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clarks-letterman · 5 months

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a man's sport | Matt Murdock x reader

a/n — wrote this because pool is such a slutty sport idk // title is a joke

warnings — rimming (Matt receiving), not proofread (late night sorry)

summary — Drunken fools make a bet and don't even follow it, too entranced to care.

words — 2.5k

~~~

There comes a time in every man’s life where he gambles with dice he doesn’t know every side of. He makes choices with a devil on his shoulder to guide him, or maybe an unassuming angel, naively nudging his shoulder so that he turns down the wrong path.

You met Matt on a night like tonight a few weeks ago when he came into the bar with a black eye and a story to tell. It was easy to get it from him after offering to buy the first round of drinks. ‘A car accident,’ he said, ‘involving no more than a parked car and an ignorant passenger opening the door.’ You could put two and two together, but you could also tell when someone was lying. He walked through the door that night, claiming to have gotten it on his walk over, but the development of it seemed too fast. Then, for the entirety of that night, you had to remind him every half-an-hour or so to apply something cold to the area for the swelling and the pain likely tingling on the surface. He teased you, calling you his ‘mother’ for being so overbearing, but it was just the way you knew someone would typically treat a shiner like that.

Somehow, it didn’t scare him away. Matt would show up to the bar, alone, often asking the bartender if you had come in. It became a silent agreement that the two of you would meet after your respective jobs to just forget about everything else. The disconnect and difference between your lives meant that you could be yourselves, and learn about things you never knew before. Matt had been schooling you on laws, mostly getting you to open up about the time something memorable happened, then pointing out what you could or couldn’t be prosecuted for. It was all reckless stupidity or something along that line, nothing serious.

Just when you were about to catch him in another lie, he took a sharp turn in the conversation after pounding back the last of his drink. “Whoever loses a round, buys a round,” he suggested. Matt nodded his head towards the pool table in the back of the bar, the sounds of patrons playing earlier must have let him know it was there. Otherwise, you would have thought the very reason you had become so infatuated with this man would immediately reveal itself to be a lie.

Maybe it was some kind of joke, a way for him to finally pay you back for adding on to your endlessly accruing tab at Josie’s. If he did win, you’d just ask for the cheapest whatever, whether it was alcoholic or not. It’s not like you needed it anyway with the amount of it in your system as is. Plus, Matt had told you more than enough about his business to assume that it was more of an emotionally stable job rather than a financial one. The way he talked about it made it sound more like his house, where his heart laid the rules.

The steps taken over to the pool table were sloppy, unsteady. Even Matt careened over, forgoing his walking cane in favoring of letting touch guide him. The tips of his fingers glided atop the bar lightly, adding a bit of confidence to his stride. That was until he ran out of countertop to guide him, and he took each step with caution. He had a bit of faith that you would be following close enough behind to catch him if he stumbled.

Matt felt around the area and picked up the pool stick when his fingers touched the wood. Maple wood—smoothed down and glazed with black tape that was starting to peel at the edges from months, years, of use. He could hear you stomping around the table, setting up the balls in order and with care and placing the cue ball at the end of the table where he stood. Matt already had the stick resting between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers.

“I don’t think you can beat me,” Matt said confidently.

“You bet your ass I will.”

“Is anything up for negotiation?” He asked, spreading out his legs and arching his back to get precisely the right angle. Every sense he had told him it was the perfect shot, the one to sink three balls into three separate pockets and start the game off strong. He raised the back of the cue to run along his knuckle with just the right glide through, running it forward just shy of the white ball placed on its marker to practice the motion.

You held onto your pool stick with two hands like a cane with no curve, watching him move. “Yeah, as long as you’re fine with it.”

“Then it’s a deal.” Matt wore a confident facade, only shifting away from that when you accepted his offer. He moved a little to the left, pretending to correct his stance. With a quick snap, the cue ball flew, hitting the alignment head on and effectively doing nothing to increase his points. Each scattered in different directions, like little balls of fire to him, all in different sizes thanks to their color and how they each absorbed light. Not a single ball went into a pocket, and he smirked at how easy it was to achieve failure.

You watched how Matt’s turn went, and readied yourself and a different side of the table, ready to take your turn. Hopefully, this game would go well for you. “Let’s hope I’m not dealing with the devil.”

“He hides in plain sight.” He said casually, mischief tinting his red-lensed glasses.

Matt tried to make it known, moving around to the side of the table you were on for all of his turns. He made to get as close as possible, insisting that it was the “right angle” to take his shot from. In reality, he used it as a way to be in front of you, leg straddling the table’s wooden rail. His knee grazed the green cushioning that lined the surface of the playing area. The alcohol created a tide that washed away any connecting line in the sand that would make sense of how a blind man could play pool. You didn’t even question how he knew where you stood to take your shot without guiding him to it. To Matt’s surprise, even though he had thrown to game to get his desired outcome—to let you have your way with his ass—your coordination wasn’t strong as a drunk. He could have simply watched the game play out and still won, even if he wasn’t playing.

Thankfully, you got the hint on what would have been his winning turn—solid red, number three his senses told him. He stood at the end of the table that looked out to the bar. You came up behind him, cupping his ass as the backside of his dress shirt and belt and fabric struggled to contain him. The ball wasn’t the center of his attention, no, it was you.

A little devil whispered in his ear, your alluring voice making a bitter crime sound sweet, “Let’s add a crime to be prosecuted for, huh?”

He reached for his tie, clawing at something. His fingers felt the bristle of the scruff on his neck in his quick movements before sliding down to the collar of his shirt. He needed to get the words out that were stuck in his throat, “Like what?”

“You’ll see.” You promised him, backing away from him and kneeling down. Both of your knees hit the hard floor of Josie’s, the layer of scuffs caused by his angular dress shoes and many other’s beneath you. Now, a set of soft, bruising knees like yours had likely never grazed a floor like this. All kinds of bets were made, but this had to be the most unusual.

Your hands made quick work of his belt and pants, pulling his hips back to give room between his buckle and the side of the pool table for your hands to slide into and do what they needed to. He closed that gap when everything was free, pressing his already stiffening cock against the chilled mahogany wood, creating a friction for himself in the front. His hands never left the cue, only tightening on the stick when he felt your presence nearing him.

Keys of coke were snorted and needles percolating with heroine were probably done in the bathroom, but this would be the only line of crack seen in the bar itself. Good people of society, you claimed yourselves as. All of that could have simply been a lie as the addiction to Matt set in. The smell of him radiating in waves like notes of a cologne drew you in. Laundry detergent came in brief hints of a top note that had faded throughout the days wear, replaced quickly by his aromatic cologne. It was cheaply scented with a woody dampness like trees looming in the mist and poppy flowers drooping from weight on their petals—everywhere yet easy to miss as the base notes of everything that made up his smell hit next. The base notes of his smell were the most carnally alluring, that being his musk. Sweat lingered from being trapped in a stuffy office all day, with a brisk walk to the bar adding another layer to it.

But then, you got a taste of him. It was bland, bitter, and had hints of saltiness to it. With taste comes texture, and Matt’s fuzzy peach had something unlike anything else. He had a devilish combination of smells and textures that kept it interesting. Your lips grazed over his hairy cheeks, feeling the dark hair tickle your chin and surrounding features. The palms of your hands felt it, too, once they peeled him apart to undo his natural layers and uncover where he was sensitive.

You were able to go deeper, your hands sinking well into his cushy cheeks with more than enough to hold. It made your face feel like it was sinking into his folds while you wedged yourself between him. Your nose was the first thing to meet his crack—just above his hole so that your lips could meet his tightness. You pursed your lips, your tongue filling the space between them that formed and stuck it out. Then, you did the one thing your tongue could do—lick and lick around in circles, stripes, and as many teases as you could think of from his taint to his hole and back.

Matt was in shambles in moments. He had fully leaned over the table, humping against the table and, indirectly, rocking back against your face in a steady rocking motion. He didn’t treat your face like a stranger, but he was completely new to the feeling. Not only because he never really embraced this side of himself, but because it was such a dangerous thing to be caught for. One, two, three—fuck was that the fourth time you had slid your tongue in his hole already? It felt like a blur of repeated motions.

One, two, three, four, he counted. He tried to make sense of how many heartbeats filled the bar, trying to find risk where he could to make this act more devious. The more people could walk around—or hell, even just turn their head—and see him with his pants at his ankles and a hard-on defiling the pool table and a person making his ask feel so good and he moaned; there you go again, making him a mess. He tried looking natural, as if he was taking the worlds longest pool shot. But all it would take is someone sitting on the side of the bar that would cause the bartender to have to look this way for it to be apparent. What did it even look like to someone else? Because to Matt, it felt like he was lying on a green cloud nine, but had he leaned down far enough to expose what you were doing? Anyone could follow the trail along his back and see the top half of your face peeking over his two hairy mounds, ducking and resurfacing in careful movements. His shirt riding up to show off his lower back, too.

He could feel you smirk against him, a soft chuckle as you realized the he lined up a shot that he never took. Matt was too busy letting out soft noises of satisfaction to finish the game.

“Take the shot, Matt.” You breathe out in one non-stop string of syllables. He could feel your hot breath return back to him after parting from his ass. You felt him shift his legs slightly, giving you a better angle to rim him.

He sprawled his hand out on the slate, his other hand shakily slotting the pool stick between his middle and index finger. He stopped finding relief on the table itself, let himself painfully ache as he did what you asked of him. In an almost twist of fate, this was the most ideal spot for him to sink the final ball into one of the six pockets on the table; the corner on the far-right looked the most appealing. Matt bent down, arching his back up and, by virtue of that, offered himself more to you. Your head nodded vigorously to both lick stripes over his hole and quickly slip in and out of his tight hole. The way it felt on your tongue and the way your tongue stretched him was like a perfect storm to throw off his aim. Matt took the shot and missed, the ball ricocheting of the east side of the table and then the north side, slowly rolling into the center.

While he may not have found victory, Matt rapidly found release moments later. He kept the cue in his hands, using the stick as a way to vent his pleasure with a tight grip on both ends. He applied as much pressure as the pleasure you elicited from him. You took the opportunity to reach up and grab ahold of his cock since he had yet to go back to grinding it. Your hand fondled him and jerked his length back and forth as he fell into a rhythm of grinding against your face and your hand. The movement quickened as he felt a welling inside his stomach. His senses told him that he was about to—and he did, shooting ropes along the side of the pooling table and sending them hurling to the ground just a short ways away from ruining his shoes and bunched up boxers as they landed by his feet.

Matt fought the urge to let out a noise, a hint that anything but an irregular pool game was in session. In his bliss, Matt had snapped the pool stick from the pressure he put on both ends. Jagged and sharp pieces of wood poked out of its innards, some of the wood chips scattering themselves over the table. You didn’t even notice it until you stood up, helping Matt affix his pants and belt.

“Guess we’ll call it a draw?” He asked, pretending as if he wasn’t going to lose the game.

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