#i'll see y'all at xmas eve mass tnt looking guilty af in the back row

[moon-kn1ght]

a prayer.

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader
 word count: 1.2k warnings: LOTSO Religious symbolism/images; there are prayers said; (if this might upset you, pls do not read); catholic guilt; dom/sub vibes; reader is tied up; sensory play; wax play; basic af p in v; no y/n; 
a/n: this is inspired by the work Psalm by VigilanteAvocado on Ao3 in 2015. i read that and immediately YES MORE so i did this. shout out to that catholic guilt, really powered this piece home. thank you to my wife @wyn-n-tonic for helping me avoid the word "slide" and big thank you to @louderrthanthunderr for bringing me into the daredevil fandom at its resurgence -- this piece is dedicated to you <3 (happy christmas) read more on my masterlist

You knew he wasn’t the most devout Catholic. At least in the traditional sense.

Like you, he sat in the back rows at Mass. He’d always enter close to the start of the introductory rites, obviously not wanting to make small talk (or not get roped into the New York Young Adult Catholics ministry team). (You too).

He did Wednesdays, not Sundays. He had his habits.

You noticed him before he noticed you (at least you think). It was only after Easter that you saw him looking in your general direction. You had assumed he was looking at you (later you would be proven wrong).

That night, as you were walking out, he approached you. You had thought he left after communion was served.

“Hey.” – he’s simple, catching your attention. It still spooks you, though, thinking you’d made it out of the gauntlet of people asking you to attend the social (re: singles meet & greet) after mass.

“Oh–fu–hey, I’m sorry. Hi.”

“Wow, didn’t you just come from Mass? Already building that list for confession?”

You cover your face with your hands, “Mhm, yep. It’s a bad habit, one that decades of ‘Hail Mary’s’ has not been able to break.”

“I’m Matt,” he offers and you give him your name in return. “So, we both survived the Easter crowds.”

It began with a critique of that night’s homily, then became drinks, then inviting him into your bed that night. A romance from church? No one’s grandma could be prouder (just make sure to leave out the juicier details).

That night he left while you were asleep, so you didn’t get his number. But then next Wednesday, he was sitting in your pew at Mass. And yes, he did end up in your bed again.

–

Matt’s favorite way to have you? Tied up and blindfolded.

“To level the playing field,” he’d joke. Not that you ever complained.

One time, Matt made you say the Act of Contrition when a tangle of profanity (including a lot of G-d fuck) tumbled out of your lips when you came on his face.

“It’s only right,” he smiled. That planted a seed for him. To him, faith could be explored (and exploited) in more engaging ways.

–

“Do you feel secure?”

“Green.”

“Good girl–” His adoration sends a tingle across your skin. Anticipation ices your body in goosebumps. “We’re going to play a game tonight, does that sound good?” You think you can feel his hand smoothing out the sheet at the foot of the bed, but his voice sounds closer to you than that.

“Yes Matt.”

“I want you to start praying.” His words bounce off the walls of the room and ring in your ears. “While you pray, I will touch you. When you stop, I stop.”

Oh.

“Can you do that for me?”

Fucking hell Murdock. Now would this truly be considered exploration? Or was this exploitation? Either way, you are all in.

“Yes Matt.”

Matt licks his lips. He can already smell your arousal at this proposition. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You swallow deeply. One thought tracks across the front of your mind: you are so going to hell for this. With an inhale you begin, “Let us remember;”

Matt joins you on the refrain as he sinks his knees into the mattress at your side, “that we are in the Holy Presence of God.” He chuckles and readjusts the positions of your thighs.

“Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit.”

He leans down and kisses your hip. “As it was in the beginning…” He lets his lips drag across the center of your stomach, stopping just short of your [pubic bone] as you finish the Glory Be. A small sound escapes your mouth as you feel his hot breath so close to where you want it.

His body shifts next to yours and you can hear the unmistakable scratch-click-hshhh of a lighter. You twist your wrists in the restraints and dig your fingernails into your palms for some grounding.

“I’m not hearing anything.”

You can smell something – he’s lit a candle, you smell the wick burning. But the candle doesn’t have a specific scent, all you get is the slight smokiness of the fabric string burning.

“Hail Mary, full of grace–” you continue and he immediately replaces his hand against your hip.

“The Lord is with the–” Matt leans into your chest and trails light kisses down your collarbone. His lips blaze a fiery trail across your skin.

Your own words, holy words, ring loudly in your ears but are in reality, barely above a whisper. Matt adds to the quiet cacophony with “I love hearing you say these things for me.” He grazes his teeth against your nipple. “I’m going to add an intense feeling, if you don't want me to just stop speaking.”

Your whispered prayer becomes a plead for more with “Blessed is the fruit of thy womb;”

“Good girl,” he coos with his mouth wrapped around your breast.

It’s not the first time you two have played with wax, one can definitely call it a ‘habit’ of Matt. Still, when the first drip of wax hits your skin, unexpectedly, sharply, you gasp your words. “Holy Mary” becomes a shrill choke for air, of which your lungs are suddenly deprived of.

Matt loves these noises, the visceral way your body responds to foreign sensations when you’re so out of control.

More drips of wax have you writhing in your restraints, practically chanting the final line of “now and at our hour of death, Amen.”

“Matt, please–” you cry.

“I’m here,” his hand gasps yours, “Tell me what you need.” His voice sounds so desperate, almost as wrecked as yours.

“–I need you. I need to feel you.”

Matt unties your hands and you immediately cling to him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and nestling the other into his hair.

But you don’t stop the prayers, begging quietly for more of him. You whimper the Our Father into his neck as he pushes inside of you. His thrusts bring your bodies closer together, closer to being one. Near your climax, you hear familiar words on his lips.

He whispers against your skin, “Purify me and I shall be clean; Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Your words cut against each other like rival tides pulling on a shore –

“-- Create in me a clean heart –”

“-- lead us not into temptation,”

The knot in your center tightens and breaks, cutting the stream of your words into a tumble of “yes, G-d yes.”

His thrusts become quicker as you come down from your high, his words muttered. “Deliver me, O God of my salvation–” and he buries himself deep inside you as he too finds his climax.

It’s not until the two of you are curled up in bed later that night do you joke, “Now, how are we supposed to explain that one in confession this week?”