Matt’s on his knees between Foggy’s legs, his hands splayed on Foggy’s thighs. His knuckles are raw, still healing from something he won’t tell Foggy about, and Foggy should be staring at them in guilty fascination. Would be, if he could look away from Matt’s mouth on his dick.
It really is a spectacular mouth. Foggy’s always thought so, from the moment a wayward J. Crew model wandered into Foggy’s dorm room and announced he was Foggy’s new roommate. He likes the pronounced dip in the upper lip, the way the lower one juts out in the tiniest of pouts. He likes the way it tips into a crooked half-smile or the way it stretches wide when Foggy can startle him into a laugh. He likes the way it shapes itself around Matt’s quiet voice, each word so carefully chosen, so assured.
But holy flipping hell, Matt’s mouth plus Foggy’s dick has been a goddamn revelation.
“Matt,” he says, and can’t help tugging on Matt’s hair, just a little. He’s already made a wreck of Matt’s carefully-tamed coiffure, which has to be annoying to a guy who can’t even see himself in the mirror and thus has to work extra hard, but Matt doesn’t stop him. Matt never stops him. “Matt. Jesus Christ. Sorry.”
Matt makes a choked little noise, but whether it’s a laugh or disapproval Foggy can’t tell. He bites his lip, and not just to keep the sacrilege in - Karen’s out sick, but the walls between their office and the next are thin, and he doesn’t need the loan shark next door giving him a knowing look the next time Foggy passes him on the stairs.
But Matt pulls off, not far enough that his lips don’t brush Foggy’s dick when he says, “Talk to me.”
Oh Jesus. “You know it’s gonna be blasphemous,” Foggy warns him, not that Matt’s ever really cared what kind of sacrilegious nonsense Foggy babbles out.
And it was a laugh, a little one, because Matt does it again, his lips shiny and red and quite possibly the most dangerous part of his extremely dangerous body. “I’ll live.”
So Foggy talks to him. He tells Matt, not to mention Mary and Jesus and the whole crew, just what it does to him when Matt presses the flat of his tongue under the head of Foggy’s dick like he knows Foggy likes. He babbles out enthusiastic praise for the satisfied little hums Matt makes and how each one sends shocks of pleasure vibrating up his spine to spark out gleefully in his brain. And he makes it especially clear how much he loves Matt’s name when he says it more times than he can count, choked out around the knuckles he’s shoved between his teeth to muffle himself as Matt sucks him like he’s trying to pull Foggy’s soul out through his dick.
Like he didn’t have Foggy mind, body, and soul already.
His voice cuts off when he comes, his throat locking in a silent sob. It doesn’t deter Matt in the slightest, and he sucks until Foggy pushes him away with a hoarse, slightly embarrassing whimper. Matt gets up and leans against the desk, facing Foggy with a look so damn smug Foggy kind of wants to punch him. Just a little. Once he catches his breath.
Matt must hear that breathing start to even out, because he leans in and kisses Foggy. Foggy can taste himself on Matt’s tongue, and between that and remembering that they just did this in the office this feels like the wrongest thing they’ve ever done. And sweet Jesus - there’s that blasphemy again - does Foggy want to make it worse.
He reaches for Matt’s belt, but Matt abruptly stands up and moves out of reach. “I just remembered,” he says, reaching up to smooth his hair back down. Foggy doesn’t bother to tell him that it hasn’t worked at all. “I wanted to call the DA’s office, check in on the Valdes case.”
“You’re thinking about that now?” Foggy asks incredulously. He can’t scent sexual arousal in the air like a lioness winding a gazelle, or whatever it is Matt does, but even he can see that Matt is hard through his pants.
“It’s important,” Matt insists. He’s already on his way out of Foggy’s office, quick and surefooted without Karen to pretend for. “You know that. We can’t be one hit wonders with Fisk. If we lose this case we’re screwed.”
The problem, as far as Foggy’s concerned, is that Matt remains so very thoroughly un-screwed, but Matt closes his door and he knows the conversation’s over.
For now, at least.
It started during a fight, which is probably fucked up but if Foggy starts thinking about all the ways this is fucked up he’s going to need several drinks, and he promised Karen he’d cut back. Matt’s suiting up to take on some gang that’s already put half a dozen of New York’s rare non-dirty cops in the ground. This, Foggy can live with - he hates it, but he can live with it. What he’s having trouble with is Matt doing it with three cracked ribs and last night’s concussion.
“You can’t do this right now,” he says. Matt ignores him, wincing as he tries to pull the top of his suit on. “Look at you, you can barely lift your arms.”
“I have to.”
“Take a night off.”
“Matt!” Matt’s reaching for his cowl so Foggy gets in his face, in between him and that stupid box. “You’re gonna get yourself killed out there.”
He doesn’t know if it’s pain or impatience with non-ninjas that makes Matt’s expression so dismissive, but either way it pisses Foggy off. “You say that every time. I’m still here.”
“Yeah, and broken.” Foggy prods Matt’s ribcage, just enough to make his point. Matt hisses and slaps his hand away.
“Every night I’m not out there is a night they could be hurting someone else,” Matt says. Foggy can tell he’s getting mad because his voice all low and growly and vigilante-y. Too bad that doesn’t work on Foggy.
“So instead you’ll let them hurt you?” he asks. “And what if they kill you, huh? Who’s going to stop them from hurting other people then?”
Matt shakes his head, dismissing that, dismissing Foggy, and tries to step around him. “You never should’ve found out. This was so much easier…”
Foggy sidesteps, blocking him again. “...before anyone who cared about you knew what you were doing to yourself? Well, tough shit, Murdock, because I’m not letting you go out there tonight, and that’s final!”
He doesn’t have Matt’s power of perception, but he doesn’t need to be a senses ninja to see Matt go tense, taut. “You can’t actually stop me, you know.”
Oh, that stings. “Yeah?” Foggy puts his hands on Matt’s chest and shoves. Matt’s breath hitches in pain and he stumbles back a little. “You gonna put the hurt on me, Daredevil? Like you do everyone else?”
“No, Matt.” Foggy shoves him again. He’s not trying to hurt him, not really, just show him that if a deskbound lawyer who loves pilsners more than pushups can knock him off balance, he’s not going to fare very well against mooks with guns. Matt steps back again even as he bats Foggy’s hands away. “What are you gonna do? Beat up your own best friend? You can barely stand.”
“Foggy, I’m serious…”
A third shove, and this time Matt lets out a faint noise. “So am I, and I’m not letting you - ”
He sees the frayed edges of Matt’s temper snap, and then his back is against the wall, Matt’s left hand tight around Foggy’s wrist, his right forearm against Foggy’s windpipe. The leather of the suit is cool against Foggy’s skin but Matt’s breath is hot on his face.
“Enough.” Matt’s voice is a rumble down Foggy’s spine. He’s flushed and his jaw is tight, and Foggy doesn’t need Matt to pin him against a wall - Jesus Christ, Matt - to know when he’s pissed. “I am going. And I’m coming back.”
Foggy knows it’s futile at this point - shit, he didn’t even see Matt move - but he grabs at Matt, tries to get a purchase on the leather and kevlar, anything to keep Matt there. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Matt’s eyes don’t ever quite meet his, but they’re close enough, and there’s something under the anger that Foggy doesn’t know how to unpack.
“Matt - ” And Foggy’s a lawyer, he’s trained to be convincing, he’s sure he could find the magic combination of words that would make Matt stay here, safe, with him. But before he can figure it out, Matt kisses him.
It’s not a nice kiss, not the kind Foggy used to let himself fantasize about when he was in college and really, really stupid. Matt’s mouth is hot and urgent and there’s a flash of teeth in there, and his arm is still kind of choking Foggy, just a little, and it’s not like the anger isn’t still there, boiling fierce and hot under...under whatever this suddenly is.
But it’s Matt, and Foggy has more than one kind of fantasy.
He pulls back before Foggy can really get into it, because Matt Murdock is a straight-up dick. “I’m coming back,” he says again, and then he’s gone.
And Foggy believes him.
So this is how it goes:
Matt sends Karen out on some pretext and his hands are in Foggy’s pants before Foggy can point out that they weren’t out of toner after all. Or they’re in Foggy’s apartment, watching - or in Matt’s case, listening to - the game and suddenly Matt’s giving Foggy a smile that makes it hard for him to breathe.
Or Matt’s climbing through Foggy’s window at three in the morning dressed in leather and penance, and when kissing Foggy opens up the split in Matt’s lip, Matt just kisses him harder.
But after Foggy comes trembling in Matt’s mouth or hands, that’s it. Matt makes some excuse and skips out of reach until Karen comes back, or quite literally jumps out the window to avoid letting Foggy into his pants. And Foggy doesn’t know how to bring it up when they’re not in the middle of...of whatever it is they’re doing.
Hey, Matt, how come you don’t want me to get you off? Yeah, that’ll play. He should ask it during lunch with Karen, just to make whatever imminent humiliation is coming his way complete.
At first he thinks it’s that Matt’s not attracted to him, which frankly has been an assumption he’s been running with since he first stammered out his appreciation of Matt’s ungodly man-beauty the day they met. But if that’s the case, why does he keep diving into Foggy’s crotch face-first? Matt’s a good friend when he’s not being a lying dickbag, but that sort of thing goes above and beyond.
Then he thinks it might be a Catholic guilt thing, like, he can allow himself to be gay enough to administer blowjobs, but then he has to suffer for it. Matt’s never been homophobic, at least not out loud, but then, Matt thinks putting on a leather onesie and punching crime in the face is a logical way of handling his issues, so who knows what the hell is going on in that stupid handsome head of his?
Then he spends a couple of days worrying that maybe Matt can’t get off. What if he got into a fight and got kicked wrong and…? Foggy winces every time the thought crosses his mind and tries not to visualize the details.
One way or another, Foggy wants to find out. He doesn’t think he’s a selfish lover - God knows he wouldn’t have lasted two nights with Marci if he had been - and dammit, after all the punishment Matt puts his body through, he should do something nice for it once in a while too. Foggy’s no expert when it comes to guy-on-guy action, aside from a few fumbling handjobs long ago in the pre-Matt days, but he thinks he can figure it out. He’d like the chance, at least. He’d like to hear the kinds of noises Matt makes when he’s coming undone, and see the faces he makes. He’d like to see Matt exhausted from something other than fighting, spent and naked in Foggy’s bed. He’d like to know he’s the one who got him there.
Okay, so maybe it’s a little selfish.
It’s a few weeks after that first kiss and they’re at Matt’s again, this time ostensibly working. The office is being fumigated, again, which means Matt’ll be complaining about the smell for weeks to come. Foggy’s pretty sure the poison only makes the roaches stronger, anyway.
Karen’s visiting Doris Urich so it’s just the two of them. It’s a gorgeous day, the first really nice one in a while, and between the breeze coming through the open window and the feeling that they’re getting a holiday from school it’s hard to concentrate. From how close Matt is sitting and how frequently he’s laughing at Foggy’s dumb jokes, Foggy’s pretty sure Matt feels the same.
So when he tosses the file he’s reading on the coffee table, says, “Hey,” and hooks a finger in Matt’s collar to pull him close, he’s not at all surprised that Matt doesn’t put up a fight. Hell, he practically crawls into Foggy’s lap, hands coming up to cup Foggy’s face as he kisses him, tidy Braille papers falling to the floor.
Foggy slides his hands down Matt’s sides, feeling the lean muscle flexing under his palms. Matt kneels up on the couch to make the angle less awkward and Foggy takes the opportunity to get a good double handful of that perfect ass, making Matt laugh, startled, into his mouth.
But when he brings his hands around to Matt’s fly, Matt shifts, moving closer to Foggy so that his hands fall away, and bearing him back against the arm of the couch.
It could be nothing, really, Matt does it so casually. Foggy probably wouldn’t have even noticed if Matt didn’t do it every time.
So he lets Matt kiss him - as if that’s some kind of punishment - for a minute, then tries again.
And Matt knocks Foggy’s hand aside on the way to unbuttoning Foggy’s jeans.
The third time Foggy decides to make his intentions crystal clear, and pulls back just enough to say, “Hey, I want to - ”
Matt’s out of his lap before he can finish. “I need some water. You want a drink?”
Unbelievable. Foggy turns to lean over the back of the couch and watch as Matt hightails it to the kitchen. He’s walking a little funny and Foggy knows he hasn’t been badly hurt recently, so he feels pretty confident that Matt is a) completely into this, and b) being a giant weirdo right now.
Time to lay it out there. “You gonna tell me why you don’t want me to get you off?” he asks.
Matt freezes on his way to the sink, like a deer sensing a hunter on the wind. “What are you talking about?”
“Yeah, nice try,” Foggy says. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Ever since we started…this…” He gestures to his lap, to Matt, and figures if Matt doesn’t catch the gesture with his radar-vision he’ll at least pick up on Foggy’s tone. “...you’ve been all about helping me out, which God knows I appreciate. Daredevil is a true hero.”
Matt’s laugh is quiet and uncomfortable. “Foggy…”
“But it’s been over a month and I’m still the only one seeing any action here,” Foggy continues. “Every time I try to return the favor, you make some excuse to leave. You don’t have to be that much of a hero.”
“It’s...it’s just coincidence. Bad timing,” Matt says, with the least-convincing shrug known to human shoulders.
“Okay,” Foggy says, even though Matt is obviously lying. “Well, I’ve got nothing in my calendar today. Can I give you a blowjob?”
From the look on Matt’s face, he’s sure that if he could hear heartbeats, he’d know Matt’s just skipped. “What?”
“Can I suck you off?” Foggy asks. “Right now. You don’t even have to move. I’ll just come over there and get on my knees…” He licks his lips. “You’d be my first, but that’s okay. You can tell me what to do. You can tell me everything you want.” He can feel his cheeks heating up, but there’s an answering flush in Matt’s cheeks so he can’t be too embarrassed.
“I…” Matt’s hand grips the counter. “It...Foggy, it wouldn’t...I can’t.”
Foggy turns to face Matt more fully. “You can’t? Like, physically can’t, or is this a Catholic thing?”
Matt shakes his head. “Neither. I...it’s…” He’s struggling to get the words out, looking almost as lost as that terrible day Foggy found out about Daredevil, that day that everything they were almost went up in smoke.
“Matt.” Foggy tries to make his voice gentle. “It’s okay.”
“I need…” Matt sketches some kind of gesture in the air, but Foggy doesn’t think it’s really meant to describe anything. It’s just helpless. “To...not always, but lately, since I’ve started...Daredevil, everything, I’ve need certain...certain things to, to, uh, get off.”
He looks so distressed that Foggy can’t physically keep himself on the couch; he needs to cross the gap between the living room and kitchen to Matt. “Okay, so tell me what they are, and we’ll…”
“No, I don’t…” Matt takes a half step back, his free hand up to ward Foggy off. “I don’t want you to.” Foggy’s not sure if Matt can somehow sense how much that hurts, or if he just realized how it sounded. “I don’t want you to have to. You...you wouldn’t want to.”
“Matt, it’s you. Of course I...wait.” Foggy cocks his head. “Do you want me to pee on you? Oh God, do you want me to poop in your mouth?”
Foggy relaxes fractionally. He didn’t really think Matt would say yes, but it’s a relief anyway. “Okay, so then it can’t be that bad, right?”
Matt must be really upset, because he doesn’t crack a smile. He just stands there, throat working silently. Foggy waits.
“It’s...pain,” Matt says finally. “I need pain to get off. Not other people’s,” he adds quickly. “Mine.” Foggy’s heart must have done something then, because Matt cringes like Foggy took a swing at him. “I know, I know it’s fucked up, I’m sorry…”
And Foggy’s across the space between them in two steps, pulling Matt close, lips in his hair making little shushing noises. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. It really is.” Matt’s so tense it feels like Foggy could snap him in half, and Foggy hates it. “Seriously, Matty. So you like it a little rough, big deal. I thought some criminal had kicked your dick off or something.”
That gets a muffled laugh out of Matt, albeit a somewhat choked one. “Uh, no. My dick is still firmly attached.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Foggy kisses the side of his head. “Really, this isn’t a problem. I mean, sorry to shock you, buddy, but it’s not exactly a huge surprise that you’re a bit of a masochist.” He pulls back, hoping Matt can see him smiling, or sense it. “Tell me what you need.”
And Matt does.
In the bedroom Matt peels his clothing off and tosses it with unerring aim into the corner, where he won’t trip on it. Foggy watches with undisguised admiration as he shrugs off his own clothes. He’s seen Matt down to his underwear before, of course, but back in college he wasn’t quite so cut, and though Matt spent that one shitshow of a day half naked on the couch Foggy wasn’t exactly in the mood to ogle.
He is now, though, because Matt’s breathtaking. It’s not just that he’s so unreasonably hot that Foggy’s kind of mad about it; it’s the grace with which he moves when he’s not pretending, the agile confidence of someone who knows exactly what his body is capable of.
He’s also more scarred than Foggy expected, the history of his nightly work mapped out on his body. They slice across his torso and arms and even down his thighs; the older ones pale and raised, the fresher ones still pink. Luckily he hasn’t gotten cut badly the past few nights but there’s a constellation of bruises across his skin, blue and purple and even greeny-yellow at the heart of the worst ones.
Matt licks his lips. “You’re either thinking something really good, or really bad.”
Is his heart racing that fast? “Little bit of column A, little bit of B,” Foggy admits. “You’re disgustingly hot, so, you know, how dare you.” Matt actually laughs at that, a real laugh, and Foggy feels a little better. “But Matt, you gotta be more careful. Someday some maniac’s going to do something to you that Claire can’t fix.”
Matt tilts his head, hearing what Foggy doesn’t say. “You worry about me.”
He’ll know if Foggy lies. “Every second of every day,” Foggy says quietly.
Matt actually hangs his head at that, jeez, and Foggy balls up his shirt and throws it at him. Matt snags it out of the air six inches in front of his face. He doesn’t even lift his head to look at it. But he smiles. “Is that your way of telling me not to wallow?”
“That’s my way of telling you you’ve still got some clothes on,” Foggy says, although truth be told, Matt’s boxer briefs leave very little to the imagination. He’s definitely hard. He’s not the only one.
Matt’s smile widens, and with a shamelessness born of knowing exactly what effect he has on everyone around him, he shucks off his underwear. Foggy swallows hard.
“Now you’re definitely thinking something good,” Matt says.
Foggy shakes his head fondly. Heck, if he looked as good as Matt he’d probably be a little bit of an asshole too. “Yes, okay, fine. Seriously, though? I know you can kind of see it, but I want you to know that in living color? That is an A-plus dick. Well done, my friend.”
Matt laughs again and walks over to him. One hand curves around the back of Foggy’s neck, pulling him into a kiss; the other slides into the front of his boxers. “Yours too.”
Foggy scoffs, a little breathlessly. “You can’t really see it.”
“No, but I know how you feel,” Matt says, callused fingers stroking Foggy lightly. “How you smell...how you taste…”
He smiles at the choked noise Foggy lets out. Foggy musters up the patience of a thousand of Matt’s saints and pushes his hand away. “Not that I don’t enjoy that, but it’s not what you asked for,” he says. “Get on the bed.”
Matt steps back, but he’s visibly uncertain again. “Foggy, are you sure…”
“Get. On the bed.”
Matt nods and goes. “There’s...stuff in the drawer,” he says as he does, as Foggy tosses his boxers into the corner. Foggy looks around for the nightstand and finds lube and condoms in there, along with half a first aid kit. Oh, Matt.
Then he turns and sees Matt on his hands and knees on the bed, his shoulders braced, his legs parted. Waiting for Foggy.
Foggy kneels behind Matt, tossing the lube and a condom onto the sheets beside him. He’s almost afraid to touch, afraid that this will all suddenly disappear, but Matt shifts impatiently and Foggy takes a deep breath and slides his hands up the back of Matt’s thighs to curve over his ass, that incredible ass. Matt pushes back into his touch.
“You need to be especially careful with this,” Foggy warns him, tapping one cheek with a stern finger. “This is a national treasure and not to be taken lightly. Do not get shot in the butt.”
He can hear the grin in Matt’s tone. “And here you promised.”
“That is a terrible joke. I’m extremely proud of you.” Foggy sits back on his heels for a minute and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Tell me if this is right.”
And he smacks Matt across the right cheek.
Right away he knows it’s not hard enough; his palm’s barely stinging. “Harder,” Matt says, and Foggy nods, though it would be a useless gesture even if Matt was facing him.
He tries again, putting his shoulder into it. This time there’s a satisfying crack of skin on skin, and Matt jumps a little. “Good?” Foggy asks.
Matt pauses. Then: “Harder.”
Foggy swallows hard and hits him harder, so hard that the sting in his palm makes him gasp. He’s sure it’s too much, but Matt dips his head, pushes back towards Foggy like a stretching cat, and says, “Yes.”
He hits Matt on the other cheek, trying to match the force of the last blow. Matt gives a low, satisfied groan. “Aren’t you supposed to count?” Foggy asks, watching in fascination as pink blooms over Matt’s skin where Foggy hit him.
“What?” Matt asks breathlessly.
“I know things,” Foggy says. “I watch internet porn, I’ve read half of that awful Fifty Shades of Whatever book…”
“I knew that was your copy and not Marci’s.”
“Count,” Foggy says. “To...to ten. That was two.” He pauses. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” Matt says immediately. God, that’s incredible.
Foggy spanks him again. “Ah! Three,” Matt gasps.
Smack! “Fuh. Five.”
It may be the most amazing thing Foggy’s ever seen. Matt’s got his head down, his shoulders rolled forward to brace, but everything else in him is pushing back, back into Foggy’s hand, back into the pain. His muscles are locked just enough to keep him in place, but the tension from before, the uncertainty, they’re gone, and every time he speaks he sounds more blissed-out. When Foggy slides a hand up between Matt’s legs he’s hard as a rock and leaking, and he shakes like a leaf at Foggy’s touch.
They keep going. “Eight” is less a word than a drawn-out moan, and “ten” is barely audible. Matt’s ass is mottled shades of pink and red, beautiful, and Foggy’s palms are tingling.
Oh, and he’s so hard he thinks he might die.
He digs blunt nails into the reddened flesh and Matt whimpers. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, pitching his voice low. Normally he’d feel silly talking like this; he’s usually more about gentle, playful sex, with jokes during and cuddles after. But it feels like the right tone to take right now, and from the way Matt nods and spreads his legs wider - Jesus, that’s an image Foggy’s never forgetting - he agrees.
He picks up the lube, glad that Matt walked him through this before they started and even gladder that he has porn of every stripe in his browser history, because he doesn’t think Matt’s in any condition to coach him right now. Still… “Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good or you want me to stop,” he says, and waits. “Matt?”
He can just barely see Matt’s head nod past his shoulders. “Okay. Do it,” Matt says. His voice is ragged and it sends a shiver down Foggy’s spine.
Foggy takes a breath, then opens the lube. It comes out faster than he expected, dripping on the bed, but somehow he doesn’t think Matt will mind. Setting the bottle aside, he runs one finger down the cleft of Matt’s ass, and pushes.
There’s resistance; then Matt sighs and his finger slides in, slow but definitely in. He can’t help the choked noise that escapes him. Matt’s so tight, so hot, and Foggy has no idea how this is going to work; no idea how he’s going to last more than ten seconds if it does work.
“Foggy…” Matt breathes, somewhere on the edge of pleased and impatient, and Foggy remembers he’s supposed to be doing something here. He pulls his finger out almost all the way and pushes back in, and Matt sighs again. It’s a little bit easier this time, and each additional time Foggy does it, and even being careful - because this is definitely not the part where he wants to hurt Matt, even if Matt probably wouldn’t stop him - it’s not long before he’s twisting three fingers inside of Matt, stretching him open, and Matt’s little sighs have become one extended, wordless plea.
“Fuck,” Foggy breathes. Matt looks wrecked and Foggy isn’t even inside him yet. “You really like this, don’t you?”
“Foggyyyy” is all he gets in response. It’s a whine, but it’s also an an answer: yes. Matt really likes this. Foggy thinks about it, thinks about if he was the one sprawled on the bed with Matt’s fingers in his ass, with Matt about to fuck him, and he has to squeeze himself tightly at the base of his dick, to breathe through it until the rush of want passes. Okay, so maybe it’s not so weird.
“Foggy,” Matt says again, rocking back hard on his fingers, and Foggy lets go of his dick and puts his hand on Matt’s tailbone to stop him.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let me just...okay.”
He pulls his fingers out, grabs the lube again. As he snaps it shut, Matt goes down on his forearms; braced, anticipating. Foggy hadn’t thought Matt could offer himself up any more plainly than he already was, but hey, Matt’s always raising the bar.
“Jesus Christ, Matt,” he murmurs. If he thinks about it he’s going to psych himself out, so he lines himself up behind Matt, takes a breath, and pushes in, slow but strong.
“Oh God, oh fuck,” he manages once he’s seated. It’s too much, the pressure, the heat, the beautiful arch of Matt’s spine in front of him, and it’s Matt. It’s Matt all around him, it’s Matt white-knuckling the sheets and mumbling his name into the mattress and Foggy would give literally everything he owns to crystallize this moment in amber and stay in it forever.
But he can’t, and Matt’s already pushing back against him. It’s too soon, Foggy can’t, and he grips Matt’s hips to hold him in place, probably too hard but that’s what Matt asked for in the first place.
He breathes hard through his nose, trying to get control, trying to steady his heart rate. He wonders how much of it Matt can hear, how much he can smell, the hunger rolling off Foggy like a wave, and that’s when he realizes what Matt’s saying, over and over:
“Please. Please. Please.”
Foggy pulls back and shoves into him, hard. Matt cries out, muffled in the sheets, scrabbling for a purchase. “Yes,” he sobs out, “Foggy.”
Oh fuck, oh Christ. “Matt,” Foggy says, “Matt,” and he fucks Matt like he asked, hard and punishing. Matt’s panting, keening, and every time Foggy shifts or adjusts his angle or slides his grip down to dig into the marks still burning red on Matt’s skin, Matt sobs out his name like a prayer.
“So good,” Foggy gasps, “so good, Matt, so fucking beautiful…” He’s breathless but he’s not about to stop. The arch of Matt’s body is exquisite, the pliant curve of it, the taut muscle in his limbs and the bruises mapped out across his skin. There’s a bad one on his ribcage, the yellow-green of something rotting and changing shape slightly as it moves over his bones with every thrust, every flex of muscle. Foggy grinds his thumb into it, fascinated, and Matt howls, pushing hard into his touch.
“Foggy, please,” Matt manages, voice nearly gone, and Foggy’s not sure what Matt’s asking for but he knows he wants to give it to him. But he’s so close, taut as a bowstring and aching with it, and he’s not going to last. He feels the tremble in Matt’s hips and knows he’s not the only one.
“Matt,” he says, and wraps his arm around Matt’s waist, his hand around Matt’s dick. Matt lets out a low moan when Foggy touches him, helpless and raw. “Yeah, come on, come for me, Matty, come for me…”
He’ll never know if it’s his touch or the command, but he works Matt hard and rough, and suddenly Matt is coming apart in his arms, gasping and shuddering with release. It’s too much, and it’s only a few thrusts later that Foggy follows him, tumbling breathless over the edge.
In the silence that follows he can hear them both breathing and his own heartbeat pounding in his head, and he wonders if this is what it’s like for Matt all the time; the thrum of life, the smell of sex hanging heavy in the air.
Matt makes a soft noise and Foggy blinks, coming back to himself. He unlocks his fingers from Matt’s hips, where they’re sure to have left more bruises, and gently pulls out.
Matt doesn’t move. “Lie down,” Foggy says quietly, and steers Matt over to the side, away from the mess they’ve made of his fancy sheets.
He rolls Matt onto his back and pushes his hair out of his face. Matt’s flushed the prettiest shade of pink Foggy’s ever seen, a sheen of sweat on his skin. Next time they’re definitely doing this face to face. His eyes are half-lidded and even more distant than usual, and when Foggy murmurs, “Hey,” Matt turns slightly towards the sound of his voice without opening his eyes any wider. “You feeling good?”
Matt pauses; then he nods slowly, like he’s half asleep. But his breathing is still quick, and when Foggy puts a light hand on his chest he can feel Matt’s heart pounding like a drum. “Foggy,” he says, and his voice is hoarse.
Foggy leans in and kisses his forehead. “I’m gonna get you some water. You just relax, okay?”
Matt nods again, and Foggy slips out of the bedroom. He chugs a glass of water, surprised by how thirsty he is, before refilling it and heading back to Matt.
He helps Matt sit up enough to drink, and catches his wince when he rests his weight on his ass. Possibly putting him on his back wasn’t the smartest idea. “Good?” he asks when Matt pushes the glass away. “Okay, just...just hang on, Matty. I’ll be right back.”
He tries not to move stuff around too much in the bathroom; Matt has everything just so to make it easier to find it by touch, and Foggy doesn’t want to fuck up his system. He thinks, as he carefully rummages through the medicine cabinet, that it’s weird that this doesn’t feel...well, more weird. Sure, he and Matt have been fooling around for a while, but this...this is different. Still, it kind of feels natural: the kinky sex. Wandering around his best friend’s apartment stark naked. Taking care of Matt.
He comes back to the bed with a washcloth dampened with warm water and a bottle of lotion. “Hey,” he says again, kneeling on the bed. Matt’s hand slides across the sheets, gropes for his knee like he wants to make sure Foggy’s there. He drops the lotion on the bed, closes his free hand over Matt’s.
“I’m here. Next time I’ll be more prepared,” he promises. There’s that “next time” again. He wonders if he’s counting his chickens before they’re spanked, but Matt certainly seemed to enjoy himself, and God knows Foggy did. They’ll need to talk about this more, to make sure they’re not doing anything that might hurt Matt too badly, or in a way he doesn’t like - in retrospect they probably should’ve figured out a safeword or something before getting naked - but yeah. Foggy wants a next time.
Matt sighs as Foggy runs the washcloth over his face, his throat, the stray splatter of come on his stomach. He tosses it onto the nightstand and taps Matt’s hip gently. “Roll over, buddy. On your stomach.”
Matt obliges with another little sigh. The sounds are a relief; Matt’s never seemed to feel the need to fill any silence with chatter the way Foggy does, but he’s also never been exactly quiet. Foggy’s not sure if this distant, passive…noodle-ness is normal for Matt after sex, or normal after kinky sex, or normal specifically for Matt after kinky sex, but he kind of misses Matt giving him crap.
So he teases him. “This is great. Can I get you to do everything without arguing like this?” he asks, squirting lotion into his palm. “You argue with our landlord about the office rent. You do my taxes.”
The noise Matt makes isn’t quite a laugh but it’s close. It squeezes something in Foggy’s chest, tight but not unpleasant; something like relief but better. “No,” he mumbles into the pillow, and Foggy gives him the lightest possible spank in retaliation. Matt huffs another amused sound, then groans softly as Foggy smoothes lotion over his heated, reddened skin. “You don’t...don’t have to…”
“Shh, yes I do,” Foggy says, and feels Matt sink even further into the mattress.
When he’s done, he tosses the lotion somewhere towards the foot of the bed and lies down. Matt immediately burrows closer to him, and Foggy pulls him in, tilting his chin up to look at his face. It’s more relaxed than he’s seen it in months, maybe even a couple of years; the lines on his forehead smoothed out, his mouth relaxed instead of drawn in a tight, angry line. Foggy kisses it to reward it for being so perfect. “Hi.”
“Foggy,” Matt says, and that’s it.
So Foggy talks, because that’s always been how this friendship works. He strokes Matt’s hair back and kisses his face and tells him how good he was, how beautiful he is, Matty, so pretty, such a good boy, his favorite person in the world. It’s mostly nonsense, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, and he can almost feel Matt sinking back into himself in his arms.
He’s halfway to talking himself hoarse when Matt pushes his head against Foggy’s shoulder, butting at him like a cat. “Foggy,” he says again, and he sounds almost normal, if tired. “It’s okay, Foggy. I’m...you can stop. It’s okay now.”
Foggy pulls back to look at him again. “How are you feeling? I wasn’t too rough, was I?”
Matt shakes his head. “No, it was good. We’ll have to figure out something to tell Karen when she asks why I’m walking funny, though.” He shifts carefully against Foggy, and there’s something about the tangle of their bare legs together that feels like home.
“You could tell her you’re a secret ninja and got hurt fighting crime,” Foggy suggests - though honestly, he wouldn’t be shocked if Karen wasn’t already halfway to figuring that part out. Karen’s smart as shit. “Nah, on second thought, she’d never buy it.”
He grins, but Matt doesn’t laugh. He’s silent for a minute, the worry lines starting to creep back, and just as Foggy’s about to prod him to spit it out already, he says, “I’m sorry.”
Foggy blinks. “You’re...for what?”
“I...all of that,” Matt says, the that heavy with suggestion. “It was too much to put on you, it was weird, and I…”
“Shut up,” Foggy says, because after all that hard work - Matt’s not the only one who’s going to be sore tomorrow - he’s not about to let Matt worry himself into a lather and undo it all.
“That was incredible. You’re incredible,” Foggy says. “If you’re sorry we did it, be sorry because you didn’t enjoy it or you didn’t want to do it with me. Don’t be sorry because you think I have any regrets.” He bites the inside of his lip. “And I know you know if I’m lying.”
Matt’s silent long enough Foggy thinks it might be time to start looking for his pants. “I’m not sorry we did it,” he says finally. Softly.
“Good,” Foggy says, and when he kisses Matt, Matt kisses him back, fingers curling against his side. “I mean, come on, Matty, it’s just BDSM. That’s mainstream now, right? Look at Marci’s book.”
“That was your book.” He’s smiling now. Matt’s mouth smiling is still Foggy’s favorite thing.
“You just said you know I know if you’re lying.”
“You’re all fucked out,” Foggy insists. “Super senses on the fritz. Happens to everyone.”
“Well, it could.”
Matt yawns. “We should get back to work,” he says. “We’re still technically on the clock.” But his eyes are already closed, his forehead tucked back in to Foggy’s shoulder.
“Later,” Foggy promises, although he suspects that later will mostly consist of ordering a pizza and a lot of lazy making out.
“I think you’ve earned a nap, Daredevil,” Foggy says, and kisses the top of Matt’s head. Matt doesn’t answer, and Foggy’s not sure whether that means he’s decided Foggy’s right, or he’s just already fallen asleep. Probably the latter.
He snuggles into the sheets - silk, so nice - and closes his own eyes. He’s not stupid enough to think that Matt’s going to actually let himself enjoy sex, kinky or not, without making a big self-loathing deal about it in the future, but that’s okay. Foggy will just have to convince him to let himself feel good once in a while.
He thinks he’s going to have a lot of fun with that.