would hurt like a son of a bitch, but you'd grit your teeth and bear it. It's what you always did.

"Let me help." The devil's smooth voice is closer than you'd expected behind you, but you shift away from his soft touch on your shoulder with a barely-restrained growl.

"Why are you here?" You ask again, tone demanding that you'd get an answer this time now that you're facing him directly. In reality, you knew why—there was only ever one reason he showed up here—you just wanted him to man up and say it. He needed release, and as the only other operating vigilante in the city, the only other person who could really understand what he took on when he donned the mask, you were the one he sought out.

No names, no faces, and no feelings involved. Just sex. A way to release all the pent up emotions of dealing with the worst that Hell's Kitchen had to offer. It was the only method that didn't involve hurting other people the two of you had found worked just as well. Sometimes there was no other way to really purge oneself of the rollercoaster of emotions that came with trying to protect this city—a city that, sometimes, felt like it hardly wanted the help.

Maybe his night had been just as shitty as yours. Maybe he hadn't gotten all the adrenaline out of his system from his last fight. Or maybe he just felt like a quick fuck. Whatever it was, this whole situation was very off-script to your typical encounters.

He hadn't reached out to you at any point during the night. And you certainly hadn't called for him to meet at your foxhole. Him showing up out of the blue was unusual. You would have suspected something wrong had brought him here, but the absence of his all-business and terse persona made that unlikely. Your penetrating stare was strong enough that you could almost envision burning a hole through his mask.

His silence was prolonged, so you tried again, stepping closer and encroaching on his space. He didn't move back. "Well?"

Another brief pause, and the devil's head dips down further. And despite still wearing the mask, you can't help but feel like he was looking right through it to look at the person beneath. "You needed me."

"I didn't call for you."

"You didn't have to." His matter-of-fact reply was laden with something...so wholly unlike the devil you knew. Dare you call it...gentle?

That was certainly not a word you'd ever have associated with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. All you can do is blink back, unsure of how to respond. Despite possessing heightened senses—the limits of which you were still uncertain of—you doubted he had a vigilante-in-distress sense kicking around in that brain of his.

Irritation swirled through the veins within you. His proximity itched at your nerves in so many ways. You wanted to shove him across the room. You wanted to scream your lungs out, punch and kick at the one person who could meet you on equal footing until your body gave out from exhaustion. Violence was second-nature, instinct as much as reflex.

Sex with Daredevil was a violence in its own right. Rough and unrestrained in ways that felt very much like the fights you threw yourself into against the bad guys on the streets. He'd give as good as he got. He'd meet your ferocity with that of his own, capable and willing to surpass it at times. Both of you, embodiments of wrath and rage, colliding.

You hadn't called him, but here he was. Might as well get some use out of him.

Violent intent morphed cleanly into physical need within the span of a few heartbeats. Lust born from seething anger simmered just beneath your skin, taking the tension that had settled in your limbs all night and turned it outwards, leaving you nearly shaking before him.

"So...you're here. You gonna take care of me, devil?" Is your coy question, one brow raising as you lean back against the cot pressed sideways to the wall, hands gripping the thin mattress to either side of you, nearly-naked chest on display for his eyes to gaze upon. It's almost embarrassing how much you trembled at just the anticipation of him manhandling all of your stress away.

The concern that had settled into his mouth lifted into something more amused, edged with cockiness. "I always do."

You expect him to erase all distance between you, claim your lips with his in a kiss as unforgiving as his sense of justice, shoving you back onto the cot. But to your surprised dismay, he gently pushes away from you and heads back to the cupboards. A deep frown marks your face, but logic hits a second later. Your wound. Ugh.

Your eyes track the way his body moves within his own red suit, leaning down to open the drawer with your medical supplies in it. Whether it was a lucky guess that he picked the exact drawer you kept it all in or if he somehow just fucking knew, you were too wound up to ask. But he's back in front of you only a moment later, setting the things he'd need beside you on the cot.

With barely a wince, you lower yourself down to sit on the edge of the cot, allowing the devil into the space between your legs as he knelt. A stirring deep down screamed to wrap them around his waist and draw him in where you'd rather he be occupying himself, but for now you behaved. Something told you if you didn't let him at least help with your injury, he'd leave you high and dry.

Ignoring the way you simmer in your own clouded lust, he reaches up to gently peel away the torn wrap now soaked in red. The blood that had previously dried and stuck to the edges of the wound now broke open with a sharp pain, and you bite into your lip against the feeling, focusing on evening your breathing through it.

Gloved fingers drift to your back, searching with a tenderness that shocks you.

"The bullet?" He asked, breaking the short silence. Setting the ruined rag aside, he soaked another with antiseptic.

Your voice comes out clipped and sharp. "Dug it out earlier."

He hums in understanding. You bit back a curse as he applied the material to your open wound, the sting raging its ugly head and gnashing its teeth. Hands that so efficiently bloodied the criminals of Hell's Kitchen were patient and steady on your skin, tending to you with that same gentleness he'd spoken with before. This was all so damn confusing.

Your eyes track across his mask in an effort to focus on something else. Past the red-glossed eyes and down to the stubbled jaw that was all you could see of the man underneath. You knew it would feel delightfully rough if you ran your fingers across it...

"What happened at the pier?" The question surprises you and when you stare at him in prolonged silence, because how in the hell could he have known where you'd been, he gives a little shrug. "Saltwater. I smell it on your suit."

You slowly shake your head, ignoring the subtle reminder that he could perceive so much more than you could and deciding to let him distract you from the pain of his ministrations with conversation. You didn't typically talk much during your moments together, but given the circumstances, you'd let it slide this time.

"Kidnapping, almost. Saved the girl, but the bastard got away."

"How?" He questioned, head cocked to the side, gaze still affixed to where he was tenderly cleaning the wound.

"Had an accomplice and a boat waiting. His friend kept me occupied while he made his escape. He popped off a lucky shot and I couldn't go after him once he was away from the pier."

"Tough night." The vigilante muses. "Who's the perp?"

"An asshat named Conrad Clausen. Head of an IT firm, knows his way around the law. Abusive ex. Controlling." Hands clench tightly in your lap. Just the sound of his name got your blood boiling further. You frown harshly, head shaking at your own incompetence. "I only made things worse, somehow. He'll come after her again."

"You'll track him down before that happens." The absolute certainty in his voice gave your pride enough of a spark to break through all the muddled self-loathing and lust that drove all of your thoughts right now. Even if you weren't so sure about your odds of nailing the dude before something could happen again, Daredevil's confidence in you wasn't unwelcome. "And if he's unlucky enough to cross my path before that, well...he'll wish he hadn't."

You couldn't count on both hands the number of unfortunate souls you'd stumbled upon after the devil had gotten to them. That was an understatement if you've ever heard one.

Unwilling to say anything more about it, you only hum, getting used to the stinging of the antiseptic just as he was satisfied it was cleaned to the best of his ability. Setting aside the rag, he dug through the kit again for the padded bandages. Peeling off the adhesive edges, he brought it to your shoulder, probing it gently around the wound.

Your heart thudded heavy in your chest, wishing that his gloves were off so you could feel the skin-on-skin contact. It took everything in you not to drag him forward by the neck of his suit and demand his attention in other, more sensitive places. The sudden grin that lit up his face drew your attention.

"Easy there. Your heart starts beating any faster and you might pass out."

You huff, appalled that he could indeed hear the damn thing pounding away like a drum in your chest. Because of course he could. Your glare could set fire to a building. "I've had a hell of a fucking night, and now you're taking your sweet ass time to patch me up."

"Why the rush?" He asks, tone clearly giving away his mirth.

"Careful, devil. I've got no patience for foreplay." Your words come out as a frustrated hiss, the first of your mental restraints beginning to fray. You'd been riled up for far too long, and your only potential outlet was kneeling there not touching you in the ways you wanted. Fists clenched into the thin cot mattress.

"Clearly." The venom in your words does nothing to put a damper on his smile.

With a few more gentle presses around the edges of the bandage, he pulls back to assess his handiwork. You're courteous enough to let him replace all the medical supplies back into the first aid kit before he stood and turned away to return it to its place in the cupboards.

Hungry eyes raked down the lines of his suit, taking in the way his pants really did wonders for his ass, and you felt the last of your dwindling patience crumble away. The devil sure knew how to be incredibly tempting.

Lifting up from the cot, the distance between you and him is a meager two steps. You traverse that in less time than a single draw of breath, grabbing his arm and turning him to shove him back against the cupboards.

He's still wearing that infernal little smile as he faces you, eyes hidden behind red lenses. "As your attending nurse, I'd suggest not moving that shoulder-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Shoving aside all pretense, you take hold of his suit collar and drag his mouth down to yours. It's crushing and needy, and had you been in a better headspace, you'd balk at just how strongly it screamed of desperation. But the clouds of unresolved failure, loathing, and rage that had settled on your soul seared a straight path through anything and everything else.

Sharp reflexes mean he's quick to reciprocate, though you can still feel the infuriating shape of amusement lift his mouth as he let you kiss him with nothing short of fury. One hand draws up to press at the back of his covered neck, wanting there to be no space between you.

Gloved hands settle at your uncovered waist, but pull you no closer than what your untamed lust already demanded. Too wound up to question why he wasn't meeting you with an equal ferocity, your tongue licks across his bottom lip with purpose, a request as much as a command. Without hesitation he lets you in, tangling his own with yours in a familiar dance.

He's intoxicating, you can't deny. Daredevil wielded an intensity that no other man had ever come close to matching. His attention, when directed at you, was full and overwhelming. A great wave of physical sensation that he let crash over you without apology. Some nights, it was all you could do to keep your head above water and survive the torrent. Others, his ocean storm met with a hurricane of your own making, and your foxhole was the no-mans-land where war waged under stale sheets and pale yellow lamp light.

Tonight, the tides were low, the waters strangely calm. In no mood for serene seas, you maintain your grip on his suit, dragging him backwards and away from the cupboards to be closer to your cot somewhere behind. You wanted it now, whatever he was going to give you.

Your calves hit the edge of the cot, but before your momentum can bring you tumbling backwards together, his hands tighten against your waist and hold you to him. His mouth unfortunately parts from yours.

"Why-?"

"I said I'd take care of you, so let me." His words are breathless and pleading, his masked forehead settling against your own. "Please?"

Confusion mars your expression as you stare into the red tint of his mask's eyes. This close, you could faintly see the dark eyes of the man beneath flicker back and forth with subtle movement. You'd never known this devil to be anything but full of vindictive rage. Righteous purpose, barely contained in the confines of a man. There was playful flirting on occasion, but nothing close to this...warm affection that you were now being confronted with.

Anger flaring, you found yourself nodding, but you'd get what you wanted. If you had to fight tooth and nail to get it, so be it.

"Say it." He urged.

"Fine. Take care of me." Your hands snake down his chest, ghosting over the hardened indentation of his cock from underneath his pants. He huffs a breath at the tease. "But don't make me wait for it."

Another grin splits his lips, before he reaches down and wraps his hands behind your thighs, lifting with an ease that stirs deep in your belly. Instead of your back being pressed to the wall like you expected, like you desperately hoped for, he instead fell carefully to his knees atop the cot, lowering you down onto the covers beneath. This new position slotted his hips directly against yours, that bulge you'd caressed before now flush against the heat of your cunt through layers of clothing.

You gasped, feeling the first true licks of sensation you'd been craving since he'd shown up. Lifting your hips up, seeking more, you're kept in place by the unrelenting strength of his own pressing down. Feeling the skin of his fingertips drift along your jawline—so focused on his body being pressed to yours, you hadn't noticed he'd taken the gloves off—you startle and snap attention back to what little of his face you can see.

Lips slightly parted, the gaze of his mask so centered onto your expressions, watching and observing with a tilted head, as if savoring the sight of you beneath him as his fingers dip down below your jaw and along the exposed skin of your neck. The mask dips, and you swallow as his fingers pass along the hollow at the base of your throat, then further down towards the sports bra still covering your breasts.

You're swift to lift up, hands reaching for your bra to discard, but the man is quicker, snatching your hands before you can touch the fabric and pressing them into the cot above your head.

"Devil-" You start to warn with a growl, electing not to finish the sentence as he slowly shakes his head.

Anticipation coils with your frustration, but at this point you're not sure which one is winning out. Still, you give a valiant effort in removing your wrists from beneath his grip, desperate to take what you want as fast as you can get it, but he doesn't relent. Completely at his mercy.

What he does offer, you take as if you're starving for it. The kiss he leans down to give you takes on that ravenous intensity as you engage again, but he keeps his pace slow and purposeful. And when you are just beginning to feel light-headed and in need of air, his lips slant down past your lips, over the curve of your chin, setting on a meandering path down where his fingers had trailed just moments before. The stubble on his face scratches with a pleasant sting.

The scrape of teeth along your throat earns him a low whine, a gasp following closely as he switched to the wicked, wet heat of his tongue. You feel the burning fire of each little circle he paints upon your skin, scorching you and simultaneously fanning the flames of need. Lower and lower it goes, finally reaching the top hem of your bra. Your skin practically hums in anticipation of the removal of the last barrier blocking that talented tongue of his from where you wished he'd put it to use.

But rather than remove the offending garment, he simply ghosts down over it to your stomach, continuing on as if there had been no interruption at all.

You keen a pathetic little noise, low in your throat, pushing again at the strong hand restraining your wrists. Still, he doesn't give.

"We have all night, sweetheart." It's barely more than a whisper against your abdomen, but still it sends a shiver down your spine. It's all you can do to ignore the way his term of endearment—he'd never called you that before—now ricocheted between your ears, stirring your belly further with each bounce.

His mouth traverses the last few inches of your belly, and despite all of the tension still coiling in your muscles, shoulders and back, there's this growing sense of peace radiating from your bones beneath. As if your body knew, given time, it would have what it wanted.

Wielding impatience as a weapon, you fought for faster gratification, wanting an immediate relief to your internal chaos. Daredevil's pace never quickened, savoring your skin in a way he'd never done before. Despite his determination never to kill, the bitter darkness that spouted from that mouth was really something. Who knew the same one could feel so soft against skin? Honestly, you were floored by the way you silently craved for him to take all the time he wanted to explore your body, lavishing it to his heart's content. No man had ever left you feeling this wanted.

Hands made for fighting traced your skin with softness, like it was delicate paper beneath his fingers. Hot breaths swept tingling waves of toe-curling want across the scar-littered canvas at his disposal. There was something like reverence in the way he caressed you.

And that scared you the most. This...thing between you and the vigilante, it wasn't supposed to be about feelings. The heart wasn't supposed to have anything to do with it. He'd been fine with that, and so had you, when it all began. This, though...this felt like something entirely more.

What changed? Why was he being like this tonight? He touched you as if he actually cared. As if this whole thing wasn't a transaction.

He touched you like a lover.

The shift in trajectory of his mouth is what finally forced you out of your own head and back to the present. His hand not holding down your wrists had been swirling gentle circles into your side, but now it slowly rose at the same pace of his tongue. And when he finally reached your bra on the way back up, his fingers dug beneath the band and lifted.

You squirmed in place, thankful that your breasts were free from their confines. You want nothing more than for his hand to take hold of the flesh and squeeze until the pain nearly edged against the pleasure, but his fingers drift no more than feather-light trails along the underside.

Arching your back and attempting to press yourself into his touch gets you no closer to your desires. He merely presses a soft kiss into the valley between your breasts. It becomes painfully obvious that to get what you wanted, you'd have to go at the vigilante's pace.

"Please..." You whimper, deciding you're not above begging if it helped to speed this process up in any way.

It earned you a low, male noise at the back of his throat, nearly reward enough. A half-hearted rut of his hips into yours made your eyes close in pleasure. Confirmation that he wanted this just as bad as you. Perhaps you'd push to see just how far his own patience would run...

Eyes shot back open, mouth parted in a moan as his tongue finally—finally—found its way to the peak of one breasts. Circling around the tight nub and sucking it into his mouth to taste in full. His hand rolled the other between two fingers, tugging and pinching whenever he felt like it. You writhed beneath his ministration, wanting more but having no way to grasp it.

There was no respite to his touch, endless and yet so ridiculously restrained. Like a meal to be savored, he took his time swirling the nub from various directions, tongue mindlessly circling in whatever way felt right.

And god, did it feel right, you thought through a haze of pleasure.

You think you hear him murmur something into your skin, but your own panting breaths muffled whatever it might have been. Given his unexpected intimacy tonight, you don't dare ask him to repeat it. When he doesn't seem to wait for a response, mouth switching to your other breast and giving it the same attention, you lack the attention span to give it further thought.

Another impulsive arch of your back has your clothed cunt brushing against the crotch of his pants, earning a stuttered groan from the devil. It must be torture, being so hard in that tight costume. He hardly acknowledges his own need, so focused on you. A throb pulses through you, deep to your very core.

Part of you wonders if he could hear the way your heat aches for him, or perhaps could smell the spike of arousal that accompanied it, because his fingers reach down to start undoing your own pants, shaking just enough for you to take note.

One-handed, it's a little difficult for him to accomplish—the plea for him to let you go is pointedly ignored—but with a little shimmy and lift of your hips, they're pulled down to your knees, exposing the wetness that begged for attention. Daredevil's sharp inhale and barely restrained growl is proof enough that his senses are going haywire with all of the intense stimulus.

You'd never wished so much in your life to be able to hear someone's heart beat. Was his just as fast as yours, pounding away at the sight of you laid bare?

Calloused hands glide with fascinated purpose across the exposed skin of your thigh. A glance at his mask confirms that he was focusing intently on your lower half, head tilted and gaze a little to the right of your center. Slowly, those fingers ascend closer to the apex, and you feel yourself holding your breath for their inevitable arrival.

The wait is agonizing, each second a torturous minute in your own mind. Your hips squirm, desperate and needy. Fuck, you just wanted it now.

Daredevil leans in close, lips brushing over yours in the chastest kiss you think you'd ever had.

"Breathe." Is his whispered reminder against your lips, panting lightly himself. All the while you can still feel his glove trailing your thigh absentmindedly. "Relax, sweetheart."

A stuttered pair of in- and exhales is all you can manage, body so strung up on the line that you think one good pull would snap you in half. His lips press to your own once more, guiding you through a methodical, easy kiss. It's the anchor point that keeps you from flying apart. A rock to cling to, weathering the storm.

You're thrown head-first into the current the moment his meandering touch reaches your wetness.

A sharp gasp into his mouth morphs into an elongated moan when two fingers slide easily through the heated arousal coating your entrance. A physical ache tears through your body as the appendages circle around your clit, teasing and promising so much and yet avoiding it all the same. He denied you again when your hips rose of their own volition, seeking a true release.

An absolute bastard, the devil could be. And willingly at his mercy is where you'd put yourself. Fool. You were a goddamn fool.

Each swipe of his fingers pulls another shuddering twitch out of your assaulted nervous system, the stimulation overwhelming and yet not enough. Despite all that, you still notice the devil's throat bob with a heavy swallow, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Knowing the way his senses work, you wouldn't be surprised if he could taste your need on the air.

"Don't...tease..." Words are getting difficult to speak, brain so focused on chasing that blessed release. Pulling your hands again gives you about an inch of movement, but then the devil's hands tighten again, preventing all further resistance. As if in retaliation, his thumb lowers to swipe right across the hood of your clit, eliciting shocks of incredibly intense pleasure so suddenly. Head thrown back into the cot beneath, a curse escapes you—breathless, no more than a hiss, ending in a pathetically desperate keen that would have been embarrassing in any other setting.

You expect some teasing remark from the devilish maestro currently playing your strings, but he only hums low in his throat. As if watching you get wound up so tight by his own hand was equally satisfying. His pace is steady, the pressure just enough to give you want you wanted, without really getting you anywhere.

Your inner muscles clench around nothing, thighs squeezing against his hips that prevented them from completely closing. The devil groans, nearly too quiet to hear, and you're so close to outright begging him to have mercy at this point. That all depended on your ability to actually form the words, of course. Stuttered moans were about the only thing you were currently capable of voicing at the moment.

Something shifted. This time you heard the way the vigilante's breath stuttered in time with your own, need coloring the way he swore under his breath. Your wrists were released as he snatched his hand away—the unexpectedness of it meant you were too dazed to take advantage of your newfound freedom.

Your own warnings are the rough scratch of his jaw along the skin of your inner thighs, and the way he grips them from the top. You have all of a half second to register what that meant.

The moment the wet heat of his tongue meets the needy drip of your cunt, recognition shoots immediately through your body. Back arching off the cot with a moan so broken that at first you didn't realize it was you, your now unrestrained hands scrabble for the back of his helmet. Where his fingers took their time, his tongue held nothing back, licking and swirling along all the folds that had you seeing white. If the vigilante had an instruction manual on completely taking you apart, he was following it to the damn letter.

His helmet was smooth at the back, giving you nothing to latch on to. The short, rounded horns at the front weren't enough to get a full grip upon, but they were your only possible leverage. The heels of your hands pressing them closer to your entrance, you attempt to lift your hips to seek more. His hands are like vices at the tops of your thighs and hold you in place, content to ravish you at the pace he chose.

The small foxhole echoes with your breathless litany of curses and a shaking moans. Beneath it you can hear the wet sounds of the devil's tongue working your core, his teeth making their debut when he scrapes it along the outer folds. The full-frontal assault of pleasure has you soaring closer to climax faster than you were used to, filling you with a strange sense of alarm.

There's no warning as you hurtle straight into your orgasm, throat constricting around a whine as your muscles contract with pulsing pleasure, limbs shaking in his grasp. His mouth never stops working, lapping at the arousal that he's worked so hard to produce. The thundering rush of blood behind your ears muffles, as the seconds tick. Overcome by a floating sensation, you feel all of the tension wash away like the ebbing of a tide. Warmth envelopes your body, peace just behind it.

Overstimulation cuts through the haze like a knife.

Nerves flashing in warning at the continued attention of the Daredevil's tongue, you're yanked back down to reality and twitch underneath his grasp with rough jerks. "D-devil...!" You manage through a hoarse whisper.

"One more." Is all he mutters, breath fanning across your engorged flesh before his tongue drove into your heat with purpose.

He's merciful enough to give your clit momentary respite, focusing instead on licking a full stripe up the folds that were slicked with his saliva and your own arousal. The subtle vibrations of his pleased groans only serve to wind you up further. The cot moves a little, and a glance down confirms that his hips slowly and steadily dig into the bed to alleviate some of his own ignored need.

All attempts at sitting up, at trying to lean down to reach the crotch of his pants pressed flat into the cot, are foiled by the position he has you in.

Any thoughts of reciprocation go out the window when his mouth pressed to your clit once more and sucked. The nerves, having settled somewhat from the first orgasm, now flared with renewed pleasure. Shocks of overstimulation still lingered, but the promise of another climax was outweighing everything else.

This time, it's slower to build. Sharp snaps of intense pleasure course in unpredictable pulses. Rising with haste, before pulling back, edging the sweet release. Your cries take on a high-pitched, borderline sobbing quality. One hand still pressed to the back of his helmet, pushing him as close as he could be, the other covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle all of the noises being pulled from your lungs.

Clearly, the devil took issue with that.

Without stopping or even looking up from his work, one hand unlatched from your thigh and pulled on the crook of your elbow. Fingers thread through yours as he finally gets hold of your hand, keeping you from pulling away and simultaneously giving you something to grip while he drags you towards euphoria again.

Later, you might question where all this intimacy was coming from, but for now you just wanted to cum.

So close now. Perhaps sensing this, Daredevil zeroed in on your clit. A snatch of teeth against the sensitive bud was followed up with that devilish tongue, licking and suckling away the pain, promising pleasure. Your free thigh presses in, trapping his head between your thighs as you press upwards into his mouth, moans hitching with each rushed breath.

The second time feels more intense, somehow. Subtle in its arrival, and yet filled your shivering body with such immense satisfaction and relief that you barely utter a sound as it crashed through you. That is, until the need to breathe hits, and you suck air into your lungs greedily.

The vigilante's pace slows as you ride out the sensation, not slowing until you lay boneless against the cot, chest rising and falling with heaving breaths.

The ringing in your ears ebbs until the world feels muted. You fear reality would be a rough landing place to come back to after such a sweet high, but it's not as unwelcoming as you feared.

Blinking away the tears that had leaked out the corner of your eyes and dampened your mask, you lift your head just enough to see a smug devil between your legs, the side of his head leaning against the same thigh hand softly caressed, smiling that damned little smile that was making your already overworked heart do little flips. The lower, visible half of his face glistened from your wetness, and fuck, if that sight wasn't one of the sexiest things you'd ever seen...

Fatigue, however, clouds over any further lustful thoughts you might pursue. The night had been long. Stressful. And after letting the devil work you over, all that remained was the creeping need for sleep. You fought it with all you had, aware that he hadn't gotten the same attention.

Something in your eyes must have given you away, because he turns his head to place a gentle kiss to your thigh, before rising enough to fully remove your pants. You catch a glimpse of his still fully-tented crotch, a twitch of your fingers as you feel the desire to reach out and touch.

The sight of him lifting the blanket from the cot to cover your body makes you frown.

"But you haven't-" You start to argue, pleasure and exhaustion slurring your speech and slowing all movements to the point of ineffectiveness.

"Not tonight, sweetheart." The tenderness in his voice nearly undoes you. The devil wasn't supposed to have a heart. And yet somehow he had found one. "Just get some sleep. You need it."

The fight leaves you, desire to rest and fall back into this blissful peace too strong to resist any longer. He lifts the blanket again and lets it drape across your nude body, offering protection from the chill in the air as the heat that had worked itself through you began to dissipate. You curl up into the softness, still resisting the heaviness of your eyelids since he hadn't yet left.

You hear him shuffling around, doing what you're not sure. But eventually it stops and he's kneeling down beside you. His hands—now sporting gloves once again—move your hair out of your face with a soft touch. Fingers drift down to glide along your jaw until they settle just beneath your chin in one smooth motion. The smile he sports is just as soft, if not thoughtful.

"Be safe, alright?" He plies, thumb drifting over your chin with absentminded intent. You nod, blinking slow against the fatigue, not wanting to fall asleep with him still here. Regrettably, he releases your chin and stands to step away. "See you around."

Your eyes track him to the edge of your vision from where you lay, hearing him trek up the stairs from where you'd come, and shutting the door behind him on his way out. Silence settles, feeling eerie and out of place after all of that.

One last sinful thought ushers in as you drift off, wondering if he'd take care of himself to the thought of you coming undone by his own hands and mouth. Would he wait until he got home to the privacy of his bed, or cave in to the need and duck down a darkened alley? Would he savor it, take it slow, like he had with you? Or rush to cum because he couldn't wait another second?

Would he whimper your name—well, vigilante name, unfortunately—as he came to completion, cock in his hands?

You certainly hoped so.

A/N - This one ended up being way longer and more involved than what had been my original intention, but hopefully worth it? Let me know if you enjoyed! More spicy content to come, I'm sure...

[doe-writes-stuff]

no thoughts, head empty

[doe-writes-stuff]

Day 12: Romance

This is my first published smut, please be kind 🫢

Pairing: King Alistair x Queen Cousland

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: The Queen is coming home, and the King has made plans.

NSFW. Smut. 18+ MDNI. Oral sex. Vaginal sex / penetration. Established relationship. Fools very much in love.

She arrived in the middle of the night.

It was more difficult to scale the walls than it should have been: the handholds she had planned on using on the northeast climb were missing. Some had been filled with plaster, others worn down with intention. She cursed under her breath as she hung from the parapets for a solid seven minutes waiting for the stupid guard to move his stupid feet.

The walls were more heavily manned than they should have been for this time of night. This area had only a pair of guards when she was here last, and now she was pulling herself up just as one guard turned around because another was coming around the corner.

Both men turned towards her, but she was a shadow gone before they had a chance to realize anything was moving; they passed each other with a nod that nothing was out of the ordinary. She landed hard on the other side of the wall between buildings at the stables; she tucked into herself and rolled up to her feet and pushed toward the inner keep.

There were more guards in the yard than there should have been, too. They patrolled in threes instead of alone, and they were paying more attention to their surroundings. Their heads were on swivels, their eyes piercing the darkness that bled through the torches they waved.

Were they… warned?

She ducked into the stables and into the nearest stall, where she hushed the king's horse with a rough nuzzle of her hand against his nose. There was a carrot tucked in her back pocket for this exact scenario. He was fortunately silent as he pressed his warm shoulder against her as he nibbled from her palm. The guards passed by without incident and she dodged out into the night.

She pursed her lips and her brows tightened into a knot between her eyes as she dug the toes of her boots into the dirt and launched herself toward the wall of the inner keep. Those handholds were still there, at least, and she was able to quickly scale to the patio on the fourth floor, where candlelight flickered behind the glass panes of the door that was left slightly ajar. She stepped forward across the tiled stonework, making no noise even among the gravel that was unusually strewn about. Someone was certainly expecting visitors.

The door was locked, but she had expected that. It took her longer to get her picks from her bag than it did for her to pop the lock on the patio door. It made a small squeak as she pulled it open, and the candlelight within flickered in the breeze from behind her. It was dim enough that the moonlight cast her shadow more strongly than his as he faced the ornate desk on the other side of the room and poured a chalice of wine.

She was still, now, as he pulled the wine bottle up and wiped a drip from its neck with a finger that he lifted to his lips. He placed the bottle down next to the candles on the desk and turned to face her, a goblet in each hand and a sweet smile across his face.

"Welcome home, my love."

She sprinted toward him, meeting him in the middle of the room with her cloak billowing behind her and gravel flying up from her feet. Her body slammed into his, and the chalices and the wine went flying across the stone. He laughed as he spun her around fast enough that her legs left the ground and made an angle with his. He had expected to start tonight with a glass of wine and a kiss, but should have known better. Her face was pressed into his chest and neck as her feet met the ground again and he felt warm tears soaking into his shirt before he felt the shaking of her chest under his hands. One hand remained tight around her lower back while the other snaked between them to unclasp her cloak which dropped to a pile on the floor.

The hand then found her chin and pressed upward, raising her face to his. Even amongst the mess of tears and hair that had fallen from her bun, she was still so beautiful.

"There you are," he murmured into her lips, finally pressing himself to her across every plane he could reach. Fingers snaked from her chin around the back of her neck and tangled into her hair. He pulled the ribbon until her hair fell down her shoulders in the way he loved.

Her hands let go of the back of his tunic and fingers met bare skin at his hips where she had tugged the tunic lose from his trousers. He smirked into her mouth, and then pressed his tongue forward to meet hers. The soft moan that left her lungs went straight between his legs.

"Did you," she asked between kisses, "increase the number of guards on the parapets?" He hummed assent as her nails raked across his hips. "And the yard? Told them to keep an eye out for intruders?" He leaned back from her but she pressed forward and he had to take a step back to compensate. "And you got rid of my handholds on the outer walls." Now he was grinning while he pulled back even more. There was a foot, then two, of space between them and she was tracking him with a predatory gaze. "And gravel across our patio? And you locked the door?"

With each step he got closer to the bed and she dropped another piece of her kit to the floor, first her traveling bag, then her jerkin and her tunic and every bit else until the only cloth on her body was covering the parts of her he most desperately wanted to see. The heel of each hand, one at a time, pressed the tears from one eye, the other, until her face was a mess of red and weeping makeup. She looked feral.

Maker she was beautiful. He would go to the Void for blasphemy but he would be honest with himself: she was divine.

The back of his knees hit the mattress, and he fell with a bounce onto his elbows… but she kept closing the distance. She was all of his dreams incarnate, and the bulge in his trousers reflected the need he had been nursing for ten months.

"Oh, sweet Alistair," she purred as she finally reached him, running a single finger down his chest where soft red-blond hair peeked out from the opening of his tunic. "You do know how to spoil your Queen."

He really did try to think of something witty, but she was on top of him with her mouth on his before he'd even had the presence of mind to think. She straddled him with her clothed core pressed against his, one hand desperate at his laces, the other winding through the ginger hair he had grown out in the months since she'd seen him last.

When she had finally pulled his cock from his trousers it was thick and weeping in her hand. Her fingertips teased the underside of its head and he let out a gasp as if he had been punched — she did have a habit of driving the air from his lungs. His eyes rolled, seeing only the silk hanging over the mattress, and he released the hand he had in her hair so that he could wrench at the sheets. She giggled as she lifted off of his chest, making to move down his body, but he stopped her just in time.

He… he had plans. Yes, plans. Big plans. Plans that did not involve him losing his mind before he could wring his name from her mouth at least four times.

She was limber, flexible… nubile. But he was strong. She squeaked as he sat up with a loopy grin on his face and pulled her bodily over him as he laid down on his back once more. He was only able to relax when her calves were wrapped around his shoulders and her hands pressed into the sheets next to his head.

"A King is supposed to spoil his Queen," he murmured into the damp cloth of her underthings. He pressed his nose against them as she gasped, and he inhaled her scent like it was the only thing that would acceptably fill his lungs. The underthings were gone a moment later, ripped along the seam and thrown somewhere they probably wouldn't be found again.

The flat of his tongue met the sweet of her cunt, lingering on the taste that he had missed with every ounce of his being. She had been his first, and he wanted for no other. When she squirmed, he let her press herself against him, and then flicked the point of his tongue up to meet her nub. He heard the sheets rustle above him and although he couldn't see her in this position, he knew the look on her face would have undone him in an instant.

"Oh, Alistair," she moaned from above him. He had to use one hand to keep her muscled thighs from clamping around his ears — he expected more sweet noises from her and he had not heard them in too long.

He had made plans, and she had met them all as he had expected. He wasn't a fool. He knew his wife, and the way she would have entered the castle tonight. He had pulled men from the southwest quarter to patrol the northeast, he had personally strewn the gravel and locked the patio door, knowing that she would have loved the challenge. But he had intended to woo her with wine and sweet words, to make up for all the time that she had been gone searching for a cure to their Calling. The night was meant to be in the candlelight and the forgotten roses and the wine that now seeped into the stone. He wanted to romance her.

So he complained. He complained with a thumb to her clit and his tongue pressed into her cunt, spelling out her name and then his and then hers again. He complained with his nails dug into the roundness of her ass as he pulled cloth away from her breasts. He complained with his fingers that pinched and pulled and weaved across nipple and stomach.

He really did whine into her as her thighs tightened around him, her sweetness pouring into his mouth as his hips thrust up of their own accord against nothing but air. He drank from her, begging for the mercy that he had been denied these last ten months.

And then he punished her by clamping hands down on her hips and stopping any of her efforts to remove herself from him when she had only just come down from her first high. Fingers that a moment ago had been pawing at her chest moved down her body to trace her center. He sunk two into her core and husband and wife gasped in tandem. She was warm and wet across his fingertips, and she was begging him for more. More, as his tongue pressed against her nub and flicked up from where his fingers were inside her. More, as she unlaced one hand from sheets and tangled it in his hair. More, as she flung her head back and sat upright so that she could writhe above him, riding him through another orgasm.

"My lady," he murmured as she fell to the side. He allowed it, feeling the shudder in legs that likely would not be able to hold her upright any longer. She reached a hand out to him and it wobbled.

"My King."

It must have been magic, the way his tunic and his trousers and his underthings disappeared. Either that, or the sheer sight of his wife, in his bed, with that combination of love and lust on her face had made him momentarily black out. He crawled over her with kisses trailing up from her ankle to her knees, to her hips (where she whimpered, Maker did he miss that sound) and stomach, one to each breast, then to her own lips where she hummed at the taste of herself.

"Please, Ali," she begged when they finally parted, and he obliged, lining himself up with her and pressing himself inside without a downward glance. He knew these motions. It was like coming home.

The hum that left her as his hips met hers almost undid him, but he staved off the high with a groan. The movements he offered with his hips were slow, lazy. He could feel himself dragging along the inside of her; even as wet as she was around him, she was still so tight. He buried his nose in the crook of her neck, in her hair and took in the smell of smoke and leather and horse and her. His hands pressed between her back and the bed and pulled her up into him so that he could wrap his strong arms around her middle. Her arms mirrored his but around his shoulders and neck.

This, this is what he had planned. He had planned to make love to his wife, to worship his Queen in their marital bed. He had planned to remind her of all of the things she had been missing while she was away. He had planned to write his remembrance with his tongue along every inch of her skin.

She didn't need reminding — he was the only one who had ever made her feel as full as she did now, her legs intertwined around his back, her hands in his hair and his shoulders and pulled against her as if she was trying to become a permanent part of him. His chest pressed against her breasts, his panting echoed in her ear, and it was a moan that vibrated from deep within him that brought her to a quiet end.

He couldn't control himself, the way she pulsed around him, and he came with a final thrust and a moan and she felt him shudder within her as he finished. He caught himself from crushing her by holding himself up by his elbows instead, his palms still cupping her shoulder blades. When he finally had enough mind to sit up and pull away, she whimpered and pulled him back.

His shoulder felt her smile grow as he shook with a chuckle, and he finally did pull back enough that he could look down into her face.

She was a mess, her hair was all atangle (that was only probably a little bit his fault) and there were new tears that ran down the outside of her eyes back towards her ears. The Alistair of years past would have fumbled and jolted, looking for injury to body or spirit, but King Theirin, husband to the Warden Queen, knew the tears on his beloved's face were of joy instead of sorrow. She allowed one arm to fall just until her hand could cup his day-old scruff, and he leaned into it with eyes that threatened to close, but no, this was his wife and she was home and she was safe and he wanted to see her.

"I found it," she whispered, new tears rising unbidden.

"That conversation is for the morning, dove." He returned her smile with a small one of his own. He leaned down just enough to nuzzle his nose to hers as he pulled himself from her and lay at her side. His arms folded around her again and she found herself enrobed by his arms and his legs and his love.

"You're home."

[doe-writes-stuff]

someone I follow on the bird app just announced they’re starting a very exclusive private fic server because they and a bunch of other people want to talk about how much they love the fics they’re reading, and as an author can I just say that a really great place to talk about a fic you love is in the comments for that fic

I understand that people are trying to create safe spaces, but as the number of comments that I get on my fics dwindles with each passing year, knowing these spaces exist where my fics are being discussed, places that I am excluded from, makes me want to write fic LESS

I mean I guess who cares, right, because if I stop writing, there’s 10,000 other people that will continue…but if you participate in a fic “book club” server and you say nice things there about a fic you loved, maybe copy and paste that into a comment on AO3?

the only thing fanfic writers are asking for in return for hours of hard work is attention. please don’t rob us of the one thing that we hope for when we hit “post”

[doe-writes-stuff]

Daredevil: Born Again teaser

[doe-writes-stuff]

save me black suit daredevil. black suit daredevil... save me..

[doe-writes-stuff]

I got a comment on one of my fics where the person listed like six of their favorite quotes from the fic and I’m signal boosting that because please please PLEASE let’s make this a trend. I have never felt so seen and validated in my writing and no amount of kudos can compare to this. Commenter if I ever find you I WILL be kissing you on the mouth.

[doe-writes-stuff]

I dont know if I mentioned it recently, but I also accept requests for whatever my newest hyperfixation might be atm. If there is anything yall might want to read with Daredevil, feel free to send me an ask ♥️ thank you for welcoming me into a new fandom 🙏

[doe-writes-stuff]

A/N - Thank you to those who enjoyed my last post! I'm really excited to bring you some spicy content as well >.> Enjoy <3

Words: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Explicit smut, body worship, cunnilingus, strong language, tending to wounds, blood, light mentions of domestic abuse, Vigilante!Reader

The devil's not supposed to have a heart. That's why these no-name, no-face, no-strings-attached flings had worked out. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have forgotten that.

Panting, half-bent at the waist against the pain radiating in your shoulder where the bullet had penetrated, you watched as the—understandably—terrified woman ran for her life back towards the city proper, leaving the pier behind with haste. A groan from below made you snarl, anger coiling in your injured body like a snake. A booted foot kicks out at the squirming man, and your attack silences his pathetic whimpering.

The sudden kick caused a sharp pain to flare through you, and you curse under your breath, stepping back away from the now-unconscious man, taking stock of the situation. A split lip, gunshot wound, and what was certainly a few bruised ribs were the least of your problems tonight, however. Oh, no, that would be the motorboat speeding off under the cover of night, and with it your intended target.

This was all wrong. So fucking wrong. You should have been faster. Smarter. Then maybe the bastard wouldn't have gotten away...

Kidnappings weren't a common occurrence in the Kitchen. Spriting away an entire person wasn't an easy feat with a population dense place like this. People heard things, saw things. Friends went to the cops when they felt something was wrong. Broken routines didn't go unnoticed. Sure, they still happened, but most petty criminals weren't brazen enough to try something so bold, day or night. Only the truly hardened, or those without anything to lose considered it at all. Even then there were so many factors that could go wrong during the attempt, most didn't take the risk.

Conrad Clausen had tried anyway.

A career dirtbag and misogynist of the highest order, the bastard had thus far successfully and consistently toed the line of legal technicality against his ex-girlfriend, McKenzie Grissom. Conrad, infuriatingly, made full use of his minor in criminal justice to make her life a living hell after she'd filed for a restraining order, finally fed up with the abuse. Civil suits and private investigators, exploiting services written in her name, and more. The poor woman couldn't catch a break.

The last straw was when she'd come to the Domestic Violence Resource Institute, straight into your protective jurisdiction, looking for help in the wake of his vindictive crusade. That hadn't sat well with him at all.

You should have seen the signs coming, the moment all of his manipulative tactics suddenly ceased for over a week. Should have known something was up. He wouldn't have given her up so easily. You hadn't thought he'd go so far as to enlist his best friend into the plot of kidnapping and doing who-knew-what to poor McKenzie, but here you were, standing over the dude in question. He'd even brought a gun, the very one responsible for your shoulder freely bleeding.

If only you'd managed to get Conrad himself, but he'd given you the slip. With no way of catching up to him, and no knowledge of where he'd hide away to plan his next move, you stood there above his friend's unconscious form, seething.

On paper, this was a success. McKenzie had been saved, and you'd managed to apprehend on of the kidnappers involved. But Conrad was smart and wicked and cunning, and now on the loose. A rabid dog off his chain and unpredictable in what he'd do next. He'd be more careful, more patient, the next time he tried to take her and oh...you knew for certain he would try again. Men like him wouldn't ever stop, no matter how many times it took to get it right.

In the end, you'd accomplished not much at all, and the tension in your shoulders and back felt suffocating.

You needed to move. You needed to do something. Anything.

Biting back the urge to scream, you stoop down and fish Conrad's friend's phone from his jeans pocket, dialing 911 with swift fingers. The Hudson River beside you brought with it a chilly breeze, as you waiting through that first ringing of the line. A woman's calm voice answered moments later.

"911, what's the address of your emergency?"

"There's been an attempted kidnapping at Pier 92. One of the men responsible is unconscious and will need medical attention. The other just got away in a motorboat. Send in some units." Is your reply in monotone, not waiting for her response before ending the call. You weren't worried about the report being ignored. Some precincts may be corrupt, but the 15th was alright in your books. They'd follow through.

Tossing the phone aside, you step over the man's body and roll back your shoulders, trying and failing to alleviate some of the tension that had settled there. Your dark suit chaffed despite being tailor-made to fit you perfectly. Months of sewing it yourself had meant it shouldn't be this uncomfortable, which only served to further set your nerves on end as you tromped through the darkness back towards your motorbike.

The last 10 minutes play back through your head in a spiraling loop. Picking apart your decisions, playing a depressing game of should've-would've-could've until self-loathing joined the anger and resentment that kept your muscle tight and high-strung.

Breathing labored and heavy, you make it to your bike, jamming the helmet on your head and starting up the engine with a rough twist of your wrist. It roars to life with a thunderous growl that echoes beneath the concrete pier caps overhanging above.

Knuckles white beneath your black gloves, tightly gripping the handles, you rocket forward in search of the next crime-in-progress. Hopefully Hell's Kitchen would deliver.

A quiet night was typically a good thing when it came to your nightly activities. It meant the city wasn't at war with the scum that coalesced in its dark corners. It meant peace and safety to those that lived there.

Tonight, though, you loathed the peace.

The door to your foxhole swung open with such force, you're surprised it hadn't fallen off its hinges. Barely giving it any attention, you stomp with a fury inside, hearing it slam shut behind you. The noise was good. Loud. Angry.

Down a set of stairs takes you to the relatively open space that had become your landing point at the end of your vigilante patrols—with the building mostly gutted it was difficult to tell what it had been before, maybe a spacious storage closet? Complete with a semi-comfortable cot and a few cupboards and shelves with storage for your medical kit and suit repair supplies, it was a home away from home that kept your identity safe from those who might have followed you. Despite the space, it still felt stifling amidst the chaos in your head.

There'd been nothing to help you release the tension from your failure that night. No muggers to beat within an inch of their life. No burglars unlucky enough to cross your path. Every alley way and street corner you could think to look had been confoundingly crime-free. Fucking nothing.

Clenching and unclenching your fists, you pace back and forth in the dingy yellow light from the standing lamp in the corner, chest rising and falling in pain and rage that built higher with each sharp ache in your ribs and the dried blood pulling away from the makeshift bandage on your shoulder. Careless. Slow. Useless. That's what you were. McKenzie was in more danger now than she had been before. Conrad would wait for a better time to strike, and next time you doubted you'd be so lucky as to be there when he did.

The mental image of the smarmy bastard getting what he wanted was your breaking point. A guttural yell spat past your lips, and your fist shot out to punch at the nearest wall with as much strength as you could muster.

The drywall caved into a hole with the force of the hit, and you were just lucky to have missed the stud behind it. Pain radiated from your knuckles immediately after, but at least it was something to focus on other than your tumultuous thoughts. In the moment, the violent impulse had felt good. You drew your hand back, half-tempted to repeat the action.

"What did the wall do to deserve that?"

Alertness raises the hairs on the back of your neck within a split second, but recognition follows just as quickly behind it. Closing your eyes, you somehow manage to resist the urge to punch your visitor. In all your anger, you hadn't noticed another presence in the room. Rookie mistake. Had it been someone looking to harm you, they'd have had every opportunity.

Drawing your hand back down to your side with measured calm, you turn your head just enough to spot the red-suited vigilante leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. The opaque, blood-red lenses of his mask somehow managed to exude a tempered curiosity, gaze directed a few feet to your left. His lips were upturned in the barest hint of a grin, posture relaxed and at ease, a stark contrast to the coiled tension of your own.

If he noticed or was put off by your visibly wrathful mood, he gave no indication.

Jaw set, you turn and walk with purpose to the row of shelves off to his left, unclipping your arsenal of equipment from around your waist and thigh holsters. They find their places with heavy clunks in the empty spaces.

"Why are you here?" Your question comes out dripping with malice, though you're not entirely sure if any of it was truly directed at him, or the shitty night you'd just endured. It took everything in you not to yell at him to get the hell out.

Instead of answer, his head tilts in that way it always did. Several seconds pass before a frown settles his mouth downwards. "You're injured."

"No shit." Another flash of annoyance, another clunk onto the shelf.

"I smell blood," he remarks, pushing away from the storage cupboards as he zeroed in on the front of your suit, "and gunpowder. You were shot?"

"I'll live." When he tries to come closer, you push past him to remove the exterior protective jacket of your suit, painfully shrugging it off and tossing it onto the cot that would be your sleeping arrangement for the night. No need to bring your anger home and risk your own apartment's walls.

A tight-fitting black shirt was underneath the outer jacket, and you waste no time in removing it, unbothered that the other vigilante was mere feet behind you. Nothing he hadn't seen before—minus your face, of course, the mask always stayed on—but you were growing restless with his presence there the longer he remained. You hadn't expected company.

The shirt joins your jacket, and you're left with your sports bra and the makeshift bandage you'd cobbled together at some point during the night. The cloth you'd torn and packed against the wound had stained a deep red, saturated, but at least it had done its job and stopped the blood flow. It would need to be replaced with something clean and proper, though. Removing it now would hurt like a son of a bitch, but you'd grit your teeth and bear it. It's what you always did.

"Let me help." The devil's smooth voice is closer than you'd expected behind you, but you shift away from his soft touch on your shoulder with a barely-restrained growl.

"Why are you here?" You ask again, tone demanding that you'd get an answer this time now that you're facing him directly. In reality, you knew why—there was only ever one reason he showed up here—you just wanted him to man up and say it. He needed release, and as the only other operating vigilante in the city, the only other person who could really understand what he took on when he donned the mask, you were the one he sought out.

No names, no faces, and no feelings involved. Just sex. A way to release all the pent up emotions of dealing with the worst that Hell's Kitchen had to offer. It was the only method that didn't involve hurting other people the two of you had found worked just as well. Sometimes there was no other way to really purge oneself of the rollercoaster of emotions that came with trying to protect this city—a city that, sometimes, felt like it hardly wanted the help.

Maybe his night had been just as shitty as yours. Maybe he hadn't gotten all the adrenaline out of his system from his last fight. Or maybe he just felt like a quick fuck. Whatever it was, this whole situation was very off-script to your typical encounters.

He hadn't reached out to you at any point during the night. And you certainly hadn't called for him to meet at your foxhole. Him showing up out of the blue was unusual. You would have suspected something wrong had brought him here, but the absence of his all-business and terse persona made that unlikely. Your penetrating stare was strong enough that you could almost envision burning a hole through his mask.

His silence was prolonged, so you tried again, stepping closer and encroaching on his space. He didn't move back. "Well?"

Another brief pause, and the devil's head dips down further. And despite still wearing the mask, you can't help but feel like he was looking right through it to look at the person beneath. "You needed me."

"I didn't call for you."

"You didn't have to." His matter-of-fact reply was laden with something...so wholly unlike the devil you knew. Dare you call it...gentle?

That was certainly not a word you'd ever have associated with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. All you can do is blink back, unsure of how to respond. Despite possessing heightened senses—the limits of which you were still uncertain of—you doubted he had a vigilante-in-distress sense kicking around in that brain of his.

Irritation swirled through the veins within you. His proximity itched at your nerves in so many ways. You wanted to shove him across the room. You wanted to scream your lungs out, punch and kick at the one person who could meet you on equal footing until your body gave out from exhaustion. Violence was second-nature, instinct as much as reflex.

Sex with Daredevil was a violence in its own right. Rough and unrestrained in ways that felt very much like the fights you threw yourself into against the bad guys on the streets. He'd give as good as he got. He'd meet your ferocity with that of his own, capable and willing to surpass it at times. Both of you, embodiments of wrath and rage, colliding.

You hadn't called him, but here he was. Might as well get some use out of him.

Violent intent morphed cleanly into physical need within the span of a few heartbeats. Lust born from seething anger simmered just beneath your skin, taking the tension that had settled in your limbs all night and turned it outwards, leaving you nearly shaking before him.

"So...you're here. You gonna take care of me, devil?" Is your coy question, one brow raising as you lean back against the cot pressed sideways to the wall, hands gripping the thin mattress to either side of you, nearly-naked chest on display for his eyes to gaze upon. It's almost embarrassing how much you trembled at just the anticipation of him manhandling all of your stress away.

The concern that had settled into his mouth lifted into something more amused, edged with cockiness. "I always do."

You expect him to erase all distance between you, claim your lips with his in a kiss as unforgiving as his sense of justice, shoving you back onto the cot. But to your surprised dismay, he gently pushes away from you and heads back to the cupboards. A deep frown marks your face, but logic hits a second later. Your wound. Ugh.

Your eyes track the way his body moves within his own red suit, leaning down to open the drawer with your medical supplies in it. Whether it was a lucky guess that he picked the exact drawer you kept it all in or if he somehow just fucking knew, you were too wound up to ask. But he's back in front of you only a moment later, setting the things he'd need beside you on the cot.

With barely a wince, you lower yourself down to sit on the edge of the cot, allowing the devil into the space between your legs as he knelt. A stirring deep down screamed to wrap them around his waist and draw him in where you'd rather he be occupying himself, but for now you behaved. Something told you if you didn't let him at least help with your injury, he'd leave you high and dry.

Ignoring the way you simmer in your own clouded lust, he reaches up to gently peel away the torn wrap now soaked in red. The blood that had previously dried and stuck to the edges of the wound now broke open with a sharp pain, and you bite into your lip against the feeling, focusing on evening your breathing through it.

Gloved fingers drift to your back, searching with a tenderness that shocks you.

"The bullet?" He asked, breaking the short silence. Setting the ruined rag aside, he soaked another with antiseptic.

Your voice comes out clipped and sharp. "Dug it out earlier."

He hums in understanding. You bit back a curse as he applied the material to your open wound, the sting raging its ugly head and gnashing its teeth. Hands that so efficiently bloodied the criminals of Hell's Kitchen were patient and steady on your skin, tending to you with that same gentleness he'd spoken with before. This was all so damn confusing.

Your eyes track across his mask in an effort to focus on something else. Past the red-glossed eyes and down to the stubbled jaw that was all you could see of the man underneath. You knew it would feel delightfully rough if you ran your fingers across it...

"What happened at the pier?" The question surprises you and when you stare at him in prolonged silence, because how in the hell could he have known where you'd been, he gives a little shrug. "Saltwater. I smell it on your suit."

You slowly shake your head, ignoring the subtle reminder that he could perceive so much more than you could and deciding to let him distract you from the pain of his ministrations with conversation. You didn't typically talk much during your moments together, but given the circumstances, you'd let it slide this time.

"Kidnapping, almost. Saved the girl, but the bastard got away."

"How?" He questioned, head cocked to the side, gaze still affixed to where he was tenderly cleaning the wound.

"Had an accomplice and a boat waiting. His friend kept me occupied while he made his escape. He popped off a lucky shot and I couldn't go after him once he was away from the pier."

"Tough night." The vigilante muses. "Who's the perp?"

"An asshat named Conrad Clausen. Head of an IT firm, knows his way around the law. Abusive ex. Controlling." Hands clench tightly in your lap. Just the sound of his name got your blood boiling further. You frown harshly, head shaking at your own incompetence. "I only made things worse, somehow. He'll come after her again."

"You'll track him down before that happens." The absolute certainty in his voice gave your pride enough of a spark to break through all the muddled self-loathing and lust that drove all of your thoughts right now. Even if you weren't so sure about your odds of nailing the dude before something could happen again, Daredevil's confidence in you wasn't unwelcome. "And if he's unlucky enough to cross my path before that, well...he'll wish he hadn't."

You couldn't count on both hands the number of unfortunate souls you'd stumbled upon after the devil had gotten to them. That was an understatement if you've ever heard one.

Unwilling to say anything more about it, you only hum, getting used to the stinging of the antiseptic just as he was satisfied it was cleaned to the best of his ability. Setting aside the rag, he dug through the kit again for the padded bandages. Peeling off the adhesive edges, he brought it to your shoulder, probing it gently around the wound.

Your heart thudded heavy in your chest, wishing that his gloves were off so you could feel the skin-on-skin contact. It took everything in you not to drag him forward by the neck of his suit and demand his attention in other, more sensitive places. The sudden grin that lit up his face drew your attention.

"Easy there. Your heart starts beating any faster and you might pass out."

You huff, appalled that he could indeed hear the damn thing pounding away like a drum in your chest. Because of course he could. Your glare could set fire to a building. "I've had a hell of a fucking night, and now you're taking your sweet ass time to patch me up."

"Why the rush?" He asks, tone clearly giving away his mirth.

"Careful, devil. I've got no patience for foreplay." Your words come out as a frustrated hiss, the first of your mental restraints beginning to fray. You'd been riled up for far too long, and your only potential outlet was kneeling there not touching you in the ways you wanted. Fists clenched into the thin cot mattress.

"Clearly." The venom in your words does nothing to put a damper on his smile.

With a few more gentle presses around the edges of the bandage, he pulls back to assess his handiwork. You're courteous enough to let him replace all the medical supplies back into the first aid kit before he stood and turned away to return it to its place in the cupboards.

Hungry eyes raked down the lines of his suit, taking in the way his pants really did wonders for his ass, and you felt the last of your dwindling patience crumble away. The devil sure knew how to be incredibly tempting.

Lifting up from the cot, the distance between you and him is a meager two steps. You traverse that in less time than a single draw of breath, grabbing his arm and turning him to shove him back against the cupboards.

He's still wearing that infernal little smile as he faces you, eyes hidden behind red lenses. "As your attending nurse, I'd suggest not moving that shoulder-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Shoving aside all pretense, you take hold of his suit collar and drag his mouth down to yours. It's crushing and needy, and had you been in a better headspace, you'd balk at just how strongly it screamed of desperation. But the clouds of unresolved failure, loathing, and rage that had settled on your soul seared a straight path through anything and everything else.

Sharp reflexes mean he's quick to reciprocate, though you can still feel the infuriating shape of amusement lift his mouth as he let you kiss him with nothing short of fury. One hand draws up to press at the back of his covered neck, wanting there to be no space between you.

Gloved hands settle at your uncovered waist, but pull you no closer than what your untamed lust already demanded. Too wound up to question why he wasn't meeting you with an equal ferocity, your tongue licks across his bottom lip with purpose, a request as much as a command. Without hesitation he lets you in, tangling his own with yours in a familiar dance.

He's intoxicating, you can't deny. Daredevil wielded an intensity that no other man had ever come close to matching. His attention, when directed at you, was full and overwhelming. A great wave of physical sensation that he let crash over you without apology. Some nights, it was all you could do to keep your head above water and survive the torrent. Others, his ocean storm met with a hurricane of your own making, and your foxhole was the no-mans-land where war waged under stale sheets and pale yellow lamp light.

Tonight, the tides were low, the waters strangely calm. In no mood for serene seas, you maintain your grip on his suit, dragging him backwards and away from the cupboards to be closer to your cot somewhere behind. You wanted it now, whatever he was going to give you.

Your calves hit the edge of the cot, but before your momentum can bring you tumbling backwards together, his hands tighten against your waist and hold you to him. His mouth unfortunately parts from yours.

"Why-?"

"I said I'd take care of you, so let me." His words are breathless and pleading, his masked forehead settling against your own. "Please?"

Confusion mars your expression as you stare into the red tint of his mask's eyes. This close, you could faintly see the dark eyes of the man beneath flicker back and forth with subtle movement. You'd never known this devil to be anything but full of vindictive rage. Righteous purpose, barely contained in the confines of a man. There was playful flirting on occasion, but nothing close to this...warm affection that you were now being confronted with.

Anger flaring, you found yourself nodding, but you'd get what you wanted. If you had to fight tooth and nail to get it, so be it.

"Say it." He urged.

"Fine. Take care of me." Your hands snake down his chest, ghosting over the hardened indentation of his cock from underneath his pants. He huffs a breath at the tease. "But don't make me wait for it."

Another grin splits his lips, before he reaches down and wraps his hands behind your thighs, lifting with an ease that stirs deep in your belly. Instead of your back being pressed to the wall like you expected, like you desperately hoped for, he instead fell carefully to his knees atop the cot, lowering you down onto the covers beneath. This new position slotted his hips directly against yours, that bulge you'd caressed before now flush against the heat of your cunt through layers of clothing.

You gasped, feeling the first true licks of sensation you'd been craving since he'd shown up. Lifting your hips up, seeking more, you're kept in place by the unrelenting strength of his own pressing down. Feeling the skin of his fingertips drift along your jawline—so focused on his body being pressed to yours, you hadn't noticed he'd taken the gloves off—you startle and snap attention back to what little of his face you can see.

Lips slightly parted, the gaze of his mask so centered onto your expressions, watching and observing with a tilted head, as if savoring the sight of you beneath him as his fingers dip down below your jaw and along the exposed skin of your neck. The mask dips, and you swallow as his fingers pass along the hollow at the base of your throat, then further down towards the sports bra still covering your breasts.

You're swift to lift up, hands reaching for your bra to discard, but the man is quicker, snatching your hands before you can touch the fabric and pressing them into the cot above your head.

"Devil-" You start to warn with a growl, electing not to finish the sentence as he slowly shakes his head.

Anticipation coils with your frustration, but at this point you're not sure which one is winning out. Still, you give a valiant effort in removing your wrists from beneath his grip, desperate to take what you want as fast as you can get it, but he doesn't relent. Completely at his mercy.

What he does offer, you take as if you're starving for it. The kiss he leans down to give you takes on that ravenous intensity as you engage again, but he keeps his pace slow and purposeful. And when you are just beginning to feel light-headed and in need of air, his lips slant down past your lips, over the curve of your chin, setting on a meandering path down where his fingers had trailed just moments before. The stubble on his face scratches with a pleasant sting.

The scrape of teeth along your throat earns him a low whine, a gasp following closely as he switched to the wicked, wet heat of his tongue. You feel the burning fire of each little circle he paints upon your skin, scorching you and simultaneously fanning the flames of need. Lower and lower it goes, finally reaching the top hem of your bra. Your skin practically hums in anticipation of the removal of the last barrier blocking that talented tongue of his from where you wished he'd put it to use.

But rather than remove the offending garment, he simply ghosts down over it to your stomach, continuing on as if there had been no interruption at all.

You keen a pathetic little noise, low in your throat, pushing again at the strong hand restraining your wrists. Still, he doesn't give.

"We have all night, sweetheart." It's barely more than a whisper against your abdomen, but still it sends a shiver down your spine. It's all you can do to ignore the way his term of endearment—he'd never called you that before—now ricocheted between your ears, stirring your belly further with each bounce.

His mouth traverses the last few inches of your belly, and despite all of the tension still coiling in your muscles, shoulders and back, there's this growing sense of peace radiating from your bones beneath. As if your body knew, given time, it would have what it wanted.

Wielding impatience as a weapon, you fought for faster gratification, wanting an immediate relief to your internal chaos. Daredevil's pace never quickened, savoring your skin in a way he'd never done before. Despite his determination never to kill, the bitter darkness that spouted from that mouth was really something. Who knew the same one could feel so soft against skin? Honestly, you were floored by the way you silently craved for him to take all the time he wanted to explore your body, lavishing it to his heart's content. No man had ever left you feeling this wanted.

Hands made for fighting traced your skin with softness, like it was delicate paper beneath his fingers. Hot breaths swept tingling waves of toe-curling want across the scar-littered canvas at his disposal. There was something like reverence in the way he caressed you.

And that scared you the most. This...thing between you and the vigilante, it wasn't supposed to be about feelings. The heart wasn't supposed to have anything to do with it. He'd been fine with that, and so had you, when it all began. This, though...this felt like something entirely more.

What changed? Why was he being like this tonight? He touched you as if he actually cared. As if this whole thing wasn't a transaction.

He touched you like a lover.

The shift in trajectory of his mouth is what finally forced you out of your own head and back to the present. His hand not holding down your wrists had been swirling gentle circles into your side, but now it slowly rose at the same pace of his tongue. And when he finally reached your bra on the way back up, his fingers dug beneath the band and lifted.

You squirmed in place, thankful that your breasts were free from their confines. You want nothing more than for his hand to take hold of the flesh and squeeze until the pain nearly edged against the pleasure, but his fingers drift no more than feather-light trails along the underside.

Arching your back and attempting to press yourself into his touch gets you no closer to your desires. He merely presses a soft kiss into the valley between your breasts. It becomes painfully obvious that to get what you wanted, you'd have to go at the vigilante's pace.

"Please..." You whimper, deciding you're not above begging if it helped to speed this process up in any way.

It earned you a low, male noise at the back of his throat, nearly reward enough. A half-hearted rut of his hips into yours made your eyes close in pleasure. Confirmation that he wanted this just as bad as you. Perhaps you'd push to see just how far his own patience would run...

Eyes shot back open, mouth parted in a moan as his tongue finally—finally—found its way to the peak of one breasts. Circling around the tight nub and sucking it into his mouth to taste in full. His hand rolled the other between two fingers, tugging and pinching whenever he felt like it. You writhed beneath his ministration, wanting more but having no way to grasp it.

There was no respite to his touch, endless and yet so ridiculously restrained. Like a meal to be savored, he took his time swirling the nub from various directions, tongue mindlessly circling in whatever way felt right.

And god, did it feel right, you thought through a haze of pleasure.

You think you hear him murmur something into your skin, but your own panting breaths muffled whatever it might have been. Given his unexpected intimacy tonight, you don't dare ask him to repeat it. When he doesn't seem to wait for a response, mouth switching to your other breast and giving it the same attention, you lack the attention span to give it further thought.

Another impulsive arch of your back has your clothed cunt brushing against the crotch of his pants, earning a stuttered groan from the devil. It must be torture, being so hard in that tight costume. He hardly acknowledges his own need, so focused on you. A throb pulses through you, deep to your very core.

Part of you wonders if he could hear the way your heat aches for him, or perhaps could smell the spike of arousal that accompanied it, because his fingers reach down to start undoing your own pants, shaking just enough for you to take note.

One-handed, it's a little difficult for him to accomplish—the plea for him to let you go is pointedly ignored—but with a little shimmy and lift of your hips, they're pulled down to your knees, exposing the wetness that begged for attention. Daredevil's sharp inhale and barely restrained growl is proof enough that his senses are going haywire with all of the intense stimulus.

You'd never wished so much in your life to be able to hear someone's heart beat. Was his just as fast as yours, pounding away at the sight of you laid bare?

Calloused hands glide with fascinated purpose across the exposed skin of your thigh. A glance at his mask confirms that he was focusing intently on your lower half, head tilted and gaze a little to the right of your center. Slowly, those fingers ascend closer to the apex, and you feel yourself holding your breath for their inevitable arrival.

The wait is agonizing, each second a torturous minute in your own mind. Your hips squirm, desperate and needy. Fuck, you just wanted it now.

Daredevil leans in close, lips brushing over yours in the chastest kiss you think you'd ever had.

"Breathe." Is his whispered reminder against your lips, panting lightly himself. All the while you can still feel his glove trailing your thigh absentmindedly. "Relax, sweetheart."

A stuttered pair of in- and exhales is all you can manage, body so strung up on the line that you think one good pull would snap you in half. His lips press to your own once more, guiding you through a methodical, easy kiss. It's the anchor point that keeps you from flying apart. A rock to cling to, weathering the storm.

You're thrown head-first into the current the moment his meandering touch reaches your wetness.

A sharp gasp into his mouth morphs into an elongated moan when two fingers slide easily through the heated arousal coating your entrance. A physical ache tears through your body as the appendages circle around your clit, teasing and promising so much and yet avoiding it all the same. He denied you again when your hips rose of their own volition, seeking a true release.

An absolute bastard, the devil could be. And willingly at his mercy is where you'd put yourself. Fool. You were a goddamn fool.

Each swipe of his fingers pulls another shuddering twitch out of your assaulted nervous system, the stimulation overwhelming and yet not enough. Despite all that, you still notice the devil's throat bob with a heavy swallow, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Knowing the way his senses work, you wouldn't be surprised if he could taste your need on the air.

"Don't...tease..." Words are getting difficult to speak, brain so focused on chasing that blessed release. Pulling your hands again gives you about an inch of movement, but then the devil's hands tighten again, preventing all further resistance. As if in retaliation, his thumb lowers to swipe right across the hood of your clit, eliciting shocks of incredibly intense pleasure so suddenly. Head thrown back into the cot beneath, a curse escapes you—breathless, no more than a hiss, ending in a pathetically desperate keen that would have been embarrassing in any other setting.

You expect some teasing remark from the devilish maestro currently playing your strings, but he only hums low in his throat. As if watching you get wound up so tight by his own hand was equally satisfying. His pace is steady, the pressure just enough to give you want you wanted, without really getting you anywhere.

Your inner muscles clench around nothing, thighs squeezing against his hips that prevented them from completely closing. The devil groans, nearly too quiet to hear, and you're so close to outright begging him to have mercy at this point. That all depended on your ability to actually form the words, of course. Stuttered moans were about the only thing you were currently capable of voicing at the moment.

Something shifted. This time you heard the way the vigilante's breath stuttered in time with your own, need coloring the way he swore under his breath. Your wrists were released as he snatched his hand away—the unexpectedness of it meant you were too dazed to take advantage of your newfound freedom.

Your own warnings are the rough scratch of his jaw along the skin of your inner thighs, and the way he grips them from the top. You have all of a half second to register what that meant.

The moment the wet heat of his tongue meets the needy drip of your cunt, recognition shoots immediately through your body. Back arching off the cot with a moan so broken that at first you didn't realize it was you, your now unrestrained hands scrabble for the back of his helmet. Where his fingers took their time, his tongue held nothing back, licking and swirling along all the folds that had you seeing white. If the vigilante had an instruction manual on completely taking you apart, he was following it to the damn letter.

His helmet was smooth at the back, giving you nothing to latch on to. The short, rounded horns at the front weren't enough to get a full grip upon, but they were your only possible leverage. The heels of your hands pressing them closer to your entrance, you attempt to lift your hips to seek more. His hands are like vices at the tops of your thighs and hold you in place, content to ravish you at the pace he chose.

The small foxhole echoes with your breathless litany of curses and a shaking moans. Beneath it you can hear the wet sounds of the devil's tongue working your core, his teeth making their debut when he scrapes it along the outer folds. The full-frontal assault of pleasure has you soaring closer to climax faster than you were used to, filling you with a strange sense of alarm.

There's no warning as you hurtle straight into your orgasm, throat constricting around a whine as your muscles contract with pulsing pleasure, limbs shaking in his grasp. His mouth never stops working, lapping at the arousal that he's worked so hard to produce. The thundering rush of blood behind your ears muffles, as the seconds tick. Overcome by a floating sensation, you feel all of the tension wash away like the ebbing of a tide. Warmth envelopes your body, peace just behind it.

Overstimulation cuts through the haze like a knife.

Nerves flashing in warning at the continued attention of the Daredevil's tongue, you're yanked back down to reality and twitch underneath his grasp with rough jerks. "D-devil...!" You manage through a hoarse whisper.

"One more." Is all he mutters, breath fanning across your engorged flesh before his tongue drove into your heat with purpose.

He's merciful enough to give your clit momentary respite, focusing instead on licking a full stripe up the folds that were slicked with his saliva and your own arousal. The subtle vibrations of his pleased groans only serve to wind you up further. The cot moves a little, and a glance down confirms that his hips slowly and steadily dig into the bed to alleviate some of his own ignored need.

All attempts at sitting up, at trying to lean down to reach the crotch of his pants pressed flat into the cot, are foiled by the position he has you in.

Any thoughts of reciprocation go out the window when his mouth pressed to your clit once more and sucked. The nerves, having settled somewhat from the first orgasm, now flared with renewed pleasure. Shocks of overstimulation still lingered, but the promise of another climax was outweighing everything else.

This time, it's slower to build. Sharp snaps of intense pleasure course in unpredictable pulses. Rising with haste, before pulling back, edging the sweet release. Your cries take on a high-pitched, borderline sobbing quality. One hand still pressed to the back of his helmet, pushing him as close as he could be, the other covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle all of the noises being pulled from your lungs.

Clearly, the devil took issue with that.

Without stopping or even looking up from his work, one hand unlatched from your thigh and pulled on the crook of your elbow. Fingers thread through yours as he finally gets hold of your hand, keeping you from pulling away and simultaneously giving you something to grip while he drags you towards euphoria again.

Later, you might question where all this intimacy was coming from, but for now you just wanted to cum.

So close now. Perhaps sensing this, Daredevil zeroed in on your clit. A snatch of teeth against the sensitive bud was followed up with that devilish tongue, licking and suckling away the pain, promising pleasure. Your free thigh presses in, trapping his head between your thighs as you press upwards into his mouth, moans hitching with each rushed breath.

The second time feels more intense, somehow. Subtle in its arrival, and yet filled your shivering body with such immense satisfaction and relief that you barely utter a sound as it crashed through you. That is, until the need to breathe hits, and you suck air into your lungs greedily.

The vigilante's pace slows as you ride out the sensation, not slowing until you lay boneless against the cot, chest rising and falling with heaving breaths.

The ringing in your ears ebbs until the world feels muted. You fear reality would be a rough landing place to come back to after such a sweet high, but it's not as unwelcoming as you feared.

Blinking away the tears that had leaked out the corner of your eyes and dampened your mask, you lift your head just enough to see a smug devil between your legs, the side of his head leaning against the same thigh hand softly caressed, smiling that damned little smile that was making your already overworked heart do little flips. The lower, visible half of his face glistened from your wetness, and fuck, if that sight wasn't one of the sexiest things you'd ever seen...

Fatigue, however, clouds over any further lustful thoughts you might pursue. The night had been long. Stressful. And after letting the devil work you over, all that remained was the creeping need for sleep. You fought it with all you had, aware that he hadn't gotten the same attention.

Something in your eyes must have given you away, because he turns his head to place a gentle kiss to your thigh, before rising enough to fully remove your pants. You catch a glimpse of his still fully-tented crotch, a twitch of your fingers as you feel the desire to reach out and touch.

The sight of him lifting the blanket from the cot to cover your body makes you frown.

"But you haven't-" You start to argue, pleasure and exhaustion slurring your speech and slowing all movements to the point of ineffectiveness.

"Not tonight, sweetheart." The tenderness in his voice nearly undoes you. The devil wasn't supposed to have a heart. And yet somehow he had found one. "Just get some sleep. You need it."

The fight leaves you, desire to rest and fall back into this blissful peace too strong to resist any longer. He lifts the blanket again and lets it drape across your nude body, offering protection from the chill in the air as the heat that had worked itself through you began to dissipate. You curl up into the softness, still resisting the heaviness of your eyelids since he hadn't yet left.

You hear him shuffling around, doing what you're not sure. But eventually it stops and he's kneeling down beside you. His hands—now sporting gloves once again—move your hair out of your face with a soft touch. Fingers drift down to glide along your jaw until they settle just beneath your chin in one smooth motion. The smile he sports is just as soft, if not thoughtful.

"Be safe, alright?" He plies, thumb drifting over your chin with absentminded intent. You nod, blinking slow against the fatigue, not wanting to fall asleep with him still here. Regrettably, he releases your chin and stands to step away. "See you around."

Your eyes track him to the edge of your vision from where you lay, hearing him trek up the stairs from where you'd come, and shutting the door behind him on his way out. Silence settles, feeling eerie and out of place after all of that.

One last sinful thought ushers in as you drift off, wondering if he'd take care of himself to the thought of you coming undone by his own hands and mouth. Would he wait until he got home to the privacy of his bed, or cave in to the need and duck down a darkened alley? Would he savor it, take it slow, like he had with you? Or rush to cum because he couldn't wait another second?

Would he whimper your name—well, vigilante name, unfortunately—as he came to completion, cock in his hands?

You certainly hoped so.

A/N - This one ended up being way longer and more involved than what had been my original intention, but hopefully worth it? Let me know if you enjoyed! More spicy content to come, I'm sure...

[doe-writes-stuff]

I figured a little sneak-peak at the upcoming smut piece for Daredevil is in order since getting this thing finished is becoming a longer fight than I'd anticipated...lol. A little taste of what is (hopefully) soon to come >.>

[doe-writes-stuff]

Something a little spicier in the works for our dear Matt Murdock <3

[doe-writes-stuff]

Hi, I noticed you started writing for daredevil. Do you do requests?

Hey there, yes I do write for requests. I am very creatively picky, however, so I unfortunately can't guarantee I will write it if it's sent

[doe-writes-stuff]

Angel Anonymous - Matt x Fem!Reader You didn't think walking home from your terrible date would lead to you defending an unconscious vigilante from a couple of teens with too much curiosity for their own good, but...well, this was Hell's Kitchen. What else did you expect?

(NSFW) Run Me Like A River - Daredevil x VigilanteFem!Reader The devil's not supposed to have a heart. That's why these no-name, no-face, no-strings-attached flings had worked out. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have forgotten that.

[doe-writes-stuff]

A/N - My first foray into the wonderful world of Matthew 'Manwhore' Murdock. Thank you in advance for giving my stuff a try if you do happen to continue on!

CONTENT WARNINGS: Strong language

You didn't think walking home from your terrible date would lead to you defending an unconscious vigilante from a couple of teens with too much curiosity for their own good, but...well, this was Hell's Kitchen. What else did you expect?

I should have worn my goddamn sneakers.

Hollow clicks measured your path along the pavement. Sharp, determined steps. No matter how many times you tried adjusting your feet in the 3 inch open-toed heels adorning them, the pain wouldn't go away. Serves you right for not breaking them in for a few days before your date. Now, with no ride back home and a reluctance to waste money on a cab when you could simply walk the 5 blocks it would take to get you there—cabbies were charging out the ass nowadays—you were cursed to suffer the consequences of your lack of forethought.

Not a great place to be at two in the fucking morning.

The alternative of removing them entirely and going nearly barefoot across the sidewalk wasn't all that appealing. For one, your pantyhose would be swiftly ruined. Not to mention the possibility of stepping directly onto a used heroin needle or the uneaten remains of someone's discarded dinner along the way. No thanks. You'd risk the bastard of a blister and not even complain about it in the morning.

Not too much, at least.

Skipping your short cocktail dress in favor of something a bit more conservative saved you from the awkward form-fitted waddle it would have forced you into. The strappy little piece would have been wasted anyway on the lackadaisical, stoner thrift shop owner who'd shared a few drinks with you at the bar only a few minutes prior. Something told you it still wouldn't have kept his eyes from wandering to your red-headed, busty bartender countless times over the course of the night.

"Expectations weren't high to begin with." You remind yourself in a mutter, adjusting the purse strap a bit higher up on your shoulder, crossing another street and doing a routine sweep around to look out for any cars or people in your general vicinity. You coughed against the faint stench of stale cooking oil and car exhaust that always seemed to permeate this street corner.

Wincing past the pain radiating from the back of your heel, you take notice of a few boys who'd jay-walked over the street to now be several dozen feet in front of you, heading the same direction. They talked amongst themselves, their conversation too far or too quiet for you to hear. Hands in their pockets, they looked around frequently. Suspicious.

Teenagers, judging by their fashion choices. Likely out and about looking for trouble after sneaking out of the house. Despite the likelihood they weren't out for the most innocent of reasons, they weren't much of a concern. Nothing indicated they'd noticed you or, if they had, even cared about your presence. Still, should they decide to turn around and make your night a little too interesting, you figured your heels could be good for one thing: swinging with reckless abandon with their pointy ends facing them. If the threat of your heels didn't convince them to leave you alone, the can of pepper spray in your bag should be more effective.

But as luck would have it, they held no interest in you whatsoever. In fact, something turned the boys' heads towards an alley as they passed by up ahead. So much so, in fact, that they stopped completely and stared at whatever it is they saw, pointing and gesturing frantically. A frown wrinkled your face as they briefly conversed, before hurrying out of sight into the alley.

Just keep on walking, I really don't need this tonight, you thought bitterly, hoping despite all logic that they weren't about to commit a crime or do something equally nefarious that would require intervention. Home was only a few more blocks away, so close and yet just out of your grasp.

Curiosity begrudgingly gets the better of you. And maybe you were being too hasty in assuming the worst out of these boys. Perhaps they'd just seen a cat and were stopping to help the poor thing. Wishful thinking, but hey, if you manifested hard enough, maybe God would grace you with some peace tonight.

However, any thoughts of peace flew out the window as you stepped past the edge of the warehouse beside the alley and glanced in the direction the boys had gone. Because despite the hazy darkness of the wee morning hours, the building's side door was brightly lit with a security light, the back of the alley awash in pale yellow as a result.

And within that sickly illumination, you saw a figure prone on the ground, surrounded by the two boys standing beside them, looking down.

Alarm rose through you at the sight. You hadn't heard a scuffle, or any cries of pain, or anything to remotely hint that they'd just assaulted this person, but honestly you didn't know what else to think. And despite knowing that calling the police would likely be the wisest choice for your health in this situation, you doubted they'd arrive in time to prevent this person from straight up getting mugged or hurt further.

Seconds ticked by. You weren't stupid enough to so casually dive into danger like this, but you liked to believe that someone would do the same if ever you found yourself in a similar position. Besides, it didn't sit right with you to let a couple teen punks give Hell's Kitchen a worse reputation than it already had. This was your home too, damnit.

Scrabbling in your purse for the can of pepper spray you'd purchased for self defense, you throw caution and self-preservation to the wind and hurry as fast as you can down the alley towards them. The nerves in your feet protest with as much negative feedback as you thought they could possibly inflict, but the seriousness of what you were seeing gave you the strength to ignore them for now.

The closer you get, the more you can identify, like the way one of them toes at the individual's leg with a few gentle kicks, as if testing their awareness. The other teen pulls his phone out and seemingly snaps a picture. Snippets of their conversation can now be heard.

"-dare you to do it."

"Shouldn't we call the cops?"

"Fuck no! If you're gonna a pussy, I'll do it." You caught one of them saying with a laugh, crouching down to reach for the person's face.

"Hey!" You call with as much authority as you can muster, finally gaining a grip on your mace and lifting it from your purse to point at them. Their heads whip around to face you. "Take a step back! You two think hurtin' people is funny or somethin'?"

"What? This wasn't us!" The one who'd crouched beside the unconscious man says, standing in a rush and holding up his hands defensively. He looked no older than 15, if you had to guess, face full of acne and the sad beginnings of what you thought was his attempt at growing facial hair.

"Chill, lady. He was like that when we found him, and he's passed out. Can't hurt us." The other leaps to defend, gesturing wildly at the person still laying prone on the ground. A man who, you now realize in alarm, is dressed exactly like a certain vigilante rumored to be hunting the streets of Hell's Kitchen. The adrenaline that fueled your little interruption was now backed by a wave of chilled awe and apprehension.

What had you just gotten yourself into?

Before the revelation of who you had stumbled upon could fully hit you in force, one of the teens steps away and continues babbling. "It's the fucking dude on the news."

"All the more reason to stay the hell away from him, then." You say, swallowing past the rising feeling of regret coursing through your head, unable to help catching glances at the man that felt more a myth than reality. "A couple of kids like you shouldn't be poking around people or places like that."

"He was just laying here, and we wanted to look. I mean, come on, no way you don't wanna know who he is, right? Everyone does." He seems to plead with you to agree with him, young face torn between his burning curiosity and the opening at the top of your mace can. "The guy's been all anyone ever talks about around here."

"He's knocked out, so he wouldn't even know. Just a peek, that's all." The other one adds, crouching next to him as if to reach for the mask again, but he just shakes his head and looks at you. "We were gonna call the cops after. Maybe there's a reward for catching the guy, you know?"

The boys smile in that charming way boys in high school think they are, but you find yourself taking a quick step forward, startling them enough to get them both on their feet and stepping away from the masked man.

"The only thing you're gonna do is go the fuck home. Now." The warning comes out through gritted teeth, irritation clearly showing through and doing what you'd hoped it would. It felt a little extreme to be threatening teenagers, but they'd seriously do something stupid if you didn't get your point across. "Or try something, and see what a face full of mace feels like. After that I'm getting the cops involved, and I'll bet explaining that one to your parents is gonna be a delight."

"Fuck, ok, relax." Acne face says in a rush, rounding you and stepping past his friend to go back the way they'd come. Hands still, up, he looks at you like you were the gum he'd just stepped in. "We'll leave. Damn."

Thankfully without any further convincing, the two boys head off towards the entrance of the alley, muttering what you thought to be 'crazy bitch' under their breaths and glancing back at you and the vigilante. Eyes on them until they disappeared around the corner, you let out the air from your lungs that had been held there too long, eyes closing as the moment passed.

And here I thought a shitty date was the worst thing that could happen tonight...

Once the light-headedness had mostly dissipated, you slowly look down at the infamous Man in the Black Mask just a few inches from your feet.

Being up-close to the guy that had been giving the criminals lurking in the shadows pause for weeks on end was a rather surreal experience. Things like this didn't happen to you. Never. Your life was boring and dull and now you were standing over the unconscious man and wondering what the fuck you were supposed to do next.

A momentary flicker of fear slid down your spine, recalling rumors of the guy's brutality. A few pictures of the criminals the cops had picked up off the streets after a run-in with the Man in the Black Mask had circulated the internet. They hadn't been pretty, to say the least. Your hand toyed with the can of pepper spray, debating.

For the supposed boogeyman in the darkness, he looked like...just a normal guy. There was distinct muscle tone under all that black fabric, but he was certainly no body builder. Nothing a bit of dedication at the gym wouldn't give someone. Rough stubble framed his chin and in the yellow glow of the security light, what looked to be dried blood stained a streak from his nose down to his lip. He'd been in a fight sometime tonight.

The suit looked homemade, you noticed. Curious, but...made sense. There wasn't exactly a retail store for vigilantes, yet somehow it struck you that this guy had essentially put on an athletic shirt with zero combat protection, tied a cotton mask to his face, and then proceeded to beat the bad guys up night after night. You'd seen nerds at conventions with more detailed fits than him.

How'd he even see out of that thing anyway?

He still hadn't moved in all this time. Perhaps you should have been more nervous of him suddenly waking up and attacking you, but something told you that he wouldn't. Blind hope, perhaps, but still, something.

Slowly, the fear lowered just enough for you to crouch and, after much debate with yourself if this was really the smartest thing to be doing, you placed a gentle hand against the man's chest. Warmth. A subtle rise and fall had you relieved that he was breathing, if not conscious. Alive.

The cops didn't like him, and as a law-abiding citizen, neither should you. Hell, there could be some law against helping a vigilante out in the first place. Aiding and abetting? Were you risking a charge by chasing off those teens?

Something didn't feel right about allowing his identity to be exposed. He was doing good for Hell's Kitchen. Your coworker's sister's fiancé was saved from getting mugged according to Kathy which, in all honesty, should be taken with a grain of salt. But on the off chance he was doing more help than hurt in your community, you didn't see a reason to make his life harder than it was already.

...did this make you an accomplice? Ugh.

A glance up at the alleyway where you'd come from reminded you that anyone else could walk by and see this guy just laying here in the light. And the next one might not be as harmless as a teen looking to satisfy their curiosity. You weren't sure how he'd come to be here in the first place, but surely he hadn't intended to pass out where just anyone could walk up and lift up the mask. The briefest idea to lift the mask yourself and see who he was disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Clearly he wore one for his own safety or maybe just to intimidate the bad guys, and if what you knew about him was true, he was out here for the right reasons. The last thing you'd do was get in his way of helping.

Another glance around at the small alley reveals a darkened corner that was out of sight from the sidewalk. It wasn't too far, and you doubted you'd be able to do much more than drag him that distance anyway. With a resolute sigh, you put your pepper spray back in your purse and shift to grab both of his arms by the wrist, attempting to pull him out of the light towards the wall to lean him against.

The moment you try moving him, you realize you'd underestimated how much effort this was going to take. Especially in heels and a dress. A curse escapes under your breath.

"Jesus..." You huff out a breath, shifting your grip once more to better accommodate his dead weight.

Your feet, which had previously been in pain in your heels, were screaming at you with torturous malice. Another couple tugs gave little by way of results.

"Now would be a great time to wake up and help me out here. Teamwork makes the dream work or whatever..." Unfortunately, he remained silent and unconscious.

You rethought your whole idea the longer you continued to try dragging him over to the wall, feeling the couple drinks you'd had less than half an hour ago the more you exerted energy, but you had already gained a little ground. Only a few more yards to go.

Finally figuring out that you'd have more leverage by lifting him from beneath his armpits, you managed to reach under him and pull with much more ease that way.

"Maybe lay off the protein and pick a salad some time." You gripe through tight lips.

The sack of potatoes that was the Man in the Black Mask still gave you a ton of trouble, but at least you were gaining by several feet with each pull rather than inches. This position also gave you a nose-full of the smell of sweat, washed cotton, and the faintest hint of the guy's preferred cologne, you thought. Really not the best combination of aromas but, in all honesty, still better than your date's pungent musky scent that you were half-convinced he'd bathed in prior to meeting you.

With one last frustrated grunt, you manage to prop his back up against the wall, settling him into a semi-comfortable sitting position. You panted, out of breath, stepping back to examine him one last time, smoothing down your dress.

He seemed steady enough, and hopefully no one else would come down this way looking for anything. It was all you could do for him, especially given your feet would likely fall off or catch fire at the rate you were going in these heels. Hissing in pain, you step back and remembered there were still 2 more blocks to walk before you got home.

With one last look at the vigilante, you shook your head and sighed. "Just...don't get killed, ok? Hell's Kitchen is safer with you in it."

A subtle shift in his stature and a low groan at the back of his throat alerts you to his growing awareness. Without the adrenaline to keep you from enacting on your flight response at the impending awakening of the vigilante, you swear under your breath and get the hell out of the alley, hoping he was still too out of it to notice your swift departure.

With any luck, he'd be too disoriented to figure out what had happened. Heels clicking in a mad fury down the sidewalk, you forced the man in the mask out of your mind with great effort, already calculating the number of painkillers you'd have to take to be able to walk tomorrow.

Flickers of awareness. Not enough to fully rouse him at the time, but a small iota of stimulus enough for Matt to remember once he awakened. As he roused, his back propped up against the roughness of brick and the tell-tale alleyway stench of trash and rust filling his nose, he couldn't help but mull over what he could recall.

A woman's sharp voice. Sensations of movement around and above him. Something had touched him. And again, a woman's voice, this time fainter and quiet, but close.

Don't get killed, ok?

It was difficult to tell what he'd truly heard and what was his mind conjuring what it wanted to.

Ignoring the many aches and pain in his body as he stood from his seat against the wall, Matt noticed more and more things seemingly out of place. Two similar male scents. The subtlest hint of sharp spice in the air—pepper spray. Not strong enough to have been used, but at least present nearby.

Coming back to his senses was quick, though not as fast as he would have liked. By morning, the taste of brewing coffee was so strong in the air of Hell's Kitchen that there was nowhere he could go to avoid it. The blatant lack of it, coupled with the low foot-traffic on the sidewalk around the corner meant he hadn't been out for long. It was still early, before the rest of the city awakened in full force. A small relief.

Speaking of foot-traffic...one set of steps was growing more distance with a noticeable haste—clicking of cheap, hardened rubber. Heels, probably. A woman?

Sweetness clung to him. Another soft inhale brought the scent of perfume into his nostrils, a mix of citrus and floral. It clung to his clothing pleasantly. His head tilted, putting together what he knew and the vague words that he thought he recalled.

Almost out of reflex, he lifted a hand to his make-shift mask, feeling that it was in the same place he'd left it before. Nothing felt out of place, nor as if it had been removed and replaced by someone else. To his knowledge, his identity hadn't been compromised. Still, that left him with many questions.

He couldn't recall losing consciousness in the position he'd awakened in. You...you'd moved him over to the wall? Defended him, perhaps, if the clues were adding up like he thought they were.

The sound of your retreat was still audible from this distance, his anonymous protector no doubt hurrying home. Beneath the mask, Matt's brow raised with interest.

Who were you?

A/N -I guess I'm just testing the waters of Matt's characterization with this one and seeing how I wanna play with this world. If you'd like to see more, please let me know <3

[doe-writes-stuff]

[doe-writes-stuff]

♠ Let's see if your good fortune lasts one more hand. ♠

[doe-writes-stuff]

Just how am I the "Herald of Andraste"?