Archive of Our Own

Frank needs it on record that he didn't start this shit deliberately.

It's late at night, bullets have been flying, and he's got to find somewhere to lay low and patch himself up. All he needs is somewhere safe for a few hours. And usually he'd have a bolt hole or two planned, usually he'd have mapped his escape out, but shit's gone down south fast and he's left running through the dark streets by himself. Improvising right into Hell's Kitchen and right to Red's apartment.

A couple of hours. That's all he needs.

No one can tie him to the Devil, and no one can tie the Devil to Murdock, so he knows the trail will go cold and he can regroup. Yeah, Red's going to get his panties in a bunch and give him a hypocritical lecture or two, but that’s nothing new.

He makes his way up the fire escape, a route he knows too well. Since he’s got back into town, and Red settled into whatever passes for 'normal' for him these days, they've run into one another more than Frank's comfortable admitting. Makes sense. Their nighttime activities overlap, no matter how many times Frank swears up and down he's done with all that bullshit. When he sees something that needs fixing, he fixes it; when he sees someone that needs stopped, he puts them down. It's backfired on him tonight, the one night that Red wasn't around with his little sticks to have his back.

Frank reaches the top of the stairs out of breath, mostly due to the bullet graze in his side slowing him down. As injuries go it's not too bad, but it's hitting him hard now that the adrenaline has subsided. He's as quiet as he can manage as he makes his way to the window, unsurprised to find it unlocked.

But as he's sliding it open to let himself into Red's bedroom, he freezes - 'cause Red is in there.

And, sure, of course he's in there, it's 3am, but he's not sleeping. And he's not nursing any wounds of his own. And, crucially, he's not alone.

Frank's staring.

He's staring at bare skin and at a pair of hands clutching tightly to Matt's hips. He's staring at Matt's face as it's tilted back to the ceiling, eyes closed, expression in ecstacy. He's staring at the way Matt's hips move and at the way he rides the man on their back underneath him. Lucky son of a bitch, flits through Frank's mind uninvited.

It's a breathless split-second but he's cataloguing details without even being aware he's doing it. Scars on Matt's chest, the soft brown of his nipples, the white shirt abandoned on the floor, the jut of his cock, the spread of his hands on the chest of the man underneath him as he braces himself. The details filter in between one breath and the next.

Then he's gone. Frank closes the window before it's moved more than an inch and he goes back the way he came, moving at a faster pace than had ever seemed possible before.

He's not thinking of that moment ever again, he tells himself. Not ever.

He holes up in a crappy hotel room instead, the kind of place with watermarks on the ceiling and even worse stains on the floor. Quiet and safe enough to patch himself up, wash the blood from his face and convince himself that he's not going to die tonight.

He hits the shower to wash the worst of the crusted blood from his skin. Most of it isn't his. The water's hot, at least, and before long he's able to breathe in the steam clogging the air and feel the tension fade from his shoulders.

He closes his eyes and he's not thinking about the actions he had to take tonight. His hand on the gun, finger on the trigger. The lives he took. The lives he saved.

No, when he closes his eyes with the water hot around him, he conjures up the split-second image from Murdock's apartment. Imagines a new angle, imagines being the one beneath him and looking up. Red with his eyes shut so he can focus on how good Frank makes him feel, taking his cock deep and slow, letting Frank play with those highly tuned senses.

Frank doesn't let himself think too deeply, just takes hold of his stiffening cock and strokes himself. His breathing grows shallow and messy until he can hear himself, hear the strangled pants and quiet moans barely drowned out by the rush of water from the shower. Imagines what Murdock must sound like when he's right on the brink, lost in his instincts, giving himself over entirely. Thinks about being the one to get Murdock right into that state of mind.

Doesn't take long before he comes, choking on his own breath. It doesn't even feel satisfying but it scratches enough of an itch. He cleans up, silencing the confused whispers in his mind, and tells himself that's the last time he lets himself do anything like that while thinking of Red.

The next few days pass at an excruciating pace. He's back at work, a temporary construction gig, something to keep his hands busy and his mind blank. Enough to pay the bills.

He works until he's tired and his hands are aching and his muscles need to rest, and still when he hits the pillow at night there is time for Red to claw his way into his thoughts. It's like a virus he can't shake. Like something has dug its way into his thoughts and burrowed in there for good.

It wouldn't be the first time Frank's wanted another man, but it's been a damn long while - long before Maria, before marriage, before the war. Doesn't even know if he can count confused, teenage dabbling as 'experience', and he hates the quiet, mocking part of his thoughts that points out his fantasies are way past his expertise. Even if it were possible, even if he could make this happen, even if Red wanted it, what makes him think for a damn second he could make him cry and beg like he does in his imagination? What makes him think he'd do anything more than embarrass himself in his own goddamn pants the second they touched?

And that's the chain of events that's got him here: laptop open, porn on screen, face flushed while his hand is on his cock. The actors on the screen aren't quite right, but hell if he knows the right thing to search for. Knowing his luck, some asshole out there really has made Daredevil porn, but even then it wouldn't be right, would it?

He's stuck watching the guys on the screen, listening to their sounds with the volume turned way down low in case the sound leaks through the walls of his shitty apartment. His hand jerks frantically on his cock and he's getting there, fast - and it's not what he wants, none of it. Watching some pretty twink on the screen only makes him think of the reality of Matt Murdock: bloody fists and a punch like a sledgehammer, the devil's smirk and hard-won muscles all over. That's what brings him over the edge in the end. The contrast of it all. Violence and sex.

He grunts when he comes and pauses the video a split second later. Closes the tab with a frustrated sigh and sets about cleaning himself up.

He's starting to think there's no easy way to get this out of his system.

It might've been fine. Given time, maybe the images would fade and maybe the fantasies would stop and maybe that irritating lizard-brain obsession would move onto something else. Might've happened that way, if he had been lucky.

But when has Frank ever been lucky?

"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me," Matt says, his words puncturing the rooftop air. Frank's trigger finger itches and he doesn't raise his gaze from his rifle scope. Watching a warehouse down below, he's just waiting for the right moment. The last thing he needs is any complications. "I've got to admit I'm a little hurt."

And Frank can hear that damn smirk on his lips. Without even looking he can see the smug expression on his half-hidden face and he wonders if that's the reason Matt doesn't wear a full mask. If he keeps his pretty mouth on show just to fuck with people's heads. He wouldn't put anything past Murdock, if he's honest. "Don't flatter yourself, sunshine," he complains without raising his head.

“Call me cautious. When you go quiet, it usually means something bad is coming,” Matt admits. He might have a point. For now, Frank doesn't answer, but he hears the soft tread of Matt's footsteps as he comes closer. “Am I right?”

There’s a thousand different ways for Frank to answer that question. “I’ve got this one. Don’t need The Devil breathing down my neck for it.”

And all Matt does is chuckle, barely more than a huff of air, and Frank hates how much he likes the sound of that. Hates that he immediately takes note of that sound and knows he’ll come back to it later.

“I mean it, Red. Don’t get in my way tonight. Just don’t.”

There's a long pause. The silence makes the back of his head itch but Frank still doesn't raise his gaze from the scope. If he ignores Matt enough, the asshole might actually leave. Or try and attack him. Either one sounds fine.

Instead, there's the sound of gentle footsteps as Matt gets closer. “Frank,” he says. He sounds concerned. Frank doesn't know if he's ever heard his voice soft like that. “What's really going on?”

He can't tell him. He won't. How do you look at someone and admit what's really going through your head? He buries it down deep instead. Silently begs Matt to drop it.

“What you saw the other night…” Matt starts, and Frank's stomach churns. “I heard the window closing. Only worked out what happened after.”

“Red -”

“I wasn't expecting company. So if you're avoiding me because of that…” Frank raises his head from his gun's scope and now he sees the pissy clenching of Matt's jaw as he takes a second. He sees the seething anger underneath the surface and wonders if there's something hurting down there too. “You have no right. What I do in my own time has nothing to do with you.”

There's a moment where Frank wants to play dumb. He wants to say he never saw anything, that Matt's oracle-like senses are dead wrong for once and Matt's got no way to prove it. Even Frank knows that's a lost cause, though. He looks away from Matt and starts packing up his rifle, ready for a hasty exit. “Never said anything about it.”

“You don't have to.” There it is, the patented Murdock judgement in all its glory. Frank feels his hackles rise and works to keep his temper in check. "You've been avoiding me ever since. More than usual."

"Been busy." Frank is looking down, talking to his gun and his kit, wishing he was down in that damn warehouse getting his blood spilled and his head rocked rather than having to endure this conversation. It's not an unusual feeling when dealing with Murdock. "Don't overthink it."

But that's what Murdock does, isn't it? That's his entire line of work: overthinking, arguing, moralising. Wearing that pretty smirk and pretending he knows what other people are thinking. Sometimes he's right. Sometimes, like right now, he's far off the mark.

Frank throws his bag onto his back. "Tonight's a bust. Nothing's happening." The goons he'd been waiting for must have got wind that their operation's been compromised. Nobody's showing up. It's a shame. He could've used the outlet tonight - some way of blowing off steam that isn't just himself and his own thoughts.

Matt is still standing there, irritation painted on the lower half of his face, the devil eyes of his mask staring blankly at Frank. Even his damn mask seems to know how to judge him. "Frank..."

And, hell, has Frank always loved the sound of his name from Matt's lips? Has it always sounded like that, a ragged breath of air? Frank closes his eyes for a split-second and shakes his head. "Stop it, Red," he warns. "I mean it."

There are no details there. He can't tell Matt what he needs to stop because he doesn't understand it himself. He needs a break from Matt being Matt, from the way he's invaded his thoughts ever since one goddamn mistake that happened nights ago.

Of course, Matt doesn't listen to warnings. When has he ever? Instead of backing off, he's taking a step forward. His footsteps aren't as certain as they were before. His head tilts, that uncanny movement that gives him away more than he knows. There's something deliberately unsettling about those moments of clarity: those brief seconds where it's obvious that the way the Devil moves through the world is far different from anything Frank will ever know. Whatever Murdock senses, Frank's never going to understand it.

Matt breathes. Takes another step. Says his name again, but it's different this time. It's not a scolding admonishment. It's a question on a gentle exhale. "Frank?"

He's close now. Close enough that Frank could throw a punch if he wanted to. Close enough that he'd be easy to take down - with enough room to manoeuvre Matt can beat Frank any time, but up close and personal when they're relying on brute strength, that's when Frank has the edge. Getting this close when Frank's hanging by a wire is a tactical error, Matt's got to know that.

But Frank can't stop watching him. He's staring at the pink of Matt's lips and his thoughts are running wild, just like his heart, and damn if he doesn't hate knowing that Matt can probably hear that. It's like a neon sign of nerves and over-thinking and toogoddamnmuch and there's nothing he can do to hide it from him.

No point trying.

Frank reaches out, catches the way that Matt flinches for a split second like the tension might explode into something violent, before his hand settles on the side of Matt's neck. The rough texture of the devil suit rests beneath his hand instead of warm, soft skin, but Matt is letting him do this. Letting him touch. Frank's thumb brushes back and forth until it graduates up to Matt's stubbled jaw.

He doesn't give himself time to question it as he leans in to press their mouths together, real gentle. Real careful. Matt might be the devil but this moment feels fragile. Breakable. One wrong move and they're both walking away from this bleeding - but then Matt relents. His lips part and his head tilts back and there's this sound, this tiny little captured moan, and it's something Frank will be replaying for the rest of his life.

Frank keeps one hand on Matt's jaw, gently guiding him, while the other slips up to the back of Matt's neck. It's all so much that it practically hurts, a lick of pain along his throat and down into his heart.
He can't tell how long they stand like that, intertwined. Kissing like high-schoolers on their prom night. Feels like one second or maybe hours and all Frank knows is that he doesn't want to stop. It's gentle and it's careful and Matt's hands come to rest on his hips, just holding him close. Nothing more.

More.

Frank's the first one to break. He breaks the kiss and lets their foreheads rest together, breathing the same air. His lips still tingle. There's a heavy silence around them and he wonders if it feels as loud to Matt as it does to him.

Something tells him they should talk about what the hell just happened. Or maybe he should tell Matt something about the insanity that's been running through his head for days now. Weeks. He should use his damn words but instead it's like all his energy is spent just standing here, just breathing.

Matt's hands are still on his hips. His thumb traces the ridge of Frank's waistband. There’s a silent moment where he’s thinking, evaluating, and Frank can’t begin to imagine what’s going through his head. When he speaks, it's quiet. Just above a whisper.

"Meet me back at my place."

Frank's been here before. It took a while to feel comfortable letting himself into Matt Murdock's apartment: it had felt like blurring lines between Matt's two identities. Murdock and the Devil. Matt and Red. Frank knows it's bullshit, that the rage of the Devil lives inside that perfect lawyer façade and that the honour code of the lawyer fuels every punch and fight in the streets, but that separation had always seemed like it was something important - until it wasn't. Until Frank had needed help once too often and he'd ended up back here, on the couch, patching up. Isn't that where all of this mess started?

It's different tonight. Parting ways back on that rooftop, they'd agreed to meet back at Murdock's apartment. Now he's here, staring at the flickering billboard across the street. Nerves jittering. Replaying that kiss over and over in his mind. Trying to restrain himself from thinking too hard about what might come next.

He's beaten Matt back here, which isn't surprising. Murdock's probably stopped to prevent a mugging or help an old lady across the street. Boy Scout bullshit.

But he isn't left waiting for long. He hears soft footsteps from Matt's bedroom - and he only hears them because he's been tense and listening. Matt can move like a shadow if he doesn't want to be heard.

Frank listens to the gentle shuffling of movement from the bedroom and tries to keep his heart rate under control. More than anything, he tries to rein in his expectations. For all he knows, Matt just wanted a private place to tell him to fuck off.

Then the bedroom door is wheeled open and Matt is standing there. The Devil suit is gone, packed away, and Matt is soft and gentle in t-shirt and sweatpants. His hair is fluffy and messy from pulling off the helmet and yet Frank can see the bruising on his knuckles even from this distance. The slash of red from a cut lip and the hint of a bruise on his cheekbone. Something surges in his chest, a protective instinct that's severely misplaced.

"Red..." He doesn't know what to say. There's so much, too much, and nothing.

He steps towards him instead, like a bulldozer crashing through the carefully structured trappings of Matt's life. The room is only lit by the billboard through the window but that's more than enough for

Matt, and Frank can find his way. It's enough to light up the delicate angles of Matt's face as Matt tilts towards him, a flower to the sun.

When he's close enough, he can see Matt blink and wet his lips. Just a quick flash of his tongue, there and gone.

"You're driving me crazy." It isn't what Frank meant to say but it's the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

"I haven't been near you for weeks."

"Don't have to be." It's the way it's always been for them, orbiting one another, waiting for the collision. It's always worked. Until now. "Can't stop thinking about you."

And there it is - that uncertainty turning to confidence, turning to a smirk now that Matt thinks he's got control of the situation. "Yeah?" he breathes. He's edging closer to Frank. "What were you thinking about?"

A thousand and one answers to that, each one dirtier than the last.

Frank could go into detail on every messy mistake that he wants to make with Matt. He could tell him about how he's yearned for him for days now, and maybe longer than that, maybe he's needed this from long before it accidentally bubbled into his conscious mind.

He could tell him a lot of things and watch Matt preen with the attention, watch that smirk get even sharper like whetting a knife.

"Mostly thinking of ways to shut you up," he confesses, and before Matt can snark back at him he kisses the retort from his lips.

It's as sweet as the last time. Sharp too. But this time they're somewhere quiet and there isn't the overhanging threat of a city full of criminals waiting to be put down. It's just the pair of them in Matt's apartment, clinging to one another with bruised knuckles and silent desperation.

Frank loses track of who moves first. He knows there's a moment when he gets his hands onto Matt's bare skin, pushing his way underneath his soft t-shirt in order to trail his fingertips over firm muscles and ragged scars. Matt's kiss is a mess at this point, breathing against him while he works on the clips from Frank's vest in distraction.

They're moving before Frank can think about it, and he doesn't know which one of them chose to move this to the bedroom. He only registers the relief when the back of his knees hit the mattress and Matt sinks down on top of him, climbing into his lap.

The images flash through his mind again, a split-second scene snatched through the window. Someone else's hands on Matt's bare hips. Someone else driving him wild. He almost wants to ask who it was, but he's smarter than that. Holds his tongue.

He pulls Matt's t-shirt off over his head and then holds Matt at a distance when Matt tries to surge forward and kiss him again right away. "Give me a second," Frank complains. "I wanna look at you."

Something about that makes Matt's breath hiccup. He nods eagerly and stays where Frank is holding him, just letting Frank drink him in. He's been up-close and personal with Matt before, but that's different: that had been violence and pain and chaos. So what is this?

This is his hand travelling reverentially over Matt's stomach - over muscles and skin and the faintest trail of hair. This is getting to drink Matt in as a companion rather than as either enemy or ally.

He really is beautiful.

Hell if Frank's going to say that aloud, not in those words. He scuffs his thumb along the line of Matt's hip bone where it rises above Matt's sweatpants, and he listens to the sound of Matt swallowing carefully.

Matt's about to speak, struggling to find his words for once, when Frank goes ahead and says it: "You're pretty, Red. So damn pretty."

And there's embarrassment or outrage or amusement or some strange mixture of the three, but then Matt has a sweetly pleased smile on his face like it's something he's trying to hide. Frank leans back just to watch him unravel. "I mean it. Hiding all this under your mask and your devil suit. Ain't fair."

That's enough to get Matt to huff back his laughter and shake his head. "You're not so bad yourself," he says, but Frank thinks they both know it's not the same.

He pulls his shirt off too and lets Matt's hand rest on his chest. There's something so careful and purposeful about the way that Matt touches him, like an explorer in new territory. It's enough to make Frank breathe quiet and slow, reluctant to disturb him. All he wants to do is watch, and feel the gentle exploration of those hands.

And then Matt's head tilts to the side, openly reading him. Putting him on display for all those fine-tuned senses.

"I want to taste you," Matt says. He wets his lips, and it must be because he knows it makes Frank's mind short-circuit. "Can I?"

Frank had all kinds of visions before he wound up here tonight. He'd been so certain that he would be the one calling the shots, but instead he feels like he's in a trance, powerless. All it takes is a few words.

He clears his throat. "I want to fuck you tonight," he admits. There's that damn smirk hiding in the corner of Matt's mouth again: he already knew. Of course he did. "Might not last if I get your pretty mouth on me first."

He reaches up to swipe his thumb over Matt's bottom lip, just to feel it - just to lose his mind at the faintest touch of Matt's tongue. "Jesus, Red," he breathes.

Matt parts his lips and takes Frank’s thumb inside his mouth, carefully running over the ridges of his thumbprint with his tongue. There’s a moment where Frank is fairly certain his mind short-circuits and his heart stops beating. It’s all too good to be real. A strangled sound is punched from Frank’s throat and his spare hand clenches on Matt’s hip. “Don’t toy with me,” he breathes. Pleads.

Matt pulls back and leaves Frank longing for the heat of his mouth again. “Just lie back,” Matt tells him. “Watch.”

For someone without sight, Matt sure seems to get off on being watched - but Frank gets it. If he looked like that, and could sense every micro-response to his actions, he’d probably want that too. He thinks that must be what feeds Matt’s calm sense of self-assurance, the absolute certainty of the impact he has on anyone else in the room. Right now, Frank can’t take his eyes off of him as Matt reaches over to the small table at his bedside and pulls out protection and lubricant.

Frank forgets how to blink as he watches Matt’s slick fingers reach behind himself. With Matt straddled over his lap, he can’t see exactly what he’s doing - but he can watch Matt’s face instead, the way he screws his eyes shut and bites down on his own bottom lip. Frank’s hands rest on Matt’s hips and he lets his thumbs stroke back and forth over bare skin he never thought he’d really be allowed to touch.

The sounds in the room are obscene as Matt opens himself up, pleasure firing over his face. Frank is trying to memorise every expression, but when he starts to sit back up to try to join in Matt places his free hand firmly on Frank’s chest and holds him down. “I got this,” Matt promises breathlessly.

Frank could knock his hand away easily if he wanted to, but instead he reaches up to circle Matt’s wrist with his fingers. He brushes his fingertips against the soft skin on the inside of Matt’s wrist. “Just want to touch you,” he admits.

“I know,” Matt chokes, fingers deep within himself. “Soon. I’m nearly there.”

Frank trails his fingers back and forth over Matt's wrist just to watch him shiver. “I could help.” God, he wants that. If Matt would let him, he'd take him to pieces and wait until he was begging for it.

A small shake of Matt's head. “It's a lot,” he says, words broken by shaking breath. “Sometimes. My senses…”

It's like he doesn't have the words for it. Frank lets go of Matt's wrist and rests his hands on Matt's thighs instead. “A lot,” he repeats. “Too much?”

There's something there. A flicker of a bitter smile on Matt's face. “Something like that.”

Frank's mind is racing ahead of himself, like this is something he's got to solve. Something to fix. But then Matt is moving again, drying his hand on the bedspread and rolling on the condom before he takes Frank’s dick in his grasp. It feels like electricity spiking through him, that firm grip - enough to make Frank’s teeth grind as he fights to settle himself against the wave of getting everything he could’ve wanted.

“Okay?” Matt checks, a little breathless, a little smug. For a second, all Frank can think about is how much he loves that expression on Matt’s face - and how he’s never, ever going to tell him that.

“Okay,” he agrees, just as quiet as Matt. His hands gently come to rest on Matt’s hips and he stays like that for a second, not daring to move.

Matt adjusts where he’s straddled over Frank’s hips, until the tip of Frank’s cock nestles between his cheeks. Then Matt steals Frank’s breath by slowly, carefully working his way down. The tight tension, the quiet hiss of air between Matt's teeth, the clench of Frank's hands on Matt's hips, he's losing his mind. Pushes his head back against the pillow and prays for his sanity.

He traces his thumbs over Matt’s hipbones and counts the scars slashed back and forth over his chest, anything to distract himself and fight back the fire burning in his gut, the instinct that tells him to move. Waits it out with a catch in his chest while he wonders how his fuse ever got this short. He used to feel in control in the bedroom, used to feel confident. Of course Matt flips that over and rewrites every rule.

“Red,” he breathes when he trusts himself to speak. “Want to watch you fuck yourself on me. Can you do that for me?”

There’s a smirk on Matt’s face after that as he moves, a rise and fall that leaves Frank groaning. Matt moves with the same fucking elegance and efficiency he does everything: of course Matt Murdock fucks like he fights. Of course it’s ruthless, of course it’s calculated, of course it’s precise. Frank would laugh if he had the brains left to do it, but before long he’s struggling to think.

He can feel Matt’s pin-pointed attention on him. Every hitch of Frank’s breath, clutch of his hands, deep-set groan, it’s like Matt drills down on every detail that gets him going. Knows how to rock his hips and how to take his cock so fucking perfect it’s like he was made for this. It’s perfect, and-

- and it’s wrong.

Physically, Frank’s got everything he could want right here in his arms. Every dirty image he’s thought of for days, every fantasy he’s calculated, but it’s got the exact same problem as when Matt takes his fight to the streets. The exact same half-assed bullshit Frank tears him down for. There’s nothing personal in it. When Matt fights criminals and gangsters they’re interchangeable - and right now there could be anyone underneath Matt, any hard willing dick for him to ride. Frank could be the same guy as the one from a few nights ago and Matt wouldn’t be aware of any difference.

Fuck that.

For Frank and Matt it’s something real. Something charged. Something personal.

And Frank isn’t some hot stranger Matt’s picked up at the bar and he isn’t a warm body for Matt to lose himself in, and if they’re doing this they’re doing it.

“Red,” he grunts, hands pressing bruises into those hips. “Want to stop, turn us over. Can I?”

He can barely get the words out, panting for air, but Matt slows and tilts his head like he’s tuning back in for the first time. There’s a little frown on his face, that here’s a problem I didn’t expect expression, and it leaves Frank stroking his hands over his sides.

“I’ll take care of you,” he breathes. “You know I will. Just gotta let me.”

He can feel Matt’s attention on him like a wave, and wonders just how much willpower it takes for Matt to give this to him: a little nod. Matt’s breathless and his cheeks have flushed a gentle pink. He looks ruined already.

“Attaboy,” Frank murmurs, before he steadies Matt in his arms and rolls them over, silk sheets smooth underneath him. He spreads Matt out underneath him and pushes home again, biting back a groan at that overwhelming heat. Matt tilts his head back against the pillow, lips parted, muscles tense, and with an invitation like that Frank can’t stop himself from descending onto Matt’s neck - the ragged brush of his stubble and bite from his teeth.

He snaps his hips forward, instinct taking over. Matt is boxed in underneath him, heated and groaning. And there’s no denying that Matt is here now. He’s out of his head, out of auto-pilot. He’s here in the rake of his nails against Frank’s back and in the half-made words that he can’t quite form. He’s here in the ghost-shaped echo of Frank’s name on his lips.

The only thoughts left in Frank’s mind are fragments: lust and heat and competition. Sweat beads on his skin and the room fills with obscene sounds and the heavy, desperate sound of their breaths. He holds himself up on one arm and reaches between them to wrap his hand tight around Matt’s cock: the second he touches him Matt almost chokes beneath him.

“There you go,” Frank breathes, slowing down enough to watch Matt’s face. He can see just how lost he is in all of this, like there’s barely any civilisation left any more. Just the real thing. The devil under the surface. “I got you, don’t I?”

Matt makes a sound that might be agreement or might be a plea or might be nothing but a mindless moan, so Frank kisses it from his lips. Even half-crazed Matt opens up to him, and his hand slides up to cling desperately in Frank’s hair.

He strokes Matt’s cock at the same time as he fucks him, and at this point it’s all Frank can do to hold himself back from the edge. He’s got a job to do, a mission, and that’s taking Matt apart second by second.

“Look at you,” Frank breathes, talking to himself. “Matty. Fucking beautiful.”

Maybe if Matt had any brain cells left he’d swing at Frank for that, but Frank knows he’s in luck; all Matt can do right now is groan again, twitching underneath him. He presses Matt’s thigh higher with his free hand and feels Matt adjust easily - he pushes in deeper next time until Matt’s taken him so deep he can’t imagine ever untangling.

“Frank,” Matt pants. He’s broken. “Please. I’m… Please.”

“I know, baby,” Frank breathes against him, drinking in that incoherence. He grazes Matt’s mouth gently then drags along Matt’s bottom lip with his teeth. Stops just to rest his forehead on Matt’s shoulder, Matt almost doubled in two beneath him. “Told you. I got you.”

Hand moving faster, teeth pressed to Matt’s skin, listening to the pleasure bubbling up beneath him, Frank takes him where he needs to go - thrusting deep and jerking him fast until Matt clenches beneath him, nails digging deep into Frank’s shoulders as he comes. The air in Frank’s lungs stalls and his hips judder as Matt’s seed splatters over his stomach.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “C’mon. Let go for me.”

Matt’s nodding and Frank doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him let go like this; Matt is usually all poise and self-possession, his self-control on a thin string, but it’s gone now. Now it’s only instinct and it’s something primal and it’s all his, just for now.

Brings him over the edge as well. He buries his face against Matt’s skin and pushes as deep into him as he can get, as if maybe there’s a way to leave part of himself behind. As if he can find a way to trap this moment inside of Matt, a memory to carry with him.

With a groan, it’s over. He comes down from the high and feels Matt gently pushing him to the side.

If he looks over at Matt, he knows he'll find him bitten and bruised and scratched. From the way Frank feels right now, he doesn’t think he’s fared much better. It feels good. Honest.

His lungs burn and he lies there for far too long, catching his breath and feeling that promising ache in his muscles. Around them, the room stinks of sex.

It takes a short, pleasant eternity before Matt nudges him. “You want a drink?” he asks, and all Frank can do is nod.

Matt’s a mess, always has been, but Frank can’t say he doesn’t know how to look after his one night stands.

They share a beer, and when Frank declares he’s staying the night Matt just laughs and doesn’t argue. They fuck again in the early hours and it’s maybe it’s even better than the first time - less pressured, less panicked.

By the time dawn comes around, Matt is starting to pull himself together like he’s gathering up the old lawyer mask all over again. “Is that out of your system, then?” he asks as he’s pulling on a clean white shirt. There’s a twist of a smirk on his face like maybe this is all a joke to him. Frank doesn’t think he believes that for a second.

“That what you think this is?” he asks, still lounging on Matt’s bed. The sheets have pooled around his waist as he sits up to watch Matt dress, but he’s in no hurry to get moving for once.

“You think it’s something else?” Matt tilts his head like he’s listening to something Frank can’t begin to imagine.

Frank snorts. He feels the words die on his tongue and looks away. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He stretches his arms out and feels that pleasant burn in them. He knows that if he looked down he’d be able to see the outline of Matt’s fingernails scratched out on his shoulders.

Matt’s shoulder lifts gently and he picks up a tie to drape around his neck. As he’s knotting it, Frank watches the quick, certain movements of his fingers and just feels the same heated knot in his gut that he’s felt for days now.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen. Food in the fridge, if you need it. I’d make breakfast for you, but I’ve got a meeting first thing…”

Frank wonders if this is how it usually goes, or if him setting up camp in Matt’s bed in the morning is some kind of victory. Something tells him Matt’s usually a gentleman: makes them breakfast, makes them feel special, before he vanishes out of their lives for good. There’s something hollow about it all now, being treated as just another night out of thousands.

“I can see myself out,” he says. “Won’t even steal anything on the way. Scout’s honour.”

Matt’s smile is real now. Frank can tell by the crinkles around his eyes. “Nothing worth stealing,” he claims. Liar.

Once he’s dressed, Matt hesitates before leaving - there’s a brief moment where Frank wonders if he’s going to cross the room and kiss him goodbye, nice and gentle. His hands itch for it.

Instead, Matt dips his head in a soft nod. “Take care of yourself, Castle,” and he’s gone.

And that is fine.

Just fine.

But the itch remains. If anything, it’s worse. Before, Frank had a stolen glimpse of something he shouldn’t have seen and he had a wild imagination, but not a whole lot else. All of a sudden, his mind is now flooded with the real thing: memories of the sounds Matt makes when he’s right on the edge, and the feeling of Matt’s scars beneath his fingertips, and the surrender when he’d finally got Matt to give in and really be there with him.

It plays in his mind on a loop.

Frank stays away, like he should. He gets on with life and buries it down deep but the second he stops moving it all bubbles up again.

Makes him angry. Makes him frustrated. Makes him a whole lot of things he shouldn’t be, actually.

So much for ‘out of his system’. Another Murdock fallacy.

He could keep this up for a long damn time, he knows that. If there’s anything Frank knows, it’s how to bury something deep and learn how to let him fuel him. It could be the exact same thing here, really - but this time around it doesn’t feel right. At the end there, Red wasn’t just following the motions with him and taking a physical release. He was there, the real thing. The two of them.

Shit, this is going to be messy.

For a vigilante, Matt has next to no security system in his apartment - it’s almost embarrassing how easy it is for Frank to let himself in the front door. He’s tried to time his arrival right before Matt gets home from work: early enough that he can get in and make himself at home, but with enough time to make sure Matt doesn’t make it back before him.

There really is something intimate about being in a person’s home without them. Seeing the echoes of who they are in the relics they leave behind. Frank’s usually been in this apartment when he’s injured or fighting or (now) fucking. To calm his nerves he takes a look through Matt’s things, calming himself down with the flotsam of a quiet life. Matt Murdock is a long way from the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, but they’re the same thing in the end. Frank gets that.

He only hears the tapping of Matt’s cane in the hallway outside because Matt wants him to. He knows Matt well enough for that.

When the sound of Matt’s keys comes next, Frank settles himself on Matt’s couch like he owns the place, legs spread wide to take up as much space as he can. He’s still not prepared for that damn clench in his chest when the door opens and Matt walks in: he tries his best to dampen it down.

“Frank,” Matt says, and Frank has to pretend that there isn’t a new thrill to hearing his name on Matt’s lips. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

There’s a question in there.

Hell if Frank has an answer.

He wants to tell Matt that they’re doing this: if he’s good enough for Matt to fuck then he’s good enough for him to do it again. He knows he isn’t the only one that felt something more than sex that night, and if he’s honest he’s kinda pissed off that he’s the one that’s had to come chasing Matt down again. By all rights, this should have ended with Matt knocking him onto his back on a rooftop at night, and maybe they’ll still get there soon.

He leans forward, forearms resting on his legs, and thinks for a second about all the things he’s not saying.

Wets his lips.

“You skipped out on breakfast,” he says. Wonders if Matt can hear his heart racing and hates that he already knows the answer. “The way I figure it, that means you owe me dinner.”

There’s a couple of ways things can go from here, and a lot of them will end up with a black eye and bruises for both of them. Still, Frank’s got to hope he’s reading this right. He’s got to hope that he’s not the only one out of the two of them that needs this so bad he could scream.

Matt tilts his head to the side. “Dinner, huh,” he repeats, quiet and curious. Frank’s trying not to hold his breath as he watches Matt place his cane to the side then delicately pull his tie free from his shirt collar. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”

Something in Frank’s chest unlocks and he leans back, barely aware of the relieved smile on his face.

Yeah, dinner.

Maybe this is going to be okay.