A/N: Binge watching Daredevil and of course I wasn't happy with how Anatoly died. (like I get why for the story it happened) Vladimir get's a pretty badass death but anyways I needed to write a fix-it to deal with my feelings. I switch between the Russian alphabet and the English one to show when Anatoly is speaking as he normally would verses when he's trying to enunciate for Matt. The Russian comes from google translate so I'm really sorry for probably butchering the language.
There's several kinks in here, be warned. Both Matt and Anatoly are kinda fucked up people. Love them.
Might write more, might not.
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Matthew inhaled the thick night air. It stank of filth and pollution, but that wasn't new and almost familiar now. Hell's Kitchen was nothing if not consistent in its squalor.
He needed to walk; had to get out and clear his head. The itch of restlessness crawled across his skin and consumed him. Humid air clogged at Matt's senses and drove him to pace faster, unable to stop his mind from overanalyzing all the events that had transpired today.
Claire was safe and that's all that should matter. Yet...he could still feel her swollen cheeks under his fingers, her sobs in that garage soaked with blood clung to his memories. The world was too vibrant, like overly bright holiday decorations that burned when you touched; all of Matthew's senses were on overdrive to the point of being painful.
Adrenaline coursed through Matthew's body—he couldn't dim anything—and thus he was prowling the streets, making his way towards the Hudson River. Sometimes the water could drown out his senses, other times he could only smell the decaying flesh that rotted underneath the surface. This city was a curse, his curse, but he needed to try and save it.
Even if it was slowly killing him.
The slow drip of water from a pipe grated on Matthew's nerves; he pulled on his collar subconsciously. He had changed clothes, peeling off the blood-drenched black shirt of his alter ego and settling for his hoodie and training sweats. He was done looking for trouble tonight.
He would rather be done putting others in harm's way.
Matthew exhaled sharply, dragging his fingers through his hair. The sound of the river crept into his senses, rushing and slapping against rocks and stone.
He should be in this fight alone.
Tick, tick, tick.
Matthew froze.
Tick, tick, tick.
God, he knew that sound. That man, the one from Union Allied, what was his name? James Wesley. The man who's heartbeat was never quite right when he spoke. Not an outright lie, but something worse. Matthew sped up his steps further, focusing all his attention on his hearing.
There were three heartbeats. Could he be with his employer? The man hidden in the shadows; Wilson Fisk?
More than the heartbeats Matt heard the sound of fighting: skin hitting skin, the crunch of bones, painful gasps. What the hell? There was blood in the air, the tang of metal on his tongue, and the atmosphere prickled with tension. His instincts kicked in and Matthew broke out into a run.
Someone was about to be killed.
Ahead, incomprehensible screaming and the sound of a car door opening, a body being dragged across pavement.
"Hey!" The noise ripped itself from his throat. Matthew barely remembered in time that he was just a man right now, not his masked self. One of the heartbeats was erratic and weak; terrified and dying.
Tick, tick, tick.
"Sir!" Wesley's voice. Curt, but not loud enough for a normal person to hear. He was trying to be discreet. A wet slap and a thud as a body his the ground, fragile gasps from whoever it was. A crunch of gravel as a body shifted. Matthew tensed himself, he could smell blood on the man's fists. That had to be Fisk.
What had he walked into?
"—no, sir. He's important, one of the lawyers we're using." Hushed whispers only Matthew's hearing would be able to pick out from this distance.
He decided to play up his blindness. "Is someone there? I thought I heard something. Hello?"
"We need to leave now."
"He's a witness." A dark, rich voice. Deep with an undercurrent of rage. Matthew felt his skin crawl. Danger.
"He's blind." The dismissive tone in Wesley's voice was exactly what Matthew wanted. That's right, underestimate him. "I know you're upset, but this is a delicate situation." A quick shuffle of steps and the scrap of plastic. "We'll take his phone as bait for the other, pit the Russians against that vigilante idiot and deal with two problems at once."
"Fine. Just have to finish up this last thing—" Another shift in the gravel as someone moved and the weakened heartbeat became frantic.
"We don't have time! He'll be dead with these injuries regardless." That was loud enough that Matthew could get away with being able to hear that. He started forward again, reaching his hand out like he was trying to find his way.
"Is everything alright?" He tried to make his voice as soft and unsuspecting as he could. If he could just get a little closer—
"Sir!" There was a slam of car doors and the roar of an engine. Matthew had to fight his reaction from leaping forward as the squeal of tires on the pavement veered towards him. Instead he made his body cringe and brace for a blow as a car blew past him, wind knocking him sideways. That was what a normal person would do, right?
Damn it! He had been so close to Fisk. A few meters more and he could have taken out Wesley and then faced the man who had caused the root of his city's misery and pain. He could have finally done something that would have had an impact. An action that would have had real meaning.
Shit.
"Fuck!" His fist slammed against the ground. It wasn't smart. The pavement tore at the skin on his knuckles and he was bleeding again. Whatever.
He concentrated, breathing deeply to memorize the scent that Fisk had left behind. Expensive cologne, but subtle, not overpowering. Wine; a red, floral with acidic notes. Hints of some type of well-cooked meat. He had been at a restaurant? Blood; still drying on his hands—oh.
Matthew snapped out of his trace. He had other things to worry about first. He ran the last few yards and dropped down next to the person that Fisk had been trying to kill. Whoever they were they could have vital information, he needed them alive.
"Hey," Matthew tilted the man's head head, listening for a heartbeat. It was there; faint, but there. Their breathing was labored and wet, like they had been coughing up blood. Matthew could barely smell anything past the blood, but something was familiar about the scent. What had Wesley said, the Russians? "Hey, what's your name?" But he already had a suspicion.
"Помогите..."
Well, Matthew couldn't understand Russian, but he did recognize the voice. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was one of the Ranskahov brothers, the older one, Anatoly. They'd fought briefly before. But didn't they work for Fisk? We would he be trying to kill his own?
"Ok, I need you alive." Matthew hauled the man up and over his shoulders, ignoring the low groan of pain. "I need answers."
It was going to be a long walk back to his place.
It was only as Matthew was standing outside his door that he realized this might be a horrible idea. Claire was sleeping inside on his couch, he could hear her soft even breathing from here. She had just been tortured by the Russians and now he was bringing one of their leaders, bleeding and dying, for her to patch up.
She might not be so keen on the idea. Matthew certainly wasn't and he actually wanted this man alive.
Speaking of, Anatoly stirred slightly in his grip. He kept trying to move every few minutes, or try to say something, but it was all Russian and probably gibberish.
"Shh," Matthew shushed him. He would try to do this by himself first. Waking Claire just didn't seem like a great idea. She was a good person, she would probably try to do the right thing, but...did Anatoly deserve it?
Matthew had a crime lord slung over his shoulder who ran a human trafficking ring, at best he deserved prison. Matthew should have left him in the street, or worse still let him get killed however Fisk intended. He should not have brought the man back to his place to try and heal him.
"Volodya..."
He kept repeating that word. Matthew didn't know what it meant. He felt the weight of the man resting against him, heard him struggle to take in a breath and the pained wheeze as it left his lungs. Oh God. He wanted to save his city and the people in it, and this was one of them: a person in his city who need help.
Sometimes it's a blurred line for Matthew, other times it was a sharp one.
He turned the handle for his door and quietly slipped in, past Claire's sleeping figure and into his bedroom, clicking the door shut behind himself. He carefully eased Anatoly off his shoulders and onto his bed, realizing he was probably going to get blood all over his sheets. Wouldn't be the first time.
He really needed to invest in red or black sheets.
"...Кто ты?" It was like listening to shards of broken glass scrape across the floor. His vocal cords were probably damaged in the fight. Matthew shook his head.
"I can't understand you," he whispered. Matthew needed to assess this man's injuries as there were definitely a few broken ribs with the way he was breathing. Funny, he hadn't really done much patching up since his father died and now twice in one day he was using this old skill.
Worn leather met Matthew's fingertips as he tugged off Anatoly's jacket. The man didn't resist at all, but Matt got the sense he was being watched; it was slightly unnerving.
"What can you tell me about Fisk?" He might as well try to get information out of the criminal. There was a slight intake of breath, maybe Anatoly had been about to answer, but it was broken by a series of violent hacking coughs that hurt to listen to. Matthew winced in spite of himself. He shouldn't really care, this man deserved all the pain he got. "Alright, questions can wait."
He lifted the hem of Anatoly's shirt up, pushing the fabric up until most of his chest was uncovered. He grazed his fingers over the exposed flesh, biting the inside of his mouth at the feeling. Matthew's senses were still on high alert and his fingers were hyper sensitive. Skin on skin contact was...stimulating.
"...болит." Matthew stopped. That sounded like a complaint. He examined the area of the chest he had stopped at. It felt swollen, and hot, like a rush of blood: a broken rib. Matt continued his search and found two more broken ribs. Thankfully, they felt more like fractures that could be bound, rather than bones he would have to slide back into place. Then he would have had to wake Claire.
"One sec—" Matthew had plastic wrap in the kitchen. He'd used it several times on himself in a pinch. He stood up to leave and felt the air shift around him as a hand shot out and latched onto his.
"Стой!" Matthew let a frustrated sigh escape him.
"I can't underst—
"Stop." Oh thank God, finally English. "You..." Anatoly's voice shook with the effort. If Matt actually thought about it, it probably wasn't easy to translate yourself after getting your head beaten in.
"I'm just getting something to wrap your chest in, then you can answer my questions," he explained.
"You...are man in mask?" Matthew went completely still. The hand around his wrist tightened. It was asked as a question, but Anatoly's heart told him he was certain.
"How'd you know?"
"How you...move. Your footsteps, like killer's."
Shit, he was that obvious? Although, Matt didn't think the criminal had been paying that close attention since he was fading in and out of consciousness. This was his own fault, he should have been more careful. "Also...your face. Without mask, easy—easy to read..." The voice broke into a weak cough. Matthew clenched his jaw. Foggy always said he had a horrible poker face.
"Just—I'll be right back." He needed space now, but the hand didn't let go of him. The grip was surprisingly tight for someone close to death.
"Почему ты помогаешь? Uh...why help?" The desperation hit Matthew like a brick wall. It was hard, hearing someone you considered an enemy sound that vulnerable. Made them sound human. Blurred the lines.
"You have answers. I have questions." Matthew shook the hand off and pulled his door open, padding mutely over to his kitchen and grabbing his med kit and plastic wrap.
Claire's heartbeat and breathing were still even and smooth. Matthew basked for a moment in the calm before heading back to his bedroom. Anatoly had fallen back into a haze, quiet and unmoving as Matthew securely bound his chest. His breathing evened out a little, not sounding as broken.
Matthew moved his hand up to the other man's face, preparing to find most of the damage there. What he didn't expect was to be hit with a wave of nostalgia and a severe sense of déjà vu. Different than Claire as the features were much closer to his father's, Matt felt his heartbeat skyrocket.
Finger pads gently brushed over swollen and broken skin, tracing over the jaw and feeling hints of rough stubble. The hair on the back of Matthew's arm stood up. Slowly he made his way over high cheek bones, buried under several inflamed bruises that left one eye unable to open. The bridge of Anatoly's nose was broken but that had been Matthew's fault earlier in the day and he could tell the bone had been set. Finally his fingers landed on chapped lips, split open on the left side and bleeding.
This...was a little too intimate for Matt. Feeling someone's face like this, picturing their features—he felt heat rise to his cheeks and promptly squashed that feeling.
A warm breath tickled his fingertips as Anatoly stirred. Matthew felt like he'd been shocked.
"Man in mask...have pretty face," his accent was so thick Matthew had a hard time understanding him. A tongue swiped out and caught the edge of Matthew's finger. Blood pounded in his ears. "Позор, что вы скрываете свое лицо."
Matthew felt it then—what he called his Devil. The dark desires that lived inside of him, pushed him to go farther than he wanted. Pushed him to hunt, wanted him to kill.
"God..." He took a shaky breath. He wouldn't give in to something like this. A man barely breathing he was so badly beat.
"Why scared, ubiytsa?" Matthew's hand shook, every time Anatoly spoke he would feel his lips move and the air rush past from the breaths he took. He shouldn't do this to himself.
"Wh-what did you call me?" The word had been almost over-pronounced. Like he had wanted Matthew to understand the word.
"Убийца. Ubiytsa. How you say...assassin? The men call you that."
"I don't kill people."
"We shall see." Matthew could feel the lips stretch into a crooked smile before his finger was engulfed in the wet heat, teeth scraping the skin and Matthew was suddenly so hard. He gasped, jerking forward. "Ispol'zuyte eto telo," Anatoly murmured around his fingers and Matthew felt his Devil claw at his chest.
Contrary to what Foggy believed, Matthew hadn't been with anyone for a long time. His senses so frenzied after everything that had happen and his body was begging for a release, an outlet. Normally he would channel it into his punching bag and spend several hours hammering away at the gym...but this...God. He could hear Anatoly's heartbeat, could smell his arousal underneath the blood.
Matthew let out a small hysterical giggle, "You're insane."
"Да." Uneven breathing met Matthew's fingers. "Хотеть. Please."
Murdock boys have a little bit of the Devil in them, his grandmother always said; Matthew let his Devil out.
His lips devoured Anatoly's. He knew he was putting too much pressure at the muffled cry he received, but he didn't let up. He consumed every whimper, gasp, and groan as he ravaged the mouth underneath his. He needed to tasted everything; the blood, the sweat and tears. At some point his right hand had gripped Anatoly's hair and clenched hard, bearing the other man's neck to him.
Despite verbal protests, the lips under Matt's moved with his. Matched his actions and fought just as greedily. A trembling tongue met his, sliding along the roof of Matthew's mouth and swirling, coaxing several noises out of Matt and leaving the blind man dizzy. Sharp teeth pulled at his lips and Matthew thrust his hips forward, a soft moan escaping him.
He pulled back sharply, gulping lungfuls of air like he had never taken a proper breath before. Underneath, Anatoly was doing the same.
"Imya? Name?" Shaky fingers reached up and touched Matthew's jaw. He flinched.
"S-sorry." He was too rough, always too rough. Fuck.
"Strange name," Anatoly huffed, but it petered out into a pained gasp. "More," he panted. "I take all you have." Matthew couldn't help what he did next. His hand moved on its own, skimming down Anatoly's body until he felt his belt, he gripped the dense fabric of his jeans and felt the bulging erection. A jolt of pleasure shot down Matthew's spine and both men moaned.
His fingers fumbled, ripped at the zipper and he was gone. Matthew lost himself to his desires as he drew out heated flesh, sensitive fingers memorizing everything. Anatoly was cut, smooth skin with several veins running along his shaft. Around the ridge of his head were three dydoe piercings perfectly spaced apart.
Matthew almost came right then.
Instead, he buried his head in the other man's thigh and tried to breath through his peaking excitement. It was difficult, an annoying part of his brain was imagining what it would feel like that have a dick like that slide into him; if the piercings would graze his prostate. Matthew's body trembled at the mental image. He was so weak, so tempted.
"Do you like pain?" He lifted his head and heard and Anatoly struggled to speak, both from his injuries and arousal.
"Да, certain types of pain." Matthew squeezed, running his finger over the piercings, and felt Anatoly's body spasm. "More," was quietly hissed at him and Matthew smiled. "What is name?" Anatoly tried one more time. "Хотеть—please."
Matthew gripped Anatoly tightly again, making the man buckle and gasp. This could be a trick, he could be trying to get information out of Matthew to use later. He ran his thumb over the head and felt the first drop of liquid squeeze out; his mouth started to water. The heartbeat underneath him was hiding nothing, the breathy moans and hitched gasps spoke clearly as to what Anatoly's motivations were. Why? Who knew, maybe the man really was crazy. Matthew was just as bad indulging in this, sucking off a man so terribly injured he could barely move. He grew harder just thinking about how wrong it all was.
"Don't trust me, can understand—"
"Matthew," he sighed and then dove down, taking as much of Anatoly in his mouth as he could. Texture like a thick velvet, hints of a metallic tang from the piercings, and heady scent of musk made Matthew's head spin. He tucked his teeth behind his lips and dragged his tongue up along the shaft, swirling at the head and feeling Anatoly shake underneath him. An unsteady hand wove it's way through his hair and Matt relished in the tremble that went down his spine at the sensation.
His scalp was just as oversensitive as the rest of him and he moaned as Anatoly's fingers lightly scratched, encouraging him. Matthew poured himself into the act, lavishing all his attention and efforts onto Anatoly, taking him as deep as he could until the man was a throbbing mess. Quiet sobs and pleas making Matthew taunt as a wire, ready to snap. His own erection weeping, soaking through the fabric of his sweats. He wanted to come so badly just from listening to what he was doing to Anatoly.
He used both his hands, rubbing and pressing against the slicked erection. Wherever his mouth couldn't reach he'd make sure his fingers could, slipping down further to cup the other man's sac, rolling them around and feeling Anatoly's thighs shake. He tongued the slit, tasting as more precome leaked out, and sucked with enough force to make any man's toes curl.
"Matvey!" The fingers in his hair dropped suddenly, unable to keep up their grip and Matt pulled himself off with a wet pop. It was satisfying to hear Anatoly's whine at the sight that must have been. "W-will soon..."
That was oddly polite, that he was trying to warn Matt. A sharp stab of desire caught him off guard and Matthew threw himself back down, licking Anatoly's length like it was the best damn candy he had ever tried. Lapping it from base to head, feeling as Anatoly's breathing became even more wreaked. He came with a soft, broken cry and Matthew's mouth filled with warm liquid. He gagged—first time and everything, but he swallowed quickly, not even trying to define the taste, and took a deep breath.
"Shit."
"Да," Anatoly panted next to him. They both went still, listening. Matthew heard Claire's breathing, still slow and steady and gave a sigh of relief. He turned his hearing back to Anatoly, his heartbeat was coming back down but his breaths were becoming shallow and pained.
"D-did I hurt you?" Matthew didn't like the way his voice sounded then. Weak. He shouldn't have given in. These animalistic urges ruined everything.
"Fisk hurt me, try to kill me," Anatoly responded after a moment, thread of terror running through his voice. He tried moving, maybe to sit up, but collapsed immediately with a pained grunt. "You give best—how you say—blow job?"
"Fuck, that's pathetic, I can't have been good." Matthew wanted to laugh again but his head hurt, the straining erection between his legs hurt even more.
"Ерунда. I not lie, I—" Matthew could hear it, when exhaustion took over and Anatoly choked back a sob of frustration. More than that...his heartbeat was off.
"You're scared? Why?"
"Does matter? I—" Again his voice trailed off, he was having trouble focusing, staying awake. It terrified the other man for some reason. Matthew leaned forward, even after orgasm Anatoly was still half hard, felt further down and pressed against his perineum, massaging it. "... пощада," Anatoly gasped out. Matthew stopped, withdrew his hand and listened as Anatoly fell into an uneasy sleep.
There would be no answers tonight. Just too many questions and a headache.
Matthew took a cold shower, trying to wash everything he felt away. It didn't work and he still ended up jerking himself off like an angsty teenager. Afterwards he stood at the foot of his bed, listening to the two guests he had in his home. Claire still steady; Anatoly weak and uneven.
He was so fucked.
Matthew crawled to the empty side of his bed, fatigue overcoming his worries and he fell gratefully onto his pillow. Anatoly stirred, mumbling "Volodya" in his sleep. Matthew brought a hand up to trace over his features one last time, remembering that last time he felt his father's face. Cold and unmoving on the pavement, blood sticky and cloying. Funny, this man almost ended up the same way if Matthew hadn't been walking by. Would have been another corpse that Hell's Kitchen would have claimed. It wasn't really that funny. Matthew blinked the tears out of his eyes, fingers dropping to trace lips one last time.
"Matvey..."
Matthew's eyes fell shut and when he dreamed, the color came rushing back into his life.
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