Kink Bingo - Sensory Deprivation
Aug. 30th, 2009 09:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_qTitle: Beauty In Darkness
Fandom: Daredevil (movieverse)
Solo: Matt Murdoch
Kink: sensory deprivation
Word count: ~600
Notes: My first take on Mr. Murdoch, mainly because he was the only one who has actual isolation tank! This is a weird fic, I don't know what I was trying to achieve. Maybe to point out the obvious similarity of a casket and the tank? Really, hard to say. The title is totally snagged from some random metal-goth compilation album ('cos clichés are so good)
The city was a landscape of constant noise for Matt Murdoch. He was used to it, because he had lived with it for so long. He lived inside the sounds same way he lived inside the city. So when he sought silence, it was for rest, to attach himself from the world that surrounded him from every angle.
In the beginning the isolation tank had been a blessing. He had always thought that it was only fitting that the tank was shaped like a casket. It provided such silence that in his mind it was only matched with death. Inside the tank all the noises stopped. There was only the steady rhythm of his own living heart.
Until the day she walked into his life and almost as suddenly walked out of it. After Elektra the same silence that once helped him to rest was now the home of thousand torturous sensations. The memory of her was painfully vivid in the silent emptiness of the tank.
In the tank buoyancy of the water held him without any effort and the air smelled slightly chemical from the Epsom salt. It was like breathing in the scent of pure white paper. He was translucent and empty. In the emptiness was an image, a memory.
The delirious scent of her warm skin. The weight of her lithe body resting against him, the sound of her movements, the silky soft quality of her being. The shining, fluttering beat of her heart. That was the most dangerous memory of them all. Equally beautiful and painful, because it was too easy to slip and remember how that shining light had disappeared.
Memories rose to the surface without rhyme or reason, jumbled into incomprehensible flashes of sounds, feelings and emotions. Matt fought against the water when he knew that he should just rest against it, let the ripples wade away. He was afraid of the silence and everything that dwelt inside it.
He couldn't stay in the tank with her memory. At times the memories left him hard and aching, drove him to seek relief from the closest source. No matter how much he relieved himself, the ache didn't disappear. Other, more dangerous times the memories left him angry and furious. If she was alive, why didn't she come back to him? Where was she and with whom? Maybe she was groaning in pleasure under some other men, whispering soft enticement in their ears instead of his.
It was cold outside the isolation tank. Muted noise seeped in the room from every crack, not even music helped to drown it out. Matt rested his hand against the curved edge of the tank, weighing the pros and cons of going back. She was there, waiting, at the edge of his mind. She would not reappear without the silence and the calmness. He knew it and so the tank had changed from sanctuary into a temptation, addictive masochist pleasure that he was too weak to resist. He reached for the latch and opened the isolation tank.
The water was warm and welcomed him back to the silence.
Fandom: Daredevil (movieverse)
Solo: Matt Murdoch
Kink: sensory deprivation
Word count: ~600
Notes: My first take on Mr. Murdoch, mainly because he was the only one who has actual isolation tank! This is a weird fic, I don't know what I was trying to achieve. Maybe to point out the obvious similarity of a casket and the tank? Really, hard to say. The title is totally snagged from some random metal-goth compilation album ('cos clichés are so good)
The city was a landscape of constant noise for Matt Murdoch. He was used to it, because he had lived with it for so long. He lived inside the sounds same way he lived inside the city. So when he sought silence, it was for rest, to attach himself from the world that surrounded him from every angle.
In the beginning the isolation tank had been a blessing. He had always thought that it was only fitting that the tank was shaped like a casket. It provided such silence that in his mind it was only matched with death. Inside the tank all the noises stopped. There was only the steady rhythm of his own living heart.
Until the day she walked into his life and almost as suddenly walked out of it. After Elektra the same silence that once helped him to rest was now the home of thousand torturous sensations. The memory of her was painfully vivid in the silent emptiness of the tank.
In the tank buoyancy of the water held him without any effort and the air smelled slightly chemical from the Epsom salt. It was like breathing in the scent of pure white paper. He was translucent and empty. In the emptiness was an image, a memory.
The delirious scent of her warm skin. The weight of her lithe body resting against him, the sound of her movements, the silky soft quality of her being. The shining, fluttering beat of her heart. That was the most dangerous memory of them all. Equally beautiful and painful, because it was too easy to slip and remember how that shining light had disappeared.
Memories rose to the surface without rhyme or reason, jumbled into incomprehensible flashes of sounds, feelings and emotions. Matt fought against the water when he knew that he should just rest against it, let the ripples wade away. He was afraid of the silence and everything that dwelt inside it.
He couldn't stay in the tank with her memory. At times the memories left him hard and aching, drove him to seek relief from the closest source. No matter how much he relieved himself, the ache didn't disappear. Other, more dangerous times the memories left him angry and furious. If she was alive, why didn't she come back to him? Where was she and with whom? Maybe she was groaning in pleasure under some other men, whispering soft enticement in their ears instead of his.
It was cold outside the isolation tank. Muted noise seeped in the room from every crack, not even music helped to drown it out. Matt rested his hand against the curved edge of the tank, weighing the pros and cons of going back. She was there, waiting, at the edge of his mind. She would not reappear without the silence and the calmness. He knew it and so the tank had changed from sanctuary into a temptation, addictive masochist pleasure that he was too weak to resist. He reached for the latch and opened the isolation tank.
The water was warm and welcomed him back to the silence.