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They walk into the safe house shoulder to shoulder, bumping against each other due to the lazy pace of their step. An eerie quiet is trapped in between them when Matt closes the door, it follows them all the way to the bathroom, it's almost suffocating.
It's routine by now, so ingrained into them that they don't even have to talk—They strip down to their undershirts and briefs, suits caked in blood left to rest on the edge of the tub they never use. In the morning there'll be the rancid stench of coagulated blood to withstand while brushing their teeth, but now it's fresh, still alive in a way. Minor cuts and bruises get washed, disinfected with the antiseptic that smells like a hospital hallway, the tender skin turns crimson and blotchy purple under the green lights of the bathroom.
There's a wide gash in Dex's arm, bleeding and pulsing. Matt's fingers hover over it, not touching but assessing, rather. The first aid kit, modified to fit their rowdy hobby, comes to perform, perched up on the marble.
A certain vulnerability shakes Dex to his very core during these moments—Here is, wounded and aching, like an abandoned animal, at the mercy of hands too forgiving and calloused by years worth of forcefully applied justice. It's like turning and showing your underbelly to a predator, allowing them to see you bare, naked and open. But it's Matt; Dex's guilty pleasure butcher, dedicated and soft when he wants to be. The man who doesn't kill, who grits his teeth when absolute violence is needed, who prays on his knees for a benevolent God to give Dex his soul back when he thinks Dex isn't listening. So, Dex sits on a worn stool, wood chipped from years of use, and allows Matt to feel out the pattern of his gash with a needle and some thread.
"I could've done it myself," He says, because it's true. Most nights it's them patching their own bodies up quietly, pained hisses the only melody shared in between them. "I'm not that tired."
Matt scoffs, his mouth pulling upwards with one of those bitter, handsome smiles of his. "You're running on pure adrenaline, not the healthiest state of mind to be in."
"I got excited."
"Yeah, I noticed."
Dex watches Matt, the tense set of his brows and the way his breathing has turned shallow. His hands are steady but his wrists are stiff, practiced movements unable to hide the live wire sort of tension thrumming under his veins. "I said I wouldn't kill, didn't I? He had a gun pointed at you, I just taught him a lesson."
"One he won't forget, I'm sure," Matt mumbles, hot breath hitting Dex's skin, shaking goosebumps out of him. "He was a threat, but you were brutal."
Yeah, well. Dex panicked, he knows Matt noticed it, too. The warehouse was supposed to be clear, Jessica's intel was useless—Dex would love to be mad at her, but he promised Matt he'd hold no grudges with his friends, either. Stupid promises.
He's been having a few bad days for a while, maybe for too long. Last he remembers his mind being clear was at Castle's hideout, when Matt soothed him down from the chaos. There's the usual droning, then the fog—It gets worse during the missions and the patrols because he can't kill, and no matter how much blood is shed from simple cuts or calculated gunshots, it'll never be enough. Earlier in the week he'd been taking out the trash and the alley cats hissed at him, which almost drove him to snap their tiny, sensitive necks, but flashes of red visors and boyish grins had him running back indoors.
Seeing the pistol pointed at Matt's head, hearing the click of the safety—it'd been too much.
Matt's not about to make him feel guilty for crippling a fucking AVTF clown, but it's not about that in the first place. There's the underlying disappointment clogged into their interactions now, with Matt's reserved tone hitting Dex like liters of ice cold water rushing down his back, like the fiery aches he sometimes gets from the adamantium reacting to a body it doesn't belong in. It makes him spiral, has him thrown into a loop where he's a child all over again, clinging to his therapist's oxygen canisters and begging for her to stay, to not let the natural roll of death take her from him. It's pathetic, downright humiliating; how he clings to Matt's acceptance, to his warm, to feel human—to feel loved.
The fluorescent bathroom lights flicker, once, twice. The buzzing feels familiar, a sing-song of faulty wiring and old electric connections. Dex focuses on it, tries to find solace in the dire quietness.
He opens his mouth once, twice, as if gasping for air but he's actually trying to form a sentence. A non-douchey sentence, that is. He goes with, "I'm sorry, I can do better."
Matt sighs, exhaustion sweeping through his features. He's patching him up with gauze and anti-scarring cream, his touch almost maternal in an odd way. "I know you are, and I know you can," His hand lingers on Dex's bicep, not gripping but touching, feeling him out. "Prove it, don't voice it when you know you can't make it sound like you mean it."
Dex nods, aware that Matt knows he's nodding. It's his turn to fix up his Devil, which he does with steady, military-trained hands, expertise earned from years and years of patching wounds with whatever was at hand.
They take individual showers, because they're tired and the bathroom is tiny. Fresh underwear awaits for Matt by the time he's done, having been the last one to shower because Dex needs his stream boiling hot or else he can't sleep. Painkillers and non-legally acquired anti-psychotics are swallowed down with a lukewarm orange Gatorade, Dex's bed is worn, a raunchy mattress he'd gotten for cheap that's sunk with the weight of his body and spine. Matt doesn't seem to care, and if he does then he doesn't say anything. Rest over comfort is what they go for, there'll be time for silk and feathers later.
Summer hasn't kicked in yet, Dex runs cold and sweaty at the same time. The adamantium chills him to his core, has him shivering under the soft kiss of the sheets.
He's coming down from the high, he realizes. His temple is damp, his breathing uneven, ragged—He claws at the pillow, seeking for a semblance of stillness, of something solid. Everything crumbles under him, the world tilts on its axis as he pictures Matt's brains painting the floor of a rotting warehouse, both pleasure and grief strike him at the same time. He wonders if he'd find it relieving, if it'd mark as his final attempt to steady himself, to follow North with a purpose. It's something he's fantasized about in the past, but if Matt has to go then it'll be done by his own hand, under his own terms. No AVTF sucker will take him. Wilson Fisk won't touch him. There'll be no one between Matt's demise and Dex's hand, he's sure of it.
His thoughts must be loud, his heartbeat louder; Matt's hand lands on top of his chest, anchoring him back to earth, allowing him to breathe.
"That's it," Matt's tone is commanding, pulling him up to the surface. "Breathe with me, sweetheart. Like that, easy."
Dex's shaking hand finds Matt's, he attempts at intertwining their fingers, the tenderness of the touch proving too much. He lets out a sob he didn't know he was holding, gets closer, tries to bury himself into Matt's ribs.
A hand in the back of his neck grounds him, like it did that afternoon at Rikers, this time his face doesn't meet the unforgiving metal of a table but rather the softness of Matt's chest, of his hair and his common-soap scented skin. He times his breathing with Matt's, following the pattern of his lungs, stuffy breath dampening the spot where he's pressed against. His inner walls are closing in, panic rises like bile and he can taste the bitterness in the back of his throat, raw and unwanted.
Matt presses a kiss to the crown of his head, then down his temple and scarred cheek—It feels like a claim, reminding Dex of how Matt holds the knife and he's merely dancing on the edge. His body sometimes shakes awake with the memory of hitting the cold ground, lungs shattered and ribs puncturing wounds inside him, blood spilling out of him like a river. He remembers knowing he was dying but never feeling so alive all at the same time, and some sickening part of him was glad that it was Matt. It almost felt like a gentle let down, considering what he'd done; what he took away from him.
Their lips find their way to each other's, which is something that's been happening often. Dex is used to the scramble of clothes and hands, he's familiar with rough hands shoved down the front of his cargos, of teeth too close to his jugular.
Kissing is another type of intimacy that makes him feel, somehow, even more inhuman.
Matt's a good kisser, a great kisser, in fact. He knows just how to unravel someone with a kiss, his lips plump and trained with the expertise of someone who knows how to work their own powers of seduction, wielding them as weapons. Dex knows the kiss isn't even sensual, not in the way he wants it to be, but a soft moans abandons him anyway. The sudden closeness has him reeling, ears singing loud enough to make his head hurt as he pushes his way further into Matt's space. They're two grown, quite athletic men, and the bed isn't big enough. Hell, the world itself isn't big enough.
"Dex," Matt's voice is a pleasant hum against his skin. "Relax, let's take it slow."
"I can't do slow," Dex whines, hating himself for sounding like that; like a kid weeping over spilled milk. "You know this."
"You have to, sweetheart. You said you'd be good for me."
Dex did say that, promised it in between breathy moans under the gleaming moonlight months ago. His lip split open, blood pouring into Matt's mouth as he rode him against a brick wall that reeked. They didn't kiss back then, only breathed oxygen into each other's lungs, but Matt's fist against his face had felt like a kiss, like gentleness.
"I can be good," Dex mutters. "I'll be good."
"I know," Matt coos at him, smoothing a hand up his bruised side, over his aching ribs. "You're my good boy, Dex. I'm not mad at you."
Those words bring a lust-filled kind of relief, which is an odd sensation, unexplainable. Dex's briefs are damp and sticky, his own slick seeping through the thin, cheap fabric and coating the inner side of his thighs. Matt pushes himself up on his hands, supporting his weight and crawling on top of Dex, towering over him.
The kisses begin at his collarbone, where he's bruised and torn, going lower and lower until the chapped lips meet the jagged scars beneath his pecs—A surgery done in a frenzy, in a hurried panic before leaving for boot camp. Forged papers and made up stories about his old life, all of it held behind the sealed memories inside his skin. Dex used to hate the look of them, now they just look normal in comparison to the scar on his back, definitely more natural than the poorly healed one in his cheek. His hands find Matt's hair, pulling at the soft brown locks, not roughly nor kindly—A touch that serves as a reminder, instead.
He's wet beyond comprehension. The first time it'd been weird—Years went by without any sort of sexual experience and he'd been fine, totally okay without it, the mere thought scared him.
But then… Matt happened. At first his lust was incomprehensible, something so alien and unfamiliar that it'd thrown him for a loop. Dex remembers googling his reactions as if they were symptoms, expecting WebMD to diagnose him with something terminal but instead finding out that he was, in fact, horny. It wasn't like he'd never experienced attraction, but a lot of the times it happened it just never turned out normal, not like in the movies or how other people spoke of their experiences. Dex longed to feel human, to feel like just another member of a crumbling civilization, so his attempts at feeling close to others were often mistaken for predatory behavior. This kind of attraction was new; strong, raw, alive.
It didn't help that it was so wrong, that it circled back to being right. Their first time together was violent and dirty, with Matt spilling inside him despite his mournful sounds.
Dex hadn't confessed that he was a virgin until Matt brought the whole thing up a few nights after. Matt, in his best choir boy behavior, had felt scandalized—Dex didn't get it. He didn't feel unclean or tainted, given that he'd been born feeling that way. Maybe it was the Catholicism and his weird attachment to the scriptures, but Matt apologized for having taken his virginity like that, his guilt remained despite Dex insisting that he'd liked it. Dex remembers the sudden hitch in Matt's breath when he suggested he could forgive him if he ate him out, right then and there; Matt had thanked him for his forgiveness with a mouthful of pussy, Dex can't forget that. He doesn't want to forget that.
"Matt, can you—,"
"Shh," Matt shushes him, the bastard. He's sporting a cocky grin, as if amused by how frustrated Dex is at the moment. "I'm getting there."
"Can't you get there faster." Dex groans, legs kicking under him.
He chokes on his own breath as Matt's fingers find the wet spot in between his legs, teasing the ruined fabric with rough finger pads. His back arches, he's still far too sensitive for his own good. A lifetime of being deprived of reverence like this has him hungry in ways he didn't know one could withstand. A mocking laugh has him frowning, almost whining again before Matt finds the elastic band of his briefs, pulling them down his toned legs.
Fingers breach him almost immediately, two in unison. It's far less gentle than the last time, but quite exactly what he needs to make the fog dissipate inside his mind.
Matt's wrist works in a steady rhythm, his body pressed against Dex's, all sweat-slick and bathed in the warm hue of the neon sign's light that creeps in from the sign across the street. He's beautiful, in a way that makes Dex feel short of breath and insecure. A halo forms above his head and he's all pure sin and holiness combined, stretching Dex open with fingers that have touched many bodies, brutalized many on the path to penance. When they're like this there's no clue to where Matt ends and Dex begins, they melt into each other like ice cream over the asphalt, like the wax of church candles.
Matt's thumb traces over his swollen cock, it feels like being kicked on the ribs, like the way it felt to hit the concrete at full speed. Dex jolts, a noise dies in the back of his throat.
"Fuck," He croaks, broken, already feeling like crying. "Don't stop."
"Don't cum, you know you can't until I say so."
He knows, dammit. He's been taught like a dog to follow every step, every rule—Even here, at his lowest and most vulnerable, he's still wrapped around Matt's leash.
"Put your fingers back on my—Yeah, fuck. That's it."
"There?" Matt asks, rubbing Dex's cock again and again, stimulating him until there are fat tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. "That feel good, Dex?"
"Uh-huh," Dex nods, drool spilling out of his mouth. "G—good, Matt."
"You're opening up so well for me, sweetheart. Look at you, such a good boy."
"For you."
"For me, yes," Matt's amused tone, combined with the rough drawl of his accent, makes Dex feel like he's stepping over a minefield. It doesn't help the coil burning in his stomach, how tight his muscles feel as he grows close to his climax. "Let me hear you."
Dex lets the sounds spill out of him, unforgiving towards his neighbors, who are used to the disruption anyways. He grips the pillow once again, fingers tensing around the ironed cover. He's rolling his hips in tandem with Matt's movements, practically riding his fingers, allowing himself to feel to the extremes.
And God, he's almost there—Dex can taste the orgasm in the back of his throat, building up, burning him from the inside out.
Matt, much to perceptive and smart for his own good, can sense it too. He stops touching Dex's cock, pulls his fingers out of him cruelly, disregarding the whine Dex gives when this happens. His orgasm dies down, fading unpleasantly and allowing for the droning to return, his skin is clammy and sweaty. He's all stiff, shoulders pressed inwards and chest hollowed by anger—His cunt soaked, empty, pulsing around nothing. Dex wants to punch Matt, wants the blood to serve as an apology, but he's stuck to the sheets and the mattress.
He watches Matt shed his briefs, tossing them aside. His cock sits stiff and reddened already, Dex remembers having it in his mouth for the first time; the weird sensation of skin against his tongue, how he'd learned he didn't enjoy that part of sex very much. Matt doesn't complain, sometimes Dex will cave in and give him a blowjob, though. Maybe during their most exhausted moments, when he can tell Matt needs to wind down from the anxiety that the job brings—He'll get on his knees like a sinner, look up at Matt through clouded eyes and swallow him down until Matt's shivering and spilling down his throat.
Now, though, he watches as Matt strokes himself; sharp, practiced. Movements too precise. He's got the ease of a fighter flowing through his every limb, he takes advantage of it.
"Don't tell me you're crying."
Dex isn't, or maybe he is. He's not sure. His mind is a plate of scrambled eggs over a bed of sexual frustration, and normal frustration too. "Fuck you."
"You know it'll feel good when I let you cum," Matt grabs his jaw, fingers padding against bruised skin. "Have I ever let you down?"
Dex grins, all manic and twisted. "Once. Off a roof."
"Funny."
Matt's cock is big, thick. Dex won't deny that it's a delight to stare at, to touch, but feeling it inside is a whole other thing—The first push feels like punishment, like being slit open with a dull blade. His body is still getting used to these activities, so he's not caught up on the whole idea of not feeling any pain yet. But pain's good, familiar, something he can find comfort in and ignore the foreign.
His cunt stretches around the length, legs pulled around Matt's waist as he holds him in place, keeping him in between his thighs. Dex feels the cold press of Matt's cross against his skin, he thinks about choking him with it.
"Th—The AVTF officer," Dex exhales, words dying on his tongue as Matt pushes further into him. "I'm glad he'll never walk again."
Matt gasps, his hands tightening around Dex's middle. "There's other ways to instill fear."
"Yeah? You think so? Should've I crippled his wife, instead? That was a nice ring he had."
"Dex," There's an edge of warning to Matt's tone. "Stop talking."
"I, fuck, I follow your every order," Dex gasps as Matt bottoms out inside him, legs tightening around that narrow waist. "I slip up once—You're acting like I fuckin' killed the guy, when I should've. He pointed a gun at you, for fuck's sake."
"I wasn't going to get hurt."
"You keep saying that."
"And I keep being right," Matt groans, lowering himself until his lip are grazing Dex's, warm and swollen. "Don't you trust me?"
Dex scoffs. "Do you trust me?"
"I know I shouldn't," Matt whispers, soft, like he's performing open-heart surgery on himself. "But I do."
Matt's thrusts begin as shallow, senseless movements. He's tired, worn out by the day's work, but he moves with a purpose. Dex finds his tongue getting heavy, mouth dry. Pleasure blinds him, mixing in with the flaring pain that blooms across his spine. It's delicious, rewiring his brain in the best way possible, unlike the meds, unlike the shocks.
Slick sounds mix in with the loudness of skin slapping as Matt picks up the pace, echoing off the empty walls. Dex's cunt is wet, stretched open around Matt's cock, leaking over the sheets and making the lawyer gasp for air with every thrust into that sweet spot that makes Dex clench around him like a vice. The bed rattles with their movements, bodies far too large for it to withstand the pressure, and Dex thinks he'll invest in a headboard because Matt looks desperate for something to hold onto that he can't bruise. Though, he does love the bruising, staring at the green-yellow patches of skin in the morning makes him feel at ease, a reminder that he's wanted, desired.
Matt kisses him again and it's all teeth and saliva, an animalistic ritual. Dex tries to reciprocate but he's lost, mouth busy with the sounds that escape him.
Delirium catches up to him quite quickly, the orgasm he'd been deprived of earlier comes back with a punch. His nerve endings are alight, toes curling as Matt pile-drives his cock into Dex's body like he was born to do so. Their combined sounds make music, pornographic and lustful, but it's quite the melody to focus on. Dex clings to Matt's shoulders, nails raking down his back, drawing blood. Every thrust feels like a prayer, like the way the world spins when Matt sees him beyond the simplicity of sight. It's maddening, something Dex knows he doesn't deserve but his selfish, careless nature won't let him think about that too much. What matters is that he wants it.
"Matthew—,"
His voice breaks, Matt's hand on his cock, his thumb tracing the growth and jerking it like he does with his own. It's all too much, not enough. Never enough, and somehow always what he needs.
"Hold it."
Dex nods at the command, like he would've done had his drill Sargent been speaking to him, like he did with Mercer as a child whenever she'd tell him to try and be better.
He holds it, wills his body to relax as Matt keeps on fucking him like this is the last chance he gets. Maybe it is. Maybe in the morning he'll be gone and it will all be a bitter dream, yet another failed attempt to focus in on a North Star, and Dex will be alone again. But that's not like Matt, even though Dex deserves the abandonment, the cruelty—He won't give him the satisfaction of being proved right. Matt won't leave, and Dex isn't sure that's more comforting that knowing the opposite.
"Together," Matt breathes into his mouth, noses bumping, lips clumsy. "Now, Dex."
"Shit," Dex cries out, head tossed back, eyes rolling to the back of his skull as he lets go. "Matt, Matt."
"There you go, sweetheart. Cum for me."
Dex's ears ring, his vision swims. His cunt spasms, clenching around Matt's cock as he releases that tension he'd been holding inside. It's everywhere; in between his legs, staining Matt's lower stomach and his own, too. His body shivers and seizes, going slack against the rough sheets. Matt holds him through it, soothes him with words that sound far away, as if they were underwater.
Matt follows suit mere seconds later, his warm, plentiful seed filling Dex up. He doesn't pull out until the last drop is inside Dex, staking his claim over the marksman.
Everything hurts in a delightful way. Dex drifts in between a state of consciousness and unconsciousness as he's cleaned up by Matt's helping hands, a warm towel pressed to his clammy skin. He'd complain about the soiled sheets if he had the energy, but he knows in the morning he'll be horrified that he let himself sleep over dried cum and squirt. Matt pulls him close as he returns to the bed, arms wrapping around his middle, forgetting Dex's a grown man who doesn't need to be spooned—He's glad about that. He shrinks against Matt, hooks their fingers together over his chest and pretends he doesn't hear the silent prayers, pretends the cross doesn't burn so slightly against his skin.
He's drifting off, washed away by the current. Matt's voice is faint, distant, "I know you can be saved." He says to no one and everyone—to Dex.
Dex doesn't wanna break his heart, so he lets the darkness take him. Second chances are for those who've earned them, and Dex has ran out of golden tickets to forgiveness. Matt doesn't have to accept it, that's fine. He'll accept it for the two of them. He'll be the bearer of the burden, the one bathed in sin. Matt will keep clean, holy. Be what this city needs, be what Dex will battle against until the end.