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Restless Nights

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Matt can tell the man that enters the bar is big and solid just by the air that is displaced as he steps through the door. He smells like engine oil and gunpowder as he settles down onto the stool right beside the young lawyer, who is sitting alone on a Tuesday night. Alone because things between him and Foggy are still not exactly where they used to be, and Matt’s not entirely sure they ever will be. It’s probably better his friend has Marci to serve as a distraction rather than brood over their broken relationship like Matt is.

The Daredevil is still recovering from his fight with Fisk; currently physically unable to spend his nights scaling rooftops and generally terrorizing the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen, Matt’s only distraction is the beer in front of him. Which is just as well. The nightlife in the city has calmed considerably within the past few days with most criminals lying low in the aftermath of Fisk’s takedown, waiting for the dust to settle before moving again. And while a part of him feels guilty for sitting here in a dive bar accumulating a nice buzz on cheap beer when people out there that he could be helping are suffering, another part of him is grateful for the respite.

He supposes he could have called Karen, invited her out. He knows she’s interested, and would certainly be willing to keep him company and provide more than a distraction. She would chatter away nervously, laughing breathlessly into her chest as she looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes. And when he asked if he could walk her home, trailing gentle fingertips down the side of her arm, her heart would flutter just a little bit faster, body temperature rising by a few degrees. She would know exactly what he was asking, and she wouldn’t say no. But he’s not in the mood to prepare a face to meet the faces that he meets. Not tonight. And sleeping with his secretary when he’s feeling like this probably isn’t a good idea anyway.

With a voice deep and rumbling, the man beside him orders a whiskey, and not the cheap swill that most patrons ask for around here. The man has taste.

“You mind?” the man suddenly asks, and Matt briefly regards him, senses pulling in the scent of dry tobacco, the sound of a metal lighter flicking open.

“Not at all,” the young lawyer responds, turning back to his drink as hears the slide of a lighter and smells the distinct smoke of a cigarette.

“You a movie star or something?”

Matt frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Dark sunglasses in a bar at night?” he says, with just a hint of mockery. “Movie star, right?”

“Oh,” Matt blurts in comprehension, before a quiet laugh slides out of him. “No. I’m just practicing in case I am one someday.” The man shifts back on his stool, effectively blown off, and, feeling guilty, Matt rolls his eyes before opening his suit jacket and indicating the folded up white cane peeking out from the inside pocket. “Actually, I’m blind.”

There’s a startled silence before the man beside him clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Matt dismisses with a wry smile. “I might steal that line from you, though. If you don’t mind.”

“Go for it.”

“I’m Matt, by the way,” he says, and offers his hand.

“Frank.” The hand that falls into Matt’s is strong, palm broad and dotted with calluses, and the thumb Matt brushes across Frank’s knuckles finds old scars. This man has fought, hand to hand combat. “So what’s a suit like you doing in a place like this? Hard day at the office?”

Matt bites back a smile. Although there is a challenge in Frank’s voice -- has been, since he sat down -- there is also amusement, and curiosity, and Matt likes the banter. It must be the lawyer in him.

“You can say that,” he replies.

“Doesn’t seem like your kind of place,” the other man says. “It’s kind of a dive. Or maybe you can’t tell.”

Matt ignores the second part, instead stating, “Don’t let the suit fool you. I grew up in Hell’s Kitchen. Lived here all my life.” Then, because he can’t let the dig go, “And I can tell a lot without seeing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Another challenge. “What can you tell about me?”

“Military, right?” Matt asks, and Frank doesn’t respond, but his body does; heart skipping a beat, breath pausing for the briefest of moments. Matt grins, triumphant, and perhaps says more than he should thanks to the few beers he’s consumed tonight, and maybe that and he’s feeling just a little tetchy after the whole thing with Foggy. “You like guns and ride a motorcycle.”

“And how do you know that?” Frank asks, suspicious, and Matt quickly backpedals.

“You said you were military,” he shoots back, as if that alone is enough to assume.

“Did I?”

Matt freezes, suitably chastised for showing off after making such a careless mistake. “No,” he says slowly, turning back to his beer. “I guess you didn’t.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over them, shitty speakers blasting out Whitesnake competing with a television in the corner playing American Psycho. Frank polishes off his whiskey, depositing the glass on the bar with a heavy hand before dropping some cash onto the counter and sliding off his stool. He crowds Matt’s space for just a moment, leaning forward so the young lawyer can smell the harsh bite of whiskey and clinging cigarette smoke, feel the body heat radiating off of a large, solid, square frame, and for an instant Matt’s heart rate speeds up, body stiffening, ready for a fight, but the man beside him only says, “Former military,” before slipping past him and walking out the door.

Matt frowns, knowing there is a story there behind the former military thing and concerned he may have offended the stranger that, for all his crassness, was just trying make conversation. Quickly, Matt reaches into his wallet and settles his tab with the bartender before moving to the door. In his haste, he nearly forgets to use his cane, but manages to unfold it before he steps outside into the night.

A recent rainstorm has left puddles on the ground that throws off his perception, and the air is humid, dampness clinging to his skin and settling against the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. It’s quiet, save for the single heartbeat just a few yards away, steady and strong. A car goes by, the sound bouncing off the brick facade of the building, pulsing back towards him, creating a clearer picture.

Frank is straddling his motorcycle, watching him silently, stance casual with one foot on the curb and a hand resting on one of the handlebars. Matt taps his cane against the ground, walking forward resolutely. The other man says nothing as he gets closer, not even when the tip of his cane hits the end of his steel-toed boot.

“So I was right about the motorcycle at least?” Matt asks.

“And the guns,” the man concedes, tilting his head as he considers Matt’s sightless eyes. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Maybe I was hoping,” he states, then holds out one hand towards the general direction of the handlebars. “May I?”

“Drive it?” is the startled response his receives.

Matt laughs. “I want to feel what it looks like.”

There is a moment’s hesitation before Frank climbs off his motorcycle, and Matt moves forward, clutching his cane in one hand and placing the other on the bike. Long, slender fingers find a rubber grip and metal clutch lever before traveling down the cool chrome handlebar, then over one headlight and back up over the smooth glass of the speedometer. A gentle rain begins to fall as his palm slides down the sleek curve of a gastank, over a well-worn leather seat still warm from body heat, until finally he reaches the smooth, curving fender. It is a beautiful machine, well maintained, and Matt wonders not for the first time in his life what it would feel like to drive one.

He thinks he could probably do it, without a windshield to hinder the sound bouncing back at him. Maybe on some upstate back roads, but first he’d have to find someone with a motorcycle willing to let him try, because he’s pretty sure without a driver’s license and the whole blind thing, he probably couldn’t buy one himself.

“What color is it?” he asks, as his fingertips trail off the end of the fender.


Matt hums in acknowledgement before he straightens up and places both hands on his cane as he takes a step back, turning to face Frank. They are much closer than Matt remembers, and the newly falling rain gives him pause. The sounds of a million raindrops bounce back at him, sharpening the features of the man standing before him, reflecting a strong, square jaw; a prominent nose that had once been broken; serious eyes beneath a furrowed brow; and cupid’s bow lips tilted down into a frown.

“Very nice,” Matt murmurs, tipping his chin down. “Thanks. Hope I didn’t get too many fingerprints on it.”

“It’s fine.” Frank’s even, steady heartbeat stutters, then speeds up curiously. Nervous? Excited? Maybe a little of both. “Want a ride home?” he asks, and Matt knows exactly what Frank is asking.

He can’t say he’s never been with a man before. He went through his party phase in college after being released from the watchful eyes of Catholic nuns, picking up men and women alike, and there was that one drunk night with Foggy at the dorms and a messy exchange of handjobs that left them both flustered and embarrassed in the morning. There have been other men since, but fewer and farther in between. He hasn’t been with a man in a long time. He hasn’t been intimate with anyone since Claire. It hurts, remembering that connection, remembering that she knew him -- the real him. He misses it, aches for it, for someone to know him, and now the only other person that knows him is gone too -- Foggy -- and it hurts , dammit.

What was he saying earlier about distractions?

“Sure,” he agrees, smiling through the pain like his father taught him, like Stick taught him, and Frank eyes him for a long moment with that pretty, contemplative frown. The other man finally nods, although Matt can’t see it, before shifting over to the bike and settling down onto it, the powerful machine braced between his powerful thighs.

“Give me your hand,” Frank says. Matt folds up his cane and slips it into his pocket, then reaches out in Frank’s general direction. A firm grip finds him, guiding him onto the motorcycle behind the larger man. “Where to?”

Matt’s hands grip the trim waist in front of him as Frank starts the motorcycle, revving the engine a few times before carefully pulling away from the curb. Frank is warm and solid as Matt presses against his back, muscles cording beneath skin as they maneuver through city streets. This man is strong, perhaps stronger than the Daredevil; it speaks as a challenge to Matt, excites him, spikes fear and adrenaline in his blood. He probably shouldn’t invite this stranger into his home, but he can’t really say he’s leading with his logic here.

The wind feels nice against his face, chin tucked over Frank’s shoulder, and they make it back to Matt’s apartment right as the rain picks up. Frank parks hastily, the two men rushing off the motorcycle towards the building in an attempt to escape the storm, and Matt is surprised when a strong hand lands protectively on his elbow, unexpectedly gentle as it leads him to the entrance door. Matt fumbles with the keys in his pocket, squinting against the rain falling into his eyes as he unlocks the front door.

The hallway is narrow, only wide enough to accommodate the width of the door. For a moment they stand there, shaking the water off of themselves, their clothes sticking to them like a second skin. Frank is standing very close, two grown men too large for such a small space, the other man’s body heat radiating through the chill of wet clothes making Matt shiver. He nods at Matt’s sunglasses.

“Let me,” he requests, reaching for the glasses, but waits for Matt to allow it. The young lawyer nods, before fingers clasp the frames and then gently tug them away from his face. He doesn’t like this, his face bare, and it isn’t just the insecurities of a vacant stare. Matt Murdock without his glasses is the same as Daredevil without his mask: naked, vulnerable, exposed.

Frank is quiet for a long time, and Matt is unable to discern the features of his face. Self-conscious, he lowers his eyelashes still wet with waterdrops, licking his lips and opening his mouth to maybe say something witty and diverting when, carefully, Frank folds the sunglasses and leans forward to slip them into Matt’s suit jacket pocket. Matt leans back instinctively, but Frank’s large palm slides around the back of his neck, warm against his cool, damp skin, pulling him forward until their mouths meet in a sweet slide of lips and tongue.

Frank’s lips are soft and warm, and he tastes like whiskey and cigarettes. Matt grips at the man’s large biceps as an arm slides behind Matt’s body and a hand presses firmly against the small of his back, pulling the young lawyer in closer. Frank’s chest is hard and solid, the muscles in his arms taut as they thrum with barely restrained strength beneath Matt’s hands.

Matt is acutely aware of the fact that Frank is holding back; he expected much more aggression, and the man certainly has the means to display his dominance, but Frank is surprisingly gentle. Matt suspects for all his cocky bravado, he is a lot more sentimental than he would like to let on.

A hard, muscled thigh wedges between Matt’s legs as Frank pulls him even closer, pressing up against Matt’s groin and grinding against him. Matt can feel the heat of Frank’s skin even through two layers of clothing, warm and blood-pulsing, the scent of arousal billowing around them like a cloud of pre-dawn fog, making him want, making him ache, and he can’t stop the whimper that escapes his lips, swallowed by Frank’s eager mouth. Rutting against the other man’s leg, Matt is perilously close to swooning and coming in his pants like a teenager when the front door suddenly opens, knocking into the two men clumsily.

They quickly spring apart as Mrs. Kozlowski walks through the door, an elderly widow that lives on the second floor. She offers them a scathing glare as she slips by, excusing herself politely despite her annoyance at the two young boys blocking the door, and isn’t that a fire hazard? Matt clears his throat, apologizing meekly as he rakes a hand through his wet hair, blushing furiously at the ground.

“We should, uh…” he stammers, then jerks a thumb at the stairwell. “My apartment’s on the top floor.”

“Lead the way.”

The minute Matt closes the apartment door, Frank grasps his hips with sure hands, pushes him back against the wall, and drops to his knees right there in the front hall. The doorknob is digging into Matt’s back, but he’s definitely not complaining as his belt and fly are undone, and then his pants and underwear are pooling around his ankles and there is warm breath against his outrageously hard dick. The young lawyer shouts in surprise as firm fingers wrap around his erection in a solid grip, his heels thudding against the door dully as a hot, wet mouth surrounds the head of his cock.

He grips Frank’s shoulders hard with kneading fingers, whether to pull him closer or push him away, he isn’t sure. His heightened senses have always been a curse as much as a blessing, applying to sex as much as it does to the rest of his life. Hair-trigger had been a major problem for him early in his sexual career, and it had taken a lot of practice -- and a lot of embarrassment -- before he’d been able to exercise “the mind controls the body” and master his own desire.

So he breathes through the need to orgasm, fighting against the tide, wanting this to last, but Frank clearly has other ideas when he does that thing with his tongue, sliding it around the ridge of the head of his cock sneakily before taking the entire length of him down his throat. Matt finds his willpower faltering as he tries to shift his hips further between those perfect lips, but the other man puts both hands on Matt’s hips, holding him back, making him wait. He groans, removing one hand from Frank’s shoulder to slam it against the wall behind him in frustration.

“Please,” he begs hoarsely, and Frank pulls Matt forward, pressing his nose right against the dark hairs of Matt’s belly, cock sliding all the way down into that smooth, wet heat. Matt doubles over, scrabbling at Frank’s back and shoulders as desire coils in his gut, tighter and tighter until finally the tenuous thread snaps. His orgasm hits him like a bolt of lightening, fast and furious and shocking in its intensity, leaving him boneless and breathless when it’s over.

Frank carefully props Matt back against the wall, standing smoothly while the young lawyer composes himself, feeling a bit foolish standing there half dressed with his pants around his ankles. It takes him three tries before he is finally able to speak.

“I usually start with a tour,” Matt says, still a little breathless.

“Does this tour end in the bedroom?” Frank asks, one hand still resting against Matt’s bare hip, thumb running up and down over his hip bone.


“Let’s skip to the end, then.”

Matt nods gratefully, taking a moment to toe off his shoes, step out of his pants, and remove his jacket before grasping the hand on his hip. While unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand, he leads Frank down the hall and past the living room right into the bedroom, the door still in disrepair beside the entryway. Once in the bedroom, he turns to face Frank, who stumbles into him, hands finding his hips to steady himself.

“Sorry,” the other man murmurs, breath warm against his neck. Large palms slide up his sides, heated against his skin still cool from his wet shirt. “It’s a little dark in here.”

“Sorry,” Matt apologizes softly, as those hands find their way to his shirt, pushing the fabric off of his shoulders, fingertips trailing down his arms after it. Matt feels his flesh breakout in goosebumps, shivering as Frank steps closer. Naked and yielding against the other man’s clothed body pressed close to him, powerful and capable, at such odds with the gentle hands on his skin. “Would you like me to turn on a light?”

“I want to see you.”

Matt steps around Frank as gracefully as the boxer he is, skillfully slipping out of the arms that reach for him. He moves to the window, pulling the curtain aside to expose the light from the billboard outside, bathing the room in a soft glow he cannot see. He turns towards Frank, feeling the other man’s heavy gaze travel up and down the length of him as Frank palms his erection through his jeans.

With sure steps, Frank moves towards him, raising one hand to touch the side of Matt’s face until his attention is diverted. Gentle fingertips trace the scar left behind by Nobu near his clavicle, Matt startling when Frank’s other hand finds another scar on his lower abdomen. His touches are tentative and curious, but he says nothing before reaching up and grasping Matt’s face in his hands to pull him into a heated kiss.

Matt can taste himself on Frank’s lips, can taste what Frank did to him when he licks inside his mouth. Excited, the young lawyer rubs his thigh and soft cock against Frank’s jeans, almost too rough against his skin. His arms skate up Frank’s back, finding more hard muscle, tight and vibrating with tension. One of Frank’s own hands slide down the knots of Matt’s spine and over the curve of his ass to grab a nice handful, squeezing firmly, blunt nails scratching against the fair skin of his bottom and pulling Matt even closer. Matt moans against Frank’s lips, tugging at his clothes, needing to feel his skin against his own.

Frank pulls away to tug his shirt over his head, and Matt immediately places his hands on either side of the column of Frank’s neck, sliding across his strong shoulders, thumb brushing over his jutting collarbone. His skin is smooth, running hot and charged with a wild energy simmering just beneath the surface, heart beating strong and steady. Down the swell of his pectorals, his hands travel, fingertips skating over small, erect nipples. Matt can’t help but mouth at the smooth skin of his chest, tongue licking a hot stripe from one nipple all the way to the pulsepoint in his neck, delighting in Frank’s heart rate picking up just a little faster, breath coming a little quicker. His fingertips next flutter over the bump, bump, bump of his impressive abdomen before dipping into Frank’s navel, then to his sides and down the hard lines of his waist, tracing the V-line until he hits the dark hairs at the top of his low slung jeans.

Frank must have removed his shoes somewhere along the tour, because his feet are bare as they slip out of his jeans. Matt eagerly reaches for Frank’s erection, fingers wrapping around a length and girth much larger than he was expecting, although he probably should have suspected just by the sheer size and solidness of Frank himself.

“Yeah,” Frank says, not without a little smugness. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Matt clears his throat, schooling his surprise and shrugging casually. “No. Not at all.”


Moving much faster and swifter than a man of his size should be able to, Frank impressively sweeps Matt into his arms, sliding his hands down over his ass and beneath his thighs, pulling them up and around his waist. Matt obediently crosses his ankles and wraps his arms around Frank’s shoulders, kissing him deeply, obligingly opening his mouth when Frank’s tongue seeks access. He sucks on it eagerly as the other man turns and deposits them onto the bed a little more roughly than is necessary, nearly knocking the breath out of him.

Frank’s control slipping just a little bit. Matt thrills at the idea of the other man really letting go, the danger of it, the challenge, the fight. And, okay, maybe Foggy had a point about Matt not being able to stop himself when it came down to a good fight, but --

No. He’s not thinking about Foggy right now. He’s thinking about Frank’s powerful thighs sliding beneath Matt’s, forcing them up and apart, spreading him open as two large hands grab at his ass. Fingertips probe gently at his asshole from either side, teasing him. The head of Frank’s cock brushes over Matt’s opening, and he jolts at the heat of it before shifting down against it. Frank grunts into his mouth, grinding against him, sticky precum painting over Matt’s hole and down the crack of his ass, salty and heady in the air. He can almost taste it.

Abruptly, the other man pulls away, breathing hard as he shifts down between Matt’s legs, hands gripping the back of his knees and keeping him exposed. His nose nudges past his balls and -- oh .

“Oh!” Matt cries out, fisting the bedsheets as a hot tongue slowly circles his asshole just as it had the head of his cock earlier, right before pressing firmly against him and darting inside. Probing and pulling back, a heated point, again and again, slicking him up and working him open. It’s been a long time since anyone’s done that, and Matt’s not sure he’s going to survive the experience. He writhes on the bed, a continuous thread of moans escaping him as he pushes down against Frank’s clever tongue. His cock lengthens and swells once more, ready for more despite coming not fifteen minutes ago.

Frank leans back and spits against Matt’s hole, blunt fingers rubbing over it before easily slipping one inside. “You feel tight,” Frank murmurs, then slides another finger in beside the first one, twisting and pumping almost leisurely in and out, gliding over Matt’s prostate. Not enough to make sparks fly, but enough that he can feel the slow burn of building pleasure licking up his spine. Matt plants his feet firmly on the edge of the bed, bearing down on the fingers inside of him, needing harder, faster, more. “I’m gonna fuck you. Is that okay?”

Matt laughs at the incredulity of a man with two fingers inside of him, asking if it’s okay to fuck the guy moaning and writhing shamelessly while grinding down on said fingers, eagerly spreading himself open with his hands behind his knees for better access. “That’s more than okay.”

It’s just what he needs, in fact, to let someone else be in charge for a little while, to take what they need from him and let them do the driving. Perhaps he can encourage Frank to let loose the barely reigned in strength Matt can feel beneath every careful, cautious touch, wake up the sleeping animal lurking within and coax him to come out and play. Push him just a little too far, make it just a little too rough, some pain for penance. Mortification of the flesh, like all those martyrs, saints, and saviors Claire was talking about.

“Got supplies?” Frank asks, fingers still inside Matt, who gropes for the nightstand drawer. Frank withdraws carefully, sauntering over to the nightstand and extracting lubricant and a condom. He tosses the condom on the bed casually, landing softly beside Matt, then the click of a cap and the dribble of lubricant, and -- yes -- Matt is so ready for this.

Matt spreads his legs, expecting Frank to settle back down between them when unexpectedly he lays down beside the young lawyer, snaking an arm around his shoulders and pulling his back against Frank’s chest. A broad hand spans possessively over his heart, holding him close as warm lips nibble at his earlobe, his neck, tongue tasting, teeth nipping. Fingers trail past Matt’s cock and balls, Frank’s other hand, slick and wet as they find his hole, two fingers sliding easily inside thanks to Frank’s diligent prepwork.

The hand on his chest moves too, pinching at one of his nipples, making Matt hiss in surprise, almost a protesting noise before he moans at the pleasure-pain. A hard, powerful thigh slides between his, pressing up and against him, and Matt is acutely aware of the impressive cock sliding over his crack, huge and solid and dripping. Frank is everywhere, sensory overload, and Matt is keening, undignified sounds that he is more than sure will bring a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks when he thinks about it later. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen does not keen -- except, apparently, when he does.

“You want it bad,” Frank’s voice, gravelly in his ear and rumbling against his back, lips brushing over the shell of Matt’s ear. “Tell me how bad.”

“Frank,” Matt tries, reaching back to grip at the other man’s ass, pulling him in desperately.

The hand at his chest moves swiftly to his neck, gripping firmly, not enough to cut off airflow but enough for Matt to feel the strength behind it, the potential. His heart flutters anxiously.

“Tell me,” Frank commands, a hard edge to his voice as his grip tightens.

“I want it,” he responds hastily. “Please.”

And then Frank is shadow quick again, slipping his fingers free and pouncing on top of the young lawyer. He braces one hand against the mattress, the other beneath Matt’s leg, guiding it up and over his shoulder. He reaches for the condom, tearing open the foil with his teeth before quickly sheathing himself, and there’s the click of the cap of the lubricant again, liquid dribbling, some of it onto Matt’s belly. He curls up at the sudden drops of cold, Frank rumbling a laugh as Matt hastily wipes it away.

The other man shifts in closer, and there’s the blunt head of his fat cock nudging against Matt’s hole. The young man tenses briefly before forcing himself to relax, mind over body, but he isn’t exactly sure anything could prepare him for that huge, slick dick working its way inside him. His grits his teeth, brow knotting and breath coming in damp pants as Frank pushes in slow and steady. It’s not exactly pleasure, the stretching ache in his ass, and Frank utters soothing sounds into Matt’s ear when a high pitched whine traitorously escapes his lips.

“Ughnn, Frank,” Matt pants. “I can’t -- I can’t -- !”

“Shh, yes, you can,” Frank murmurs, as he slowly starts rocking into him, small motions that shift his huge cock in deeper and deeper with each thrust. Matt breathes carefully as his body accommodates the stretch, fingers clutching restlessly at Frank’s biceps until the other man shifts just so, and then something eases infinitesimally, and --

“That’s it,” Frank encourages, as Matt’s head tips back and mouth falls open at the slow, slick, easy glide of the thick length inside of him. “There we go. More?”

Softly, Matt pleads, “Yes.”

Matt’s leg drops from Frank’s shoulder to his hip, winding itself around Frank’s trim waist as Frank wraps his arms around Matt’s shoulders, bringing him in close as he begins pumping into him with smooth strokes. He isn’t cruel, thrusts measured, controlled, still holding back the last couple inches, not wanting to hurt Matt as much as Matt may want it to hurt.

And he wonders, not for the first time, as his fingers slide down the hard, powerful muscles of Frank’s back and shoulders, if he asked for it, begged for it, would Frank let that sleeping animal inside himself out to play with the devil inside Matt?

Matt grins and opens his mouth, a taunt at the edge of his lips, then hesitates.

And he wonders, for the first time, if Frank is so careful because he knows the potential of the beast inside. If it would hurt him, to hurt Matt. And maybe if Matt thought about things like that, about how his actions could hurt other people, destroy other people, friendships, relationships, then he wouldn’t have needed that drink alone on a Tuesday night in a shitty dive bar across town.

God, forgive him. He is a devil.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asks, and Matt realizes the other man has gone still, face close to Matt’s, and he imagines an expression considerate with worry. “Am I hurting you?”

Matt smiles weakly, blinking away the stinging in his eyes. “No. You feel good. Don’t...don’t stop.”

The other man starts moving again, sweet and easy and so, so good. Matt feels that slow burn once more licking up his spine, Frank’s cock sliding over his prostate, and he cants his hips in order to feel that fat head piston right into the sensitive gland. The slow burn explodes like fire in a backdraft, flames wild and uncontrollable, and Matt cries out with each direct hit, so intense it’s almost painful. When he can’t take anymore, he shifts back down, breathing hard as he recovers.

Frank makes a contemplative sound, curious, and Matt is thinking perhaps he showed his hand too soon when he feels the other man shift forward. He wraps one large hand beneath Matt’s knee, the other at his hip, bending forward until his face is resting in the crook of Matt’s neck, and the young lawyer can feel the sly, dirty smile against his skin right before Frank tips his hips up and slams into his prostate.

“Frank!” Matt shouts in protest, but the only answer is a warm huff of laughter against his neck as the other man slam, slam, slams into him with that hard length again and again. Matt grips the man’s hips with desperate fingers, to push him away, to pull him closer, not sure if he’s dying or about to come. Finally, Frank takes mercy on him, dropping Matt’s hips back down until he’s just sliding over his prostate again, although the sparks are still flickering, short circuiting across his brain.

“Bastard,” Matt mutters, without heat.

A hum of agreement, before Frank repositions himself, sitting back and pulling out completely, a brief relief before he pushes back in with his entire, thick length until his balls are pressed against Matt’s ass, over and over again, and the young lawyer is not sure he could ever get used to feeling so full. The burn is still amazing, nerve endings firing and misfiring until Matt is dizzy with it, edging close to orgasm without even being touched. He reaches down and grips himself, his achingly hard cock sliding up into his fist as Frank fucks him. He moans into the sky, balls pulling up against his body, flames building again, up and up and up, so close, so close --

“Not yet,” Frank states, wrapping his own hand around Matt’s to still it, squeezing too hard for Matt to be able to come. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He leans down and captures Matt’s mouth in a kiss, shoving his tongue past his lips and down his throat. Matt wraps one hand around Frank’s shoulders, pulling him closer, his other hand still trapped around his cock. Frank’s thrusting into him with shorter, faster strokes, really fucking him in earnest.

The bed is shaking with every thrust, headboard hitting the wall in sharp raps alarmingly loud. Perspiration dips onto his chest from Frank, mingling with his own, cool rivulets sliding down his skin into the silk sheets. Matt can hear the other man’s heart rate picking up, rhythm faltering, breath coming faster; Frank getting close. At last, Frank releases his hold on Matt’s cock, resting his hands on the mattress on either side of Matt’s head to brace himself, breaking the kiss at the same time.

Breath coming in bursts, Frank orders in a low, gruff voice, “Do it. Make yourself come on my cock.”

Matt shudders at the command, jerking himself hard and fast. It takes only a moment until Matt is tipping his head back and shouting into the air, hot come spilling across his hand and belly in ribbons, ass convulsing around Frank’s cock.

Gritting his teeth, Frank arches his back, growling from the deepest part of his chest, primal in Matt’s ear as he pistons up and into him a little too hard, cock swelling right before Frank explodes. Pulse after pulse, he shoots into the condom, pumping into Matt once, twice, three times, until he finally stills.

For a few moments, there is only the sounds of their heavy breathing, the stink of sex and sweat and lube thick in the air. Matt spares a moment to consider opening the window and letting some air in, but that would mean getting up, and not before removing the seemingly lead weight from above him. He grunts, pushing up at Frank but not with any kind of real effort.

“Sorry,” Frank murmurs, coming back to himself. Carefully, gently, he grasps the condom and pulls out, leaving Matt feeling stretched and empty. He is sure to feel the ache tomorrow, looking forward to remembering being well and truly fucked when he sits down on the subway or at his desk at work.

Frank shifts to the other side of the bed, Matt blissfully tired and eyelids heavy with sleep. The sound of the condom hitting the floor reaches his ear, then the clink of metal and the shift of fabric -- Frank grabbing his jeans. Matt is suddenly wide awake. Having expected to sleep alone, he dampens down the absurd feeling of disappointment when the bed dips heavily, Frank settling back down beside him again, and then there is the distinct slide of a metal lighter, a spark, and burning tobacco.

“Are you smoking in bed?” Matt blurts, incredulous.

“Yeah, why?” Frank asks. “You want one?”

“No, I don’t want one! And I don’t want you smoking in here.”

“Too late now,” Frank shoots back. “I don’t have anywhere to put it out. Shoulda said something before I started.” Matt sputters, but Frank only pats his thigh consolingly. “Relax. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Matt offers a martyred sigh, rolling his eyes as he turns onto his side away from Frank. He tries to offer casually, as if he doesn’t care either way, “You can stay if you want,” but it comes out sounding much more hopeful than he was aiming for. Quickly, he adds, “Just open a window, would you?”

The bed shifts as Frank gets up, Matt closing his eyes against the overwhelming feeling of loneliness already creeping up on him, preparing for the dark shadows of despair to close in once Frank is gone. Maybe he has a few more beers in the fridge, just something to take the edge off and help him get to sleep. He’s wondering how late the corner store downstairs is open when he hears the slide of wood on wood, sirens and footsteps and voices, the subway train and buzzing neon lights drifting inside on a cool breeze.

“Better?” Frank huffs, then saunters back over to the bed and drops down onto it carelessly, sans cigarette, and Matt hopes he didn’t throw it out the open window. Strong arms gather Matt in, Frank’s chest against his back, heart thrumming strong and steady against him as a muscled thigh shifts between his legs. Surrounded again, cozy and safe in the sleeping lion’s den.

“Much better,” he murmurs, as settles back comfortably, closing his eyes and sighing contentedly.

Idly, he traces his fingers over the rough skin of Frank’s knuckles, over the old scars of war. This man has the ability to inflict pain, punishment, and yet he has shown nothing but consideration. Matt should be the first to know there is always more to someone than meets the eye.

The thought strikes him right as his sensitive fingertips find Frank’s left ring finger, the smallest indent left behind, unnoticeable to the naked eye and most certainly unable to be felt by the common man. A ring. A wedding ring, worn for so many years there is evidence left behind, but not worn so recently that the indent isn’t as deep as it should be if Frank had just slipped it off for an impromptu illicit affair. As Frank shakes his hand free and laces their fingers together, he wonders what happened to her.

Matt isn't sure when he falls asleep, but he wakes intermittently throughout the night, always enveloped in those strong arms. Sometimes there is a brush of lips against his neck and ear, or a nose inhaling the scent of his skin and hair, nuzzling and cuddling. Always that strong heartbeat lulling him back to sleep.

When the morning comes, Matt is alone, without Frank or the familiar gnawing of regret that usually accompanies one night stands. He doesn't feel ashamed or hollow, or that he used someone to temporarily fill a void. Instead, he takes comfort in the fact that Frank was hurting too, alone and lonely; a shared misery that perhaps they both equally helped to soothe with their bodies if not their minds.

As he opens his eyes, the sheets beside him as cold as the air against his skin where a warm, hard body used to be, he turns onto his back and stretches his fingers across the expanse of his mattress. A dull ache pleasantly pulls at him in long neglected places, and he wonders if he’ll ever see Frank again.

After all, Hell’s Kitchen is a small place. It’s probably only a matter of time.