trustinthedevil | (no subject)

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.

Okay, so it takes longer than Matt thought. He kept finding new things and he couldn't just go home. No matter how much he wanted to crawl back into Frank's lap. Frank probably was past the mood, anyway. But he's still in the apartment - if Devildog weren't the give away, Matt can hear Frank's steady breathing. He moves quietly, petting the dog and peeling off the layers of costume. The clothes he was wearing earlier are where he left them, and once he puts those on, he creeps into the bed. A moment of hesitation and then Matt shimmies himself closer, cozying up to Frank's back. The feeling of bare skin both delights and embarrasses Matt, but it's warm and instantly relaxing.

He hopes he's allowed to cuddle without permission.

Frank doesn't actually wake up—he had to learn to sleep through mortar rounds overseas or he'd never have gotten through a night, so he's not going to spring back into consciousness for Matt tip-toeing through his apartment—but somewhere through the night he turns over onto his back and finds a way to snake his arm under the devil.

He finally peels his eyes open some time just slightly after dawn, with his mouth pressed against Matt's hair and his hand (the one that had been curled around the pistol at the start of the night) tucked up under his flimsy tshirt, knuckles pressed the bare skin of his side.

It takes him a moment to reorient himself with the real world. To remember where he is and how he got there, and after a few split seconds of tenseness he relaxes carefully back into the smooth silk sheets.

He sniffs, slowly retracting his arm, jostling Matt awake in the process if he wasn't already. "Mornin', Red."

Mstt's had Frank over enough know to start learning Frank's sleeping habits. He knows that, when Frank wants to sleep, really sleep, he's out. But he knows, too, that Frank is certainly capable of resting enough to carry on and spring into action if needed. Sometimes it's hard to tell what, exactly, Frank is doing in the moment.

But it doesn't take long for Frank's easy breathing and heartbeat to lull Matt into sleep. He can sleep pretty well, too, when he wants to. When he lets himself let go of the day (and when he makes his way to bed as opposed to the couch). So the jostling is moderately unpleasant as sleep clings desperately to Matt while his brain whirs into something resembling consciousness, and his hand reaches over to slap the clock so it can speak the time to him.

"It's. Five," Matt vocalizes. Barely. It's five in the morning and Frank is moving away and Matt feels bristly at that. He rolls over, to settle more firmly into the pillows. His mouth feels dry and he licks his lips, tasting dried blood from last night's outing. Maybe he should've showered. Maybe he can shower at a more reasonable time of day.

"Uh huh," Frank says, thickly, like it's a perfectly reasonable time to be up and about. "Sun's up." He runs a hand over his face and sits up so he can swing his legs over the other side of the bed, hauling most of the blanket down and away from Matt in the process.

Oops.

Frank finally glances over, taking in the state of him. Shit. "You look awful." That's definitely a lie, but he does look like he had a rough night.

"You're an asshole."

His words are hardly words. It's more a string of syllables with something like vowels connecting them. He's more coherent when he's on death's door, as evidenced when he groans at the loss of both Frank and blankets.

Rolling over, Matt reaches for Frank, catching him in the abdomen to try and push him down. Back to bed. Back to coziness and sleep. "It's five in the morning, Frank."

Frank lets himself get pulled back, mostly just because he's too surprised that Matt was even conscious enough to lift his arms up and apply some close approximation of force. He shifts to avoid laying entirely on top of the devil.

He's really starting to regret not taking one of Matt's shirts, now that he's been stopped from moving to the shower or the kitchen for a cup of hot coffee. The air is cool on his skin, and Matt's arms are very warm.

Yep. He's fucked. "Don't you have work, or some shit?"

"Self employed."

Matt rests his head on Frank's shoulder, feeling a bit smug. That's what happens, Frank, when you wake up a sleeping devil in its natural habitat. You become trapped by its wrath. It's sleepy, cuddly wrath.

"Meeting a client this afternoon. A paying client." Important, that bit. He huffs out a breath. "I need a better office."

"You need a better job," Frank mutters, dryly. He'll never be sold on the nobility of protecting shitbags, whether with fists or the law. And Matt can argue about innocence all he wants, but he'd tried to defend Grotto and he'd tried to defend Frank: they'd both been guilty as sin.

So.

"Maybe I got shit to do," he tacks on, a smidgen unconvincingly. Maybe four hours of sleep after the last two days he'd had isn't entirely enough...

"Nobody has shit to do this early."

Not everyone Matt defends is bad. Hes still thinks, sometimes, about Mrs. Cardenas and how he couldn't help her. Those are the people he wants to help. They need his help. He exhales through his nose, because now he's thinking about it, and he rolls away from Frank. Let him get up and do his shit.

"If you can try to be quiet, that'd be nice."