trustinthedevil | (no subject)

Frank shakes his head, washing off the plates and then looking for a container to stash the leftovers in before he starts to scrub the pot and the pan. Matt's fridge, at least, is looking less depressing these days. Matt himself is looking a little less depressing these days.

Frank probably is too.

Devildog noses up to Matt, snuffling at his papers as soon as he settles onto the couch. Frank suppresses a smile at that. "Don't see why it's on you to make other shitheads comfortable."

Matt gives the dog a fond pat on the head before softly nudging him away. Cuddles can happen later. Probably sooner than later.

"I want people to feel comfortable around me. It's distracting if they're not. Hearts beating fast, frantic breathing, an offputting scent of perspiration. When I put on the suit and the mask, when I'm the devil, I like that. I need that. But when I'm me it's ... Nice to just talk to someone." He almost sounds apologetic, like he's sorry he's not going to ever have Frank's carelessness or Karen's ability to win everyone over or Foggy's strange but natural charm.

Frank's nose wrinkles, clearly not mollified by the not-quite-there apology. "Those kinda people really worth talking to?" That's probably a bit of a harsh way of looking at it, but Frank has never been big on giving anybody the benefit of the doubt. Not even before... everything. There's people worth hearing out, obviously, but having done some traveling and getting to know folks from all walks of life, Frank is pretty secure in his conclusion that those kinds of people aren't in the majority.

And life is too short to waste that kind of time on anybody else, he feels.

But that's getting off point. He sniffs, and gets back to scrubbing. "It don't fucking bother me."

"I know it doesn't."

Matt's lips curl up into a small smile. It's nice, having someone he can just be himself around - whether that self is Matt or Daredevil. It's nice to have someone around who understands. Leaning his head against the back if the couch, Matt raises his eyebrows.

"Are you trying to tell me you'd like me not to wear them right now?"

Frank is about to say do whatever you want, but he figures if he's always making Matt come out and say shit he should probably nut up and offer the same in return. "Yeah," he shrugs, not sounding particularly sheepish, but he still hasn't turned around from scrubbing a completely clean pan either. "They really get in the way of my giant nose, you know?"

Matt's grinning. It's hard for him to not be delighted by that, and for more reasons than just the promise of more kissing. He takes the glasses off, setting them on the coffee table. And he sets his papers next to them, who is he kidding, after all.

"It's not my fault your nose is so beat up." Not really. Maybe he's contributed. "I bet it suits you."

Frank snorts, but it's not like he has any grounds on which to stand and argue, either. He was starting shit and getting his nose punched in looong before Matt ever came flying into his life boot first while he was trying to snipe (rude.)

"That an insult or a compliment?" he wonders, finally turning off the sink and drying his hands with a dish towel.

Edited (phone tagging is the devil) 2016-06-13 10:58 (UTC)

"Right now? Compliment."

Seeing Matt's vacant lap, Devildog sets his head there for pets, which Matt happily gives. This, he thinks, is a good moment. Easy and domestic. A part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Frank has done all the bustling around the kitchen that he can manage before it starts feeling absolutely ridiculous, and he circles around the couch, nudging the dog's butt out of the way with his knee. He settles on the cushion next to Matt instead of the one at the other end of the couch, scratching idly at the dog's flank.

He busies himself studiously watching Devildog's short fur part under his blunt fingernails, instead of braving a look at Red. "You know I haven't, uh—done this in awhile, yeah?" Long time. Hasn't even really had the urge, until... well.

It's those dopey, full-face smiles, and the way he looks with blood on his mouth, and the fact that he brought Devildog back. He's the most frustrating person Frank knows. He's also the only part of any day that Frank looks forward to anymore.

Matt listens. He hears the moment where Frank gives up, listens to his footsteps. He feels the shift in the couch when Frank sits and there's a strong scent of dish soap clinging to him. Matt laughs and shrugs a shoulder.

"I don't exactly have a great track record," he says. Not that Frank knows. "What I mean is, I'm not ... Expecting anything. There's no rush." Because Matt can't understand what it's like to be Frank Castle. This whole thing they're starting is the strangest thing Matt's ever done, made even more strange by how natural the progression feels.

"It's fine, Frank."

"Just before you're forty, huh?" He sounds amused as he sinks into the couch cushions more fully, the side of his thigh pressing against Matt's. The loud, thwacking rhythm of Devildog's tail striking the coffee table as it wags incessantly is strangely relaxing.

He finally turns his head to look at Matt, and on impulse, reaches up to run his thumb lightly over his cheekbone, just beneath one of his bared eyes. He hadn't looked that closely before, though he'd seen Matt without the mask or glasses before. They're brown, but a light sort of brown. Almost hazel, though they're not quite there yet. Frank's lips twitch of their own volition as he remembers another text they'd shared, not too long ago. "In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes?" Language don't get much more poetic than William Blake, motherfucker. "On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire?"

"To be fair, that's a ten year wait."

Matt smiles, then lets out a surprised laugh. Frank wasn't wrong, he has a knack for poetry. Matt can tell, used to listening to the inflections in a persons voice. And the words seem almost extra decadent coming from Frank's velvet-and-handcuffs voice. He reaches up to touch his fingers to the hand in his cheek.

"You know," he teases, gently, "you've already won me over."

"That a fact?" Frank grins, sounding more or less impossibly self-satisfied over Matt's response. The Tyger has always been his favorite, and yeah he's got most of his favorite poetry memorized, wanna fight about it?

He slides his hand further back, under the light touch of Matt's fingertips, using his palm to cup his stubbled jaw and draw him closer. Just a few inches. "Well, I like to be thorough," he says, lowly, the heat of intent warming his harsh voice up.

Warm, yes, but dangerous. Dangerous because Matt can probably list ten ways this is all terrible for him without trying, dangerous because when Frank talks like that, it reminds Matt of Elektra. Familiar and exciting all at once. It makes Matt's stomach drop and he leans in easily at Frank's guidance.

Too easily, maybe. It takes a lot for Matt not to unfold his legs and climb into Frank's space.

"I can appreciate that." Matt feels like his own voice is too harsh now, in comparison with smoothness settling into Frank's. He swallows, trying not to be too obvious about it. "I do appreciate that."

Frank hums instead of answering with words and closes the rest of the short distance between them himself, his lips catching the corner of Matt's mouth before he slides them both into better alignment by tilting his head again and slipping his fingers up into Matt's hair. This time instead of going still, his lips part and he snags Matt's bottom lip between his teeth, exerting almost no pressure but giving it a gentle tug to see if the devil opens up for more.

It's strange, learning what someone new likes after all this time. Strange—but not in a bad way, despite... everything. It's almost nice, having something new and (mostly) non-violent to explore.

Frank's efforts earn him a soft noise, and Matt parts his lips, ready to be thoroughly explored. His brain kicks into gear, a hand pressing to Frank's chest while Matt uncrosses his legs. In one fluid motion he presses Frank down toward the arm of the couch and crowds into his space.

Frank lets himself be pushed, reaching up with his free hand to make sure Matt follows by wrapping it around one side of his hip. Turns out, he doesn't need to go that far: Matt is eager enough on his own to make Frank smirk against his mouth before licking into it. His hand slides down further, and he gives Matt's thigh a gentle tug, trying to encourage to throw it over Frank's lap and straddle him. Because of course he would.

Maybe this might be considered rushing, but they're due for a little tension release, aren't they? Some heavy kissing never hurt anyway, especially when it came to two men who were trained in the art of emotional avoidance. Though now Matt's got this option, he's not sure he's going to want to go back to being without it.

He hums at the touches, feeling tingles followed by lingering warmth. And Matt takes the hint. Hands braced against Frank's broad chest, Matt sits across Frank's thighs, leaning over to draw the kiss out until the very last moment before he needs a breath.

"I think I need to change it from forty to thirty-one."

Frank laughs, but he's easily just as breathless as Matt and he can feel his heart thundering against his ribcage. He figures it must be as loud as a drum to the devil.

But it feels good. Good and easy and the warmth of someone's weight pressing against him in a way he didn't think he'd ever have again. He didn't think he'd ever want to have it again, but here he is. His hands wander idly up and down Matt's sides, over the thin fabric of his tshirt: he's all hard, compact muscle, which helps. Everything feels different than it used to, including the beard burn which he certainly never got while kissing his wife.

He rubs at his chin and jaw. "You angling for birthday sex, Red?"

"Who isn't?"

Matt laughs again, sitting back. His fingers flex against Frank's chest, plucking at the fabric that's stretched across it. He likes the feeling of Frank's hands on him, likes the sound of Frank's heartbeat and the way it beats off time with Matt's own. He follows Frank's hand, letting his fingers touch where Frank touches before taking his hand back.

"Or this. This is pretty good."

"Guess I haven't completely lost it," Frank murmurs, settling his weight a little bit bonelessly back into the armrest. He's trying not to smile stupidly at nothing, but he's pretty sure his efforts are in vain, so he drops his hands into Matt's lap, fingers curled loosely against his palms.

He knows that getting used to this is a bad idea. He's not sure he can stop it, either way. "Before you're thirty-one, huh. I can do that." Probably won't be nearly that long. Frank's always been a go-getter, after all.

Matt's grinning stupidly at nothing, too. The whole thing is ridiculous - here, straddling Frank on his couch, making out like it's going out of style. Matt definitely never saw this coming. All the same, he likes it, too. He leans back down to press another kiss to Frank's lips, but pauses, hearing something several blocks away. Too far probably for Frank to hear the gunshots.

Matt's expression changes quickly. His smile turns into a frown, eyebrows creasing. "I have to go."

Frank doesn't hear anything, which is why he just stares up at Matt in mute confusion for a good few seconds. It's not often anything can actually render him speechless, even if he doesn't make an effort to talk all that much anymore.

"I—what?"

Matt can't see Frank, but he thinks he can hear the gears start and stop. He huffs out a laugh and presses a kiss to the corner of Frank's mouth (because he misses his lips by accident), and steps on to the floor.

"Duty calls." And there's a hint of regret in Matt's voice. This is why he can't make anything last, but, well. Frank understands, right? Matt's pulled the trunk out of it's spot and he takes the suit out, working on changing from Matt Murdock to Daredevil. "Sounds like armed robbery. Won't take long."

Frank thinks about waiting up, but honestly there's not really much of a point to it and he's been up for just under 30 hours already, having just concluded the sort of shady business he has no plans to tell Matt about, probably ever. It's not like he's not perfectly able and willing to stay awake longer (especially not with a brand new Keurig calling his name from the kitchen), it's just that there's no incentive to with Matt off in his devil themed jammies, beating people up like they're bullies on a playground.

Humph.

After just long enough sitting on the couch staring at the vacated door like an idiot, Frank decides fuck it, raids Matt's dresser for pants to sleep in, and crawls into his bed.

When Matt gets back Devildog greets him enthusiastically at the door, but Frank has passed out under his covers, a pistol and one hand tucked beneath the pillow, dead to the world.