Archive of Our Own

"Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's 
the desire to put it inside us, and then the question
behind every question: What happens next?"

- Richard Siken, from “Snow And Dirty Rain”

Frank Castle has begun his rut, and Matt Murdock might be the only other person in Hell’s Kitchen who knows it.

Frank’s scent hits him as he and Foggy are walking into their usual bagel place. It’s in the midst of a rare, good kind of sensory onslaught, baking bread and toasting sesame seeds, cinnamon and cream cheese and thawing blueberries fresh from the freezer. Then, beneath the broader food scents, the sharpness of chemical cleaning agents, then the humans wiping them into the counter. These are the things he’s used to, things he expects, so it catches him off-guard when something different but familiar catches on his pallet.

They move deeper into the shop and Matt draws his eyebrows together. At the moment they’re fourth in line, and it gives Matt a chance to follow the wisp of a scent until he can place it. Details fall into place as he passes a cloistered booth towards the back and the scent grows stronger; leather, coffee, the cloying reek of The Punisher’s favorite gun solvent. The booth’s empty now, but it hasn’t been that way for long.

And that’s something interesting, notable. It’s not unusual for Frank to find his way back to The Kitchen now and again. And considering Matt had spent the previous night patrolling his streets and heard nothing of a violent, macabre rampage, this doesn’t have to lead to trouble. He’s not opposed to them crossing paths, preferably without any ensuing violence, so Matt files this away in his rolodex of thoughts and moves on to their bagel orders (asiago-jalapeno for Foggy, cinnamon-raisin for Karen, salt-and-poppy for himself). And it’s not until he’s passing back by the booth on the way out that he catches the last traces of something else.

He hesitates for a moment, giving his senses a beat to make sure that’s what they’re telling him. But now that he’s picked up the trace of it, it’s undeniable. It won’t be another day before Frank’s body is emitting come-fuck-this hormones like an oil diffuser, while his insides produce enough testosterone to rival that of a grizzly bear. It’s a song and dance Matt knows well, one he’s participated in many times before, and it’s his familiarity with the rutting process that makes Matt suddenly much more interested in what Frank thinks he’s doing in his city.

“Everything okay, buddy?” Foggy asks, a step half-taken with Matt still holding on to his arm. Matt wants to tell him that that’s become a much more complicated question than he was anticipating, but definitely not here in a stuffy, crowded brunch shop.

“Yeah,” he says instead, falling back into step as they head into the thrum of the city. “Just remembered another errand I need to run.”

For the rest of the day, Matt’s thoughts find their way back to Frank far more than he’d like them to. He’s got no problem with other alphas roaming for prospects in his city, but Frank Castle isn’t just an alpha. The man’s a walking morgue, his thoughts and efforts so unyieldingly haunted by loss and grief- of those he loved, of those created out of that love- that Matt can’t imagine this is an easy or time for him.  And Matt’s heart breaks for him, true, but it’s not Frank’s loneliness that’s got him tense and impatient. 

Frank is a dangerous man on a good day, and unapologetically so. This is difficult enough when his mind is in a state that they’re both used to, following lines of logic they both understand, even if they don’t agree. But thoughts of Frank on a testosterone-driven, guilt-fed, body-hungry rampage plague Matt for the rest of the afternoon. By the time he’s packing up for the day he’s convinced himself he’ll be seeking out the vigilante to have a talk . At least try to test the waters before he declares Frank a danger to The Kitchen, and does whatever is necessary to remove him.

And when that doesn’t work out, because this is Frank Castle, the marine who does what he wants and achieves his goals by any means necessary, Matt will be more than happy to convince him by force. (This thought comes to him several times over the course of the day. By the end of it, Matt’s begun crossing and uncrossing his legs in frustration. Distracting, but that will have to wait. His city could be in danger.)

Hell’s Kitchen is not necessarily a large city, and it probably could have occurred to Matt sooner that The Punisher might have been just passing through. He’s out among the rooftops when he thinks of this, and almost botches a rolling landing as it hits him. He’d caught a single whiff of Frank and it had derailed his entire day, possibly for nothing. 

That this could be a false alarm should be a comfort. One less fight to have, however many less wounds to dress. But as Matt paces the outlines of his home, the thought that he might not find Frank tonight only frustrates him more and more. Atop the roof that houses the bagel shop from this morning, Matt finds himself panting hard and cocking his head harder, straining for any trace of the man’s war-drum heartbeat, that chalky gunpowder scent that sticks in Matt’s nasal passages and the back of his throat.

Hey, why is he doing this?

The question breaking through in Matt’s mind feels like coming up for a fresh breath of air from under deep water. He’s suddenly so much more aware of the night around him, the breeze cool on his skin, traffic humming below. Drops of sweat are rolling down his chin in quick succession and his mouth is sandpaper-dry, and most worryingly he can not stop getting hard .

It occurs to Matt then that maybe catching wind of Frank’s rut hadn’t just made him worried or suspicious. Maybe there’d been another effect that had so-suddenly attached the man’s scent to his brain, that brought about memories of rock-hard muscle and hot skin. He runs down the checklist in his mind and it’s laughable how obvious it should have been, the aggression, the obsession, the territorial edge to it all.

Matt pulls himself closer to the center of the roof, yanking off his helmet for a reprieve from the heat that’s just rushed to his head. This can’t be good. It’s not unheard of for one alpha’s rut to jumpstart another, but for it to be triggered by scent alone? Matt supposes if there’s a person alive with a nose sensitive enough for this to happen it would be him, but then why hasn’t it happened before? And why had Castle been the one to do this to him?

Don’t answer that. Is the response from the lawyer in Matt’s mind. This is this well-trod ground here, that dizzying, heady mix of disgust and pity, respect and compassion that falls over him whenever he thinks of Frank. He’s stuck on the irreconcilability of  those things, and the fact that Matt is drawn towards him anyway. Frank is not the first to find himself a dusty corner of Matt Murdock’s heart, but he is in the space all the same. 

But like so many matters of that heart, these feelings are something he keeps close, for his safety and the safety of those around him. There’s always been this bitter suggestion in the back of his mind when it comes to the two of them, “ How is this a relationship I could make any worse?” But he’s never been keen on finding out. And tonight will be no different, whether Frank shows his face or not.

Matt gets to his feet and fixes the helmet back on, moving across the familiar landscape with sharp precision. If his rut’s starting up, that means he’ll have to reach out to Foggy once he’s closer to home, let him know he’s about to be out of commission. Hopefully he can still forward some audio docs for his more lucid moments, and, shit, his fridge is definitely empty. He’ll have to stock up before his senses go haywire, and being around more than maybe two people sends him into an overstimulated meltdown. Decades of training may have helped Matt hone his everyday skills, but once the pheromone fog rolls in he’s as weak to it as any other man, heightened sensitivities only making it worse.

He’s just about convinced that Frank’s long gone (or he wants it to be that easy so badly that he forces himself to believe it), when the crack of a sniper rifle splits the night air. It’s a powerful sound, one Matt feels down to his teeth, and the source of it is not in doubt for a second. 

He angles his body away from home and towards the sound, straining for any more information as to where the shot had come from. He can tell it was up high, higher than the roof he’s currently sprinting across. Considering the lack of response so far, no civilian screams, no wailing sirens, it had not found its mark.

Matt doesn’t intend to give Frank a second chance.

He slows as he runs out of information to go on, forcing his breathing to steady and for his pulse to calm. Already the chemicals in his head are waking, nipping at his heels and making excellent company with echoes of Stick telling him to do better, be faster, work harder. But Matt blocks them out, loses all thought to the thrum of the city. 

He focuses in where he can; a vendor on the street wishing their customer a good night, a janitor singing along to the voice in his headphones, a drunken conversation among a group of college students. They ground him, bring him back to the here and now. And, present in the here and now, Matt opens his mind to search.

It’s a long shot, New York’s got a thousand heartbeats per square-foot. But if there’s something unique enough about Frank Castle to trigger a brain chemical meltdown, maybe it won’t be too difficult to pick up his presence nearby.

And it takes a moment, longer than Matt likes. But when his brain finally quiets and he’s straining so hard for the sound that he’s beginning to feel it in his eyes , there Frank is. Steady, unmoving, regulated in all the ways that begets the rise of a soldier. Further details are beyond him, but it’s enough to send Matt sprinting in the right direction. 

Matt only slows when he’s within range of Frank picking up on him. He forces his breathing to steady and his feet to land feather-light up the steps of a winding fire escape. Through it all Frank is unmoving, silent. But this close Matt can pick up on the scrape of steel on concrete, the sound of Frank adjusting his barrel micrometers at a time. Best as Matt can tell he’s entirely focused on his mission and Matt makes use of that, slipping silently up the rest of the building, to the roofing atop the exit door.

And there he is, just a few yards away. A solid brick of muscle laid out belly-down across the roof, unmoving if not for the slightest breaths whistling in and out of his nose. Matt had been correct earlier as well, the heady mix of hormonal musk and adrenaline mixing in alongside black coffee and steel. And damn him, damn them both to hell because the smell of it all makes Matt’s mouth water. The Devil never quiets inside him but now he can feel it yanking at its leash, telling him to get down there and put his hands to good use.

And Matt wants to, and he will. But this is a dance that can get violent and dizzying quick, even when Matt’s just at the regular mercy of his baser urges. He takes an extra second to square himself, settle his thoughts and remind himself of his mission. He’s just begun to reach for one of his batons when Frank’s voice rasps out from below.

“Evening, Red.”

The skin on the nape of Matt’s neck goes cold, icy displeasure at being caught, sharp delight that the game has begun. But Frank’s comment catches him off-guard enough that he misses his window for a polite or taunting reply. He hears the soft ch of a laugh between Frank’s teeth, smugness plain.

“All the ninja tricks in the world ain’t gonna help you if you stand downwind. Not on a night like this.”

Matt clenches his jaw, hopping down from the exit but keeping a few yards between him and Frank. The man’s absolutely right, and every part of Matt’s brain knows this. He can practically feel the strike of Stick’s cane behind his knees for letting a detail like that escape him. It occurs to him how much he’s letting himself be steered by something like instinct, just to get closer to a man who could happily kill him.

He shouldn’t have come here. At the first sign of his own rut stirring he should have made a beeline for home. This knowledge is useless to him now.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asks simply, voice no more aggressive than any other rooftop night fight. 

“Just a little bit of cleanup work.” Frank answers nonchalantly, back still turned to him, head never moving from his scope.

“In my city? Is your hindbrain flying the plane right now?”

“Ah,” Frank breathes, unimpressed. “Guy’s technically not in the kitchen, neither will the bullet be when it hits him. Sound fair, counselor?”

The last of Matt’s patience burns away quick. “You want to play semantic games when people’s lives are on the line?” He takes a step forward, pressure building at the base of his skull.

At the sound of Matt’s approach, Frank finally turns. He eases back from the sniper rifle and moves to stand. 

“You just love playing the hits, don’t you, Red?” He sneers.

“As many times as it takes.” 

And then, just like that, his hands are off the reins. 

It doesn’t matter that his first blows land awkward and Frank shrugs them off with little effort. Doesn’t matter that his stance is uneven, that his breathing is out of sync with his movements. Feeling the meat of the man absorbing his blows sends a rush to Matt’s head, made only stronger when Frank swings back, bare-knuckled and wild. It’s freeing, maddening, he wonders why he’s ever doing anything but this.

For a while he’s content to bask in the satisfaction of a fight well-fought. Beating down on informants is fine, but being matched step-for-step stokes the fires inside him scorching hot. It’s not enough to focus on taking Frank down, but also making sure Frank doesn’t get the upper hand. He’s only got a couple inches on Matt, but he uses all he has to try and skirt Matt closer to the roof’s edge. Matt doesn’t allow it, gripping Frank’s shoulders and struggling until Frank’s back is the one that’s turned to the city.

Frank grunts, grabbing tight to Matt’s shoulders while kicking out a leg, trying to take Matt’s out from under him. But everything about Frank had telegraphed this, and Matt holds his ground, using the inertia to yank the man close so when Matt pulls back, Frank’s forehead bounces satisfyingly off of his horns. 

Dangerous to let him get so close, but it’s worth it , he thinks, even after he doesn’t pull back quick enough to avoid Frank’s incoming fist. For the first time that night, the taste of blood blooms across Matt’s tongue.

The dance continues, exchanging blows back and forth until Matt’s lungs are aching and Frank’s breaths are heaving. The air stinks of sweat and it’s making Matt dizzy in ways he hasn’t felt since college. There’s room for nothing else in his head but the battle, but Frank, and it all comes to a head when someone’s balance tips and Frank goes spilling backwards, Matt never losing his grip on the man.

Matt hears Frank’s breath leave his lungs, feels it pushed out as he makes contact with the roof. Frank’s still kicking, his fingernails clawing at Matt’s gloved hand that’s working to pin him to the ground. Matt’s free hand reels back for a strike to match Frank’s own, the feel of bone and cartilage straining under his fist and sending a surge of dopamine straight through his brain. Frank bucks again, swinging to grab at him but misses. A frustrated growl curls out of his chest, and a second later Matt feels a spatter of blood and spit on his chin.

The fire in Matt’s chest flares white-hot, indignant and furiously aroused. All synapses firing at once he reaches down, palm of his glove flat against Frank’s forehead and pushes backwards to expose the length of his throat. Frank’s resisting, but maybe if Matt was thinking clearly he’d notice that the strain is minimal, almost as if Frank is waiting to see what’ll happen next.

And then there are a thousand instincts in Matt’s brain barreling down on a single action; Make this alpha submit, win this brawl, protect your city, and for the love of god taste the sweat on this man’s skin, please. 

Frank’s throat is soft under Matt’s teeth. Matt feels his Adam's apple bob under the weight of a heavy swallow but he’s otherwise still. For a moment Matt’s content to bask in having this menace under control, his own wellbeing held firmly down beneath him. But the time for Matt to release passes, as does the time for Frank to take advantage of this. For a long minute the two of them do nothing but lay still and catch their breath through clenched teeth.

Matt feels Frank’s voice between his incisors, tense, heavy.

“Shit, you too, Red?” And to accentuate his point, a curious roll of his hips upwards into where Matt rests on his lap.

To answer means releasing his grip on the man, but in the span of seconds several factors have shifted. Matt’s body reacts to the minute changes instantly, his hindbrain sparking in delight at the heady mixture of blood and hormones suddenly filling the air. In some ways it’s achingly familiar, in others refreshingly different.

The more rational part of him knows what a dangerous idea this is, how many problematic doors this could open for both parties involved, but right now he doesn’t care. Right now there’s a warm and wanton body beneath him, one that’s already done the hard work of taking up too much space in Matt’s mind, his fantasies, for him to reason his way out of it.

At least, not before he gets off once or twice.

“Yeah,” he pants, unlocking his teeth from Frank’s throat. And then, because his blood is still running hot and they’re already here, he swipes his tongue over the indents there. “Me too.”

“ Shit,” Frank says again, but in a way that sounds like, how about that. His hips hitch up again. Then, “We doing this?”

Matt rocks down to meet the movement, the friction not anything resembling satisfying underneath the suit’s padding. But even the smallest amounts of stimulation are enough to urge him on, to burn off any last good sense in exchange.

“We can do this.” He answers.

He wants his teeth back on Frank, wants to rip off his gloves so he can feel every scrape and divet in the man’s skin. At the same time he doesn’t know at all where to start; so many options laid out in front of him all at once.

But the moment Matt’s mind slips from the fight Frank is back on him, taking advantage of Matt slacking on his waist to twist them, pinning Matt beneath him. Matt seethes as Frank pins his wrists on either side of him and wrenches a knee close to his groin. Frank’s breath is hot and wet and close before he tries his teeth on the skin of Matt’s jaw, the corners of his lips, the tip of his nose. The motions, so unexpectedly sweet , keep Matt still just long enough for Frank to crack his forehead against the exposed skin of Matt’s face.

He catches on then, that just because they’ve begun something new, it doesn’t mean the previous fight is over.

He goes back to struggling, and relishing in the challenge of navigating the thickening haze in his mind. Even a few moments of thinking with his dick had cost him the advantage. Luckily Frank’s not much better off, and any unexpected tender touch seems to do just as much to fry his brain. It adds another layer to the fight, a new strategy for each of them to test out and navigate. 

Eventually they end up not much different than they had started, straddling one another and breathing hard, hands feeling about each other’s shoulders and throats. Strategy blends with friction until it’s just two breathless beings bucking into each other with increasingly erratic rhythm. Matt rolls his hips downwards, wanton yet entirely unwilling to free himself from the confines of his suit, and Frank is much the same underneath him. Matt can’t feel much of Frank’s cock between all the layers, but the air absolutely stinks of sex and desire, and Frank’s slowly traded in angry grunts for needy ones.

Matt’s sure they could come in seconds should either of them want,  if they were to give up on the tussle and take their damn pants off. But that would mean breaking the spell, it would mean yielding in the fight, and that’s about the least attractive thing Matt can imagine.

Instead he settles for ripping his mask off, hissing in relief of cold air on sweat-soaked skin. Frank makes a similar sound, followed by a deep swallow. Matt doesn’t need super-senses to know the man likes what he sees.

He reaches down, centers Frank’s head so it’s pointed right at him. “God, look at what you’ve done to me.”

Frank speaks through an easy smile. “Not my fault you got shit taste.”

Matt answers with a growl, impatience finally getting the best of him as he increases the speed of his hips. He allows himself to lean down, devour the heat of Frank’s mouth, to which the other man responds with the same ferocity he had in the fight. Clacking teeth and bitten lips, Matt swallowing down Frank’s murmurs of all the things he wants to do to him.

Finally Frank’s hips start to stutter, words fumbling into nonsense. His fingers weave tight into Matt’s hair and pull, and the final thread keeping Matt tethered snaps. It’s no mind-blowing orgasm, but it’s a crescendo nonetheless. Matt’s head rolls back and he curls his fists around Frank’s collar as relief washes through his body. He wants more, needs more, but at lest it’s relief.

Underneath him Frank still chases that high, and upon Matt going slack atop him, doubles his efforts. Matt allows himself to be rolled over -what’s one more time- and relishes in the feeling of pure muscle pounding against him. Every needy sound, every desperate gasp washes over him, thrills him in ways he can’t explain with words.

It’s not too much longer until Frank is gasping, moaning out guttural sound as he pumps his hips into Matt’s. Matt holds him through it, nipping curiously at the curve of his throat until Frank shifts away.

And then it’s just the two of them; just a pair bleeding, horny men on a rooftop with cum seeping into their boxers. Then it’s the closest they’ll come to clarity for a while, and it’s time to actually think about what they’re doing.

Shit.

Matt pushes Frank off of him and Frank yields, allowing Matt to put space between them. No words are coming to him, just waves of shame mixing headily with the desire to get back to it.

His head is pounding. His dick is sensitive and uncomfortable and sequelches wetly across his thigh every time he moves. He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have lost sight - ha - of his goals.

“This never happened.” He says finally. He tugs the rough surface of his glove down his face, wicking away perspiration and blood. He’s two steps closer to the building’s edge when Frank speaks.

“You disappear out of my line of sight, then that’s fine with me. But,” Matt pauses, Frank chuckles. “My place is closer. And for a shitty little hole in the wall, the water pressure’s insane.”

Matt turns slowly, brow furrowing. He’d expected The Punisher to feel as good about this as he does, and half the reason he’d sprung away so quickly was to avoid his next goading attack. That Frank’s not beating him into a pulp for messing with his head and his dick is one thing. That he’s trying to keep this going… “What are you saying?”

Frank leans back, his posture easy but his body tense. The line of his shoulders, the soft, repetitive scrape of his trigger finger against his jeans, the tightness of his breath. He’s nervous.

“Well, looks to me like the two of us are in similar predicaments, and we just happened to figure out the same solution. Gotta be honest, Red. A few days of sparring with some intermittent dick-sucking sounds a lot better than beating extra shit out of anyone who gets in my way while I’m trying to knot my hand.”

Matt can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So you’d rather be beating the shit out of me instead?”

“Oh, always.” Frank says. Immediately after Matt hears Frank’s heart stutter, but not in the way that begets a lie. It’s the opposite in fact; a particular jerk that, accompanied by a fresh flush of heat to Frank’s face and a small hiss of breath, tells Matt that Frank had spoken something a little too true.

Something on Matt’s face must change because Frank backpedals fast, suddenly dragging fingernails against the nape of his neck and looking away. “It’s just an offer, alright? Take it or leave it, I don’t care.”

He cares. The animal of his body tells Matt more than he needs to know about what Frank’s thinking, and it’s as intriguing as it is perplexing. 

“What happened to whoever you were after? Why did you even come out here?”

Frank kisses his teeth and jams his hands into the pockets of his coat. For a second Matt thinks he’s going to sidestep the question entirely and call it quits. Then he says, “Wasn’t to fuck you.” Another pause. “Wasn’t to kill anyone either.”

“Then what were you shooting at?”

He shrugs. “Empty lot a few blocks away.”

“You opened fire for no reason?” Matt takes another step forward and the devil surges back to life, eagerly anticipating round two. Matt holds himself back though, urges himself to focus. 

“Relax.” Frank huffs. “Was supposed to meet an informant on neutral ground but they never showed. But by then I’d already gone through the trouble of getting here and I thought…” A tight, terse breath, “Look- er, I mean. Fuck. If I’m in town and I’m about to lose my goddamn mind on anyone who looks at me wrong, and I know a guy who’s damn good with his fists and probably won’t call the cops… Are you feelin’ me, Red?”

Matt crosses his arms, trying to keep the surprise from showing on his face.

“I didn’t know it was your hunter’s moon or I wouldn’t have walked into your city, guns blazing.” Frank continues, “But I think it’s something we can use to our advantage.”

Matt can’t believe this. “It never occurred to you to just, you know, stop by my place?” 

Not that dragging Frank there to patch him up after any number of scrapes constitutes an open invitation, but still.

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

Frank’s tone is warming, and despite himself, Matt feels the same. His blood’s beginning to run hot once more, and his hindbrain can’t figure out why they’re not already tearing each other apart again. He’s still got as many reservations as he does canes stashed away in his closet, but Frank’s not wrong, this is an interesting opportunity.

“What about just tonight?” Matt suggests. “We can see this through, find out where we’re at in the morning.”

Oh, Frank likes that. His heart rate jackrabbits, blood surging hot through his veins.

“Sounds good to me.”

.&

Frank’s holed up in an apartment a block over, and while the the descends the fire escape to make his way there, Matt takes his preferred method of travel; rooftop parkour. The time to himself gives him the opportunity to run through what just happened, as well as a chance to give up on this before things get even more stupid. 

What is he even doing? This, with The Punisher? It’s not unheard of, but there’s inviting a man back to your place to sucher his bicep over shots then parting ways when the air gets too charged, and then there’s kissing him, flirting with lust-dulled senses and not even regretting it. 

For a long minute Matt paces back and forth on the roof of Frank’s building, repeatedly reminding himself that all of this is coming about because of the rut and that’s it. It’s a temporary ceasefire, a mutual scratching of itches they can’t reach on their own. And in about eight hours it will be over, and they’ll never speak of this again. That is the only thing it can be.

Matt tilts his head just right, catching on the steady beats of Frank’s heart below. Hard to tell how he’s feeling from here, but judging by the heartbeat’s wandering pattern, Frank is also having a difficult time sitting still.

Defeated, swallowing down the mouthful of adrenaline that spikes his system as he gets closer, Matt lets himself into Frank’s place through the fire escape window. He knocks first to avoid setting off some defensive response that’s ten times more a Frank thing than an alpha thing, but the other man just stands, unimpressed, in the space.

“Ever hear of a door, Red?”

Matt feels the corners of his mouth turn upwards in a grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He takes another step in, letting his radar senses survey the apartment. Frank takes in a sharp breath as Matt crosses the room, horny or territorial, it’s hard to tell. But he stays still as Matt acquaints himself with the space. 

Frank hadn't been exaggerating when he’d called it both shitty and small. Almost the whole of it is one room, maybe less than half the size of Matt’s living room. In one corner there’s a sink and a buzzing mini-fridge, the other a twin-sized bed and a nightstand. Table and a chair behind him, a pair of doors on the wall.

Matt stands in the center of the room, feeling awkward and out of place. But hell, he’s here now, might as well make himself comfortable. He begins by slowly releasing the clasps on his gloves, enjoying having the full range of dexterity with his fingers once again. Frank watches this for a few seconds before crossing the room and settling his weight on a creaking, uneven mattress. 

While Matt peels off layer after layer of kevlar, Frank unzips his boots and tucks away his guns.

It’s kind of overwhelming, being here. Matt gets the sense this place doesn’t see use often, plenty of dust in the air, stale food in the fridge, but the base scent of this area is still Frank. Frank’s sheets, Frank’s deodorant, Frank’s laundry. Matt might be able to handle it on a regular day, but right now his nose is absolutely burning with battling scents of rival alpha and fuck partner and Frank Fucking Castle.

“So where are we going from here?” Frank asks finally, breaking the strained silence between them.

“Well I assumed that next we’d have sex.” Matt replies, letting a sliver of coyness roll off his tongue. Being kind of an asshole, getting Frank to do that sucked in little half-breath that means he probably rolled his eyes, puts Matt more at ease.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Frank says. “But I got a feeling this is gonna be intense, we gotta draw some lines. If I mess you up, I want it to be on purpose.” It sounds like Matt’s not the only one finding his footing here.

“How thoughtful of you, Frank.” Matt hums. He takes a seat at the lone wooden chair behind him to more comfortably shimmy off the lower half of his suit, leaving him in sweat-drenched underclothes. “But actually, you said something about a shower?”

Frank leans back, springs groaning underneath him as he does so. “Kind of a tight squeeze, but I think we could make it work.”

Matt says, “Hm. I think- I think I’m gonna need a second to get ready on my own. Rut hit me completely off-guard. I need to, you know, get myself more into the headspace.” Matt trails his wrist across the corner of the kitchen table as he speaks, a most minor attempt at making the space a little more his. 

“Whatever you need, Red.” Frank says as he closes the mini-fridge, a bottle of beer in each hand. 

Matt takes it when offered, hissing as the cold and fizz clash with the soft, sore meat of his mouth.  “I can take a minute and try and think of some ground rules while I’m in there, but I shouldn’t be long.”

“You know where to go?” Frank asks. Matt moves to the ostensible bathroom door and Frank huffs, impressed. “You hear the water boiler or something?”

He does, actually. That and the scent of rust and soap, but Matt only shrugs. “It’s usually never just one thing. Oh,” He says, pausing as he begins to twist the doorknob. “No change of clothes.”

Frank drinks deep from his beer. “Is that gonna be much of a problem, considering?”

“Might be when I walk out wearing boxers and an undershirt tomorrow.”

“Mm. I got some spare sweats and a shirt in the duffel. That work for you?”

The logical conclusion of this conversation was always going to be Frank offering Matt his clothes, but Matt still bristles. The part of him that’s been raised among the social tropes of alphas sneers at him playing the ‘omega’ role, the savior part of him balks at accepting such kindness from a man he’s put so much effort into distaining. But, as is the theme tonight, the part of him that wants wins out. Matt nods, “It’ll work.”

Frank takes another swig from his beer, head swiveling in a way that tells Matt Frank is staring at him while he does so. Frank’s a few hours further along in his rut, the air is already spiking with pheromones as his breathing grows heavy. But he moves with controlled finesse as he fishes out the clothes from his bag and hands them off. 

Matt knows what Frank can do, the destruction he’ll happily cause. So him retreating easy, even as his wrist slides across Matt’s palm like a matchstick to striking paper, is impressive. Matt marvels at the control as long as he can before he’s overtaken by the desire to test it, find out how far he can push until it snaps.

He almost invites Frank into the shower with him at the thought, until he opens the door. The tiny room is truly befitting of the old name water closet, for all the space that’s in it. The box shower at the end of the squat room was not made with two adult humans in mind, and while Matt might later want to test the limits of what can be done here, right now he’s grateful to have enough room for both elbows to stick out without bumping the wall.

And then there’s the scent. No leather to cut it, no gunpowder or coffee to tamp it down. Matt can detect every place where Frank’s thighs bump off the side of the cool shower lining, where the back of his head knocks against the wall. Near the showerhead there’s a spot where Frank rests his palm so much that he’s pressed water into the drywall above the tiling. Matt puts his hand there, curious, and with the arch of his back and bend of his knees, he wonders if this is the spot Frank’s body lurches to when he comes.

Matt takes a breath of wet, steaming air. He can almost imagine he’s breathing in the very fog that’s clouding his judgment as he acclimates to the space. Frank wasn’t kidding, the water pressure is incredible once Matt can maneuver so it’s striking the sorest parts of his spine. And with the relief from that, and the scents and pheromones soaking into his brain, it takes no time at all for Matt to take himself in hand, swallowing a moan of relief.

Thoughts of actually rinsing himself off disappear in the moment, replaced with nothing but the chase of sensation as he bucks into his hand. Fuck, maybe this was a good idea. Maybe finding a willing sexual partner willing to crack his teeth in and make him cum was a good thing. Maybe just for a couple hours he can push the guilt aside and engage in just a little more hedonism, and then on Sunday he can rest assured it’ll all be washed away by a holy man’s blessing.

“Ah-” He groans, muscles seizing at the relief of a quick orgasm. It’s hardly abating though. If anything, it just makes him more aware of the man on the other side of the door, whose heavy breathing Matt has only ever heard matched at dog parks in July. It makes his heart race, sends a telltale pressure to the base of his dick, hardly flagging even after he’d cum.

Maybe it’s time to accept that the time for mulling this over has passed. It was over the minute he stepped into Frank’s home and Frank allowed it, and every passing second is only doing the work of delaying putting off what he wants. 

Matt’s hand finds the faucet and turns the water off. He takes the single towel hanging on the wall and runs it over his hair and everywhere else, enjoying how, even if he’s getting more of Frank’s stink on him, the towel will also reek of Matt for days. An ounce of progress in balancing the scales.

Frank’s sweatpants fit nicely once Matt adjusts the drawstring and he foregoes the shirt entirely, and then it’s just one last beat of anticipation. Frank’s pulse had almost doubled since the water had turned off, and Matt takes a moment to enjoy the desperation.

Just a moment though, because it doesn’t take him long to match it.

He pulls the door open and moves to the entryway, steam flowing out into the dry air around him. The subtle scents of Frank’s soap and desire mingle nicely as they approach each other. For a split second Matt thinks the other man is moving in for some kind of embrace, but it doesn’t take him long to recognize the stance of a fighter.

Adrenaline spikes under Matt’s skin. His hands curl instinctively into fists and he blocks Frank’s first blow, counters the second. Frank had dressed down to his sweater and jeans while Matt was in the bathroom, and instantly Matt’s focus shifts to being able to touch as much of Frank’s skin as Frank can his. He starts moving quick, body shifting to memories of Stick’s agility instead of his father’s defensive, measured stance.

It takes a second to work. Frank has no interest in backing down and he’s holding nothing back. His confidence only urges Matt on. He hesitates only as long as it takes to confirm that no one else is listening. Frank sweeps his leg in a way that almost has Matt crashing to the floor, stumbling into a pile of bean cans and clementines left beside the fridge, but there’s no sign of alert from the nearest neighbors two floors down. No one’s paying attention but the rats in the walls.

Matt rights himself, using the crouch he’s in to spring harder into Frank, pushing him back. Frank loops an arm around Matt’s waist and yanks him in, trying to right his balance and regain his footing, but being so close to his neck sends Matt’s head spinning. He wrenches out of Frank’s grip, urging him backwards until Frank’s skull bounces satisfyingly off the drywall.

One of Matt’s hand grips Frank’s fist that’s trying to drive into Matt’s kidney, the other reaches out for the scratchy cotton fabric of Frank’s sweater. As he yanks it upwards he also pulls Frank close, leaning in to taste the skin of his throat once more. And Frank is more than happy to yield, tilting to brush his nose against Matt’s for a brief moment before Matt maneuvers the sweater over his head. Then it’s just skin and scent. Exploring hands, curious teeth.

Frank takes advantage of the moment to give Matt a hard shove, coupled with a less-than-gentle kick to the shin to take him down. The fall is cushioned by the thin mattress beneath them, but the sting of the kick gives Matt the extra push to make sure he maneuvers himself to be on top.

He’s quickly learning the pace of this, that at no point during this have either of them ended the fight. All of it is a means to the same end, and if one of them secures a moment of victory, that just becomes an opportunity for the other to seek them out and try to best them back. Not unlike the two of them out in everyday life, Matt thinks.

Without the confines of the suit Matt can feel everything, Frank’s pulse racing beneath his fingertips, the man’s erection straining tight against his jeans. He reaches for Frank’s belt buckle, intentions clear, but before his fingers find the metal Frank’s hand takes his wrist.

“Wait.”

Matt stills and he swallows thickly, pulling back. “Yeah?”

“You gotta cool it on the bitemark shit, okay? And I’m not, no knotting. I mean, me to you. I can, we can do whatever with yours, I don’t care. But knotting, breeding, it fucks me up. I can’t, I don’t-”

Frank sounds like the words are being chipped out of him with an ice pick, and though they light up a thousand curiosities in Matt’s mind, he forces himself to ignore them. Not too difficult, considering he is so, so distracted by the drag of his cockhead against Frank’s loaned sweatpants, but it’s surely something to revisit later. Drawing a line between knotting and breeding is just so surprisingly old-fashioned, but Matt supposes things are different when the coupling actually results in kids.

Right, not getting distracted.

“That’s fine.” Matt breathes, and Frank goes a little more slack beneath him, teeth no longer grinding in his tightly-held jaw. “Still plenty to work with.”

Frank growls at this, a hungry, pleased sound. He shimmies upwards a little, this time saying nothing as Matt does away with his belt buckle, then his zipper. Frank lifts his hips in silent permission as Matt works the fabric of his jeans and boxers over the swell of his ass. Instantly the air between them is thick and heady, and Matt has to fight back the urge to drool.

Frank’s hands reach for Matt’s hips and Matt allows them, relishing in the feeling of rough palms and calloused fingertips. For just a second before he has to angle himself away to get Frank’s pants down his legs, but then the hands are back with a vengeance, fingers resting on the barrier between Matt’s hips and the fabric. They sit there just for a beat before Matt rocks into the touch, and Frank laughs low in his throat. He drags the cotton down and away, leaving the two of them laid bare.

And then, contact.

The sensation of Frank’s hand on his cock is almost too much. In these early stages of his rut, Matt’s body struggles to balance the near-constant need flooding him and the physical response so magnified by his hypersensitivity. It’s not bad, it’s just a lot, and Frank seems to pick up on this as he strokes him.

“No good?” He asks, touch slowing. But the reduction of the touch is worse than the feeling itself, and with an embarrassing lack of tact Matt pulls Frank close.

“Hold on, hold on. Like this.” The moment couldn’t be more surreal, but Matt can’t find it in him to care. Any other day of the week this man would see Matt (well, Daredevil,) on the street, and likely as not could find a reason to try and snap his jaw. But right now The Punisher is sitting with fascinated patience, watching and waiting to see what happens next. 

Matt rocks forward so Frank can take both of them in one hand, then puts his hand over Frank’s. Slowly, he guides their grips up and down, drinking in the stuttering breaths and gasps that follow. As Frank picks up on his needs, Matt’s able to let go that much more, lose himself to the sensations and the sound of their erratic pulses melding together.

“Do you have, ah, lube, by the way?” Matt asks on a particularly dry upstroke. Frank’s delayed response is the only response Matt needs so he tries, “Hh, lotion?” But he’s aware of how absurd the suggestion is as soon as he says it. Sure enough, Frank scoffs. 

“What, spit and precum not good enough for you, Red?”

Oh, forgive me for thinking wistfully of the top drawer in my bedside table. He wants to say. Forgive him for missing the relief of his silk sheets while he’s at it, and a kitchen that’s at least made up of his various, scattered half-meal ingredients. All the same, Matt just huffs and pulls Frank’s hand away, bringing the man’s fingers up to his own mouth. Frank gasps at the contact of Matt’s tongue to his palm, and Matt swears he can hear the blood in Frank’s body routing faster to his dick.

Matt’s slightly more grateful for the drool pooling around his tongue now, as it coats Frank’s skin and helps water down the salt and dicksweat spread across his tongue. Matt remembers in this exact moment that Frank hadn’t showered, he can taste it, and fuck if he’s not grateful that he told Frank to wait for him outside.

Matt gets his own hand sufficiently wet as well, and between that and the precum, and the fast-spreading sweat dampening their bodies, the two quickly lose themself in the delicious, addicting glide of skin on skin. Frank’s not afraid to let his grip stray to the base of Matt’s cock, massaging the gently swelling skin there. Matt doesn’t replicate this, instead focusing on tracing the vein running up the underside of Frank’s cock or rutting their cockheads together, using his thumb to spread the precum there, and it’s not long before the two are a pair of writhing, wanton masses.

Eventually Frank’s hand finds Matt’s hip, gives him a push until Matt rolls to his side. The implication under the action sets Matt’s skin blazing, and it only grows hotter at the sound of Frank’s tongue lapping at his own fingers. But Frank’s touch strays lower than he expects, only brushing once or twice against his balls as he massages moisture into Matt’s thighs. 

“Cross your ankles.” Frank instructs, and out of curiosity more than anything Matt complies. Matt allows himself to be positioned so he’s facing the wall, Frank braced behind him in a spooning position. 

Frank’s got one hand on Matt’s hip, the other threaded in Matt’s hair. His mouth is so close to Matt’s ear that when Frank makes a noise at the glide of his cock through Matt’s thighs, the tickle of air sends chills down Matt’s skin. Frank starts off with slow and assured movements, letting Matt get comfortable and adjusting until they find a rhythm. 

They angle themselves so more often than not Frank’s cock will drag against Matt’s balls or his dick, which works well enough for Matt with his level of hyperstimulation. After a little longer his hand finds Frank’s on his hip and drags it lower, bucks into his palm in the hopes that he’ll get the hint- and he does.

They lose themselves to grunts and moans again. Frank’s not particularly vocal but so close, every tiny ah and mmnh resonates like a loudspeaker in his ear. It makes it all the better, snapping his hips back against Frank’s and then up into his hand, how he can feel Frank coming undone behind him. His breaths get ragged and shallow, his grip tightens. He mouths messily at the junction of Matt’s neck and shoulder, though he’s careful to avoid putting his teeth down for too long at a time. Matt almost laughs himself out of his headspace as he realizes Frank’s trying no to claim him.

For a moment, all Matt can do is marvel at the fact that he’s the practicing Catholic, but when it comes to sex, it’s Frank who is all about tradition. But something about this must have given away that he’s lost in thought, because the next thing Matt feels is the sharpness of Frank’s teeth on the shell of his ear. “Still with me?”

Matt sucks in a breath, flails an elbow in a weightless half-retaliation. “Not going anywhere.”

This earns him a pleased grumble from Frank, who takes the moment to adjust them again so Matt’s on his back, with Frank positioned between his knees. Matt’s first thought is that Frank’s finally decided to get on with it and he lets his knees fall open in invitation, but Frank only gathers them together, placing himself back between them and helping Matt hold his thighs closed.

“Good if I cum on your chest?” He asks, and Matt can only hope the rush of need that just shot between his legs doesn’t show on his face.

“Yeah,” He says breathlessly. “Yeah.”

Frank needs no further invitation, once again finding a pace and position that has him gliding back and forth over Matt’s most sensitive skin. It’s not nearly enough to feed the void inside him but enough to push his body there, right to the edge, until he’s losing focus on the rest of the world. His heartbeat is so loud, his thighs are shaking and spasming in Frank’s hands.

“That’s it, Red.” Frank huffs softly, thumbs rubbing circles in his sweat-damp skin. “So good. So good.”

Frank’s teeth find him again at the curve of his knee, pressing in just hard enough to indent skin before pulling back and tracing the shapes with his tongue. He continues to mouth here as his movements become jerky and erratic, whispering gravelly pleas and praises that he may not even remember Matt can hear. But the words are fast fading into nothing, babble, a line of, “Please, please, please, pl-” until the teeth latch back on to his skin, and his body shudders, and a fresh wave of Frank’s scent washes over all of Matt’s senses.

And it’s that, the hot splash on his chest, the desperate way Frank is humping his thighs, that does Matt in. His head rolls back as each muscle in his body locks down tight, toes curling as pleasure and relief spikes him to the core and resonates out to the rest of his body. 

Pulsing, pulsing, crashing down.

Matt’s legs go lax but his hand stays tangled between them, guiding them through the aftershocks until the feels-so-good-it-almost-hurts turns into regular discomfort. He sucks in deep breaths as Frank collapses beside him, equally winded but absolutely buzzing with energy. 

Somewhere in the logical part of Matt’s brain he knows that at this moment, his mind and body are being flooded with chemicals that are making him feel this incredible, and that’s why he’s tilting his head so Frank Castle can nuzzle his jaw, grinding their stubble together to meld their scents into one. But honestly, but frankly, in this moment he doesn’t care. The scent they make after their bodies have rolled round together has always been addicting.

But lying with a puddle of rapidly-cooling spooge on his belly loses eroticism fast. Matt pries himself away from the tiny moment of grooming and gets up from the bed, dodging Frank’s hand as it swipes for his wrist.

“I got it,” He tries, but by then Matt’s already halfway across the room. 

Matt makes use of his discarded underclothes to take care of himself, and uses the towel from before to wipe the sweat out of his eyes before he hands it off to Frank. Once out of the bathroom Frank’s waiting for him on the bed, naked but for the blanket across his waist.

In the couple minutes Matt’s been away, Frank’s gone through his minifridge and returned with an armful of goodies. He hands Matt a water bottle in exchange for the towel, and then a strip of what Matt identifies as some kind of beef jerky. Not exactly fine dining, but Matt can pick up that the jerky’s at least well made, butcher-bought rather than out of a factory.

They chew and drink in relative silence, catching up to themselves in their fleeting moments of clarity. 

“So, you still stayin’ the rest of the night?” Frank asks after downing the last of his water so hard that the bottle goes crunch.

Matt swallows a laugh. A moment ago he’d been running through a mental list of places that could still be open at this hour, and might still deliver. The idea of bolting hadn’t found him since he’d stepped out of the shower. 

“I meant what I said, Frank.” Matt replies. “I’m not going anywhere.”

While the sentiment lingers, having a sleepover at The Punisher’s house proves easier said than done. Frank’s bed is just not large enough for both of them, and while sleep is not top-of-mind for the pair, they do occasionally find themselves lapsing into moments of rest. It’ll be about the time that they’ve begun to sink under the threshold of consciousness when Matt will throw out an elbow, or Frank will try to roll over, and both of them will complain and groggily paw at each other until they pass out again. 

And then Matt wakes up to find himself alone, with Frank’s steady heartbeat just over a foot away. Matt angles himself off the bed and sure enough, he finds Frank laid out on the floor. He’d left Matt with the blanket but taken the single pillow for himself, tugged on his sweatpants, and now breathes deep enough to tell Matt he’s getting actual rest.

No part of Matt bothers himself to do something about the vigilante gently sawing logs beside him. Every one of his nerve endings is calling out for the heat and weight of the man on the floor. Were Matt more present, maybe this would concern him. But at the moment all he can do is abandon the mattress for the floor, using the blanket to absorb the worst of the cold from beneath.

Frank stirs as Matt moves in close, but not to consciousness. Just enough to sense, to smell Matt so close, and to pull him in closer. Matt doesn’t protest, just enjoys the newfound warmth until he goes back under as well.

At another point in the night, this time while Frank is once again bucking wildly against Matt’s backside, he pulls himself away and begins palming around underneath the bed, until he finds the fabric of his duffel bag and yanks it over. Matt mutters something at the break in their pace, so Frank uses his free hand to thumb at Matt’s nipple teasingly, possibly just to piss him off further. 

Meanwhile Frank rustles around in his bag -Matt ignores the sound of pounds of illegal firearms clattering against each other with a frown- until he finds a zipper sewn into the side and the smaller item within. Held in Frank’s fist, Matt can’t decipher what it is. But options for the mystery item dwindle as Frank rolls it against his thigh for a moment, then spits inside of it. (And yes, in the heat of the moment Matt has no problem with their choice of creative problem solving. But he is really starting to miss the familiar click of the cap on his lube.)

Matt’s suspicions are confirmed as Frank turns back to him, taking a second to roll the object down the length of his cock, laying it firm at the base. A knotsleeve, one of dozens of heat or rut aids usually sold in specialty shops. Matt’s familiar with the item, though in his opinion it’s a poor replacement for the real thing. Though, when he considers Frank’s reaction to the real thing, he wonders if that’s part of the appeal.

Frank repositions himself, and takes a moment to push a few strands of sweaty hair across Matt’s forehead. The soft, blunt drag of his fingernails is so surprisingly tender that Matt feels himself tense in surprise. Head lolling back, he tries to disguise his sucked-in breath as a sigh, saying, “You want to check if you left the stove on too? Or do you want to fuck me?”

Frank surely knows blatant goading when he hears it, but he runs with it all the same.  As he returns to the fucking he thrusts harder, deeper, less reserved about stimulating his knot. This translates to more contact for Matt, more slick, insistent stimulation to send him over.

But for all Matt’s found Frank is willing to do in the next handful of hours, plenty, his attention never wanders to Matt’s ass. Or rather, to fucking him. 

Matt assumes it’s a lube issue -he’s never envied omegas slicking but damn if it doesn’t do the job- but Frank doesn’t even touch him there. Not with his hands, his cock, his mouth. He has no such reservations about anywhere else, but he avoids this so diligently Matt can’t help but be curious.

“Why not really fuck me?” Matt pants later, using the edge of his honestly ruined undershirt to cleaning up his latest spend. Despite having come maybe a dozen times tonight in a myriad of ways, he still feels wanton and starving and unsated. And yes, that’s the rut, but it’s also the knowledge that there could be more, and there is inexplicably not.

Frank however, takes his question as a jab. “Damn, Red. None of that good enough for you?”

“No, it’s good.” Matt takes a swig from one of the few remaining water bottles in the hideout. Between staying hydrated and intermittent snacking, they’re making good pace on cleaning the place out. “But, you know, my ass.”

Frank’s genuinely surprised at what he hears. His head pulls back as a hard breath pushes out of his nose, and he turns to face Matt, propping himself up on an elbow.

“You serious?”

“Yes?” Matt answers, his own confusion bouncing off of Frank’s. “Is that so surprising?”

Frank hesitates, picking his words carefully as he says, “Just haven’t meet many alpha guys into that kind of thing.”

Oh god, he’s being serious. Matt laughs out a surprised sound, genuine enough to get Frank’s hackles raised. When Matt takes the military thing into consideration, he can trace the same path he’d been doing throughout the night with Frank’s tastes and habits. It leads him to a conclusion that would redden the tips of his ears, were he not already naked lying next to him.

“Wait, Frank, do you not...?” Matt gestures over his shoulder. Frank balks.

“Uh, yeah, I don’t…”

Got it in one. A particularly hot flush climbs the planes of Frank’s face, followed by an indignant flex of muscle. 

“Never?” Matt asks.

“I think I’m plenty taken care of up front.” Frank huffs. There’s a light waver in his heartbeat, but he says it so plainly that Matt wonders if even Frank believes himself.

“Frank, the prostate is responsible for pushing semen out of the body. The things you can do to an alpha, to yourself, when you know how to… You’re missing out.”

To this, Frank just sort of shrugs. “I don’t, it’s not really my thing.” There’s no underlying tenseness there, just an awkward lack of comprehension. Matt’s heard stuff like this about a certain kind of military men, but he’d never actually believed it.

“Suit yourself.” He acquiesces as he moves so he’s atop Frank, gently rubbing his ass against Frank’s half-hard cock. “But not all of us are so limited in our tastes.”

They’re still early enough in the rut that, having already come recently, they still need a moment to recuperate. But Frank’s body is very interested in what it’s receiving, even if Frank’s unmoving face means he’s still just watching Matt. Sizing him up, maybe?

“Really.” Moving slow, like he’s waiting for Matt to call his bluff, Frank reaches between Matt’s legs and further back. But Matt just opens his legs that much more. He leans back into the pressure with a fluttering breath, relief within reach. That is, except it’s still uncomfortable and dry.

Frank pulls away, and Matt cringes as he realizes he’s become familiar with the sounds of Frank’s muscles getting ready to fill his mouth with saliva. Which, had this somehow not been a process reached by an extremely unlikely double-triggered rut, would have ended the night then and there. Instead, Matt catches Frank’s hand before Frank can spit in it.

“Actually, I have an idea.”

Matt pulls away, ignoring the small part of him going absolutely berserk over having moved away from Frank’s touch. No, this is important.

“I’m all ears.”

Is now the time to let Frank know that, with the use of his radar sense, Matt is capable of knowing that Frank does have larger than average ears? He’s been saving that one for a while, and he probably won’t get an opportunity to use it again any time soon. But, no. He’s about to need Frank’s cooperation.

“Come back to my place with me.” He says, using both of his hands to hold and massage Frank’s. “King-size mattress, silk sheets. I can get food delivered there because it’s legally on the map. Shower’s not as strong, but there’s definitely room for two.”

Frank’s long stare doesn’t yield. He also doesn’t pull his hand away.

“You’re really gonna let me into your home.” He says it so dryly, Matt can’t tell if he wants an answer. “Into your bed.”

Matt sweeps his head around the width of the room. “Nothing you wouldn’t do for me.”

“That’s not… You’re talkin’ hours here, Red, or days? A little while ago you were talkin’ like this’d be over come sunrise, but the clock hit five ten minutes ago.”

A fair question, one Matt hasn’t fully considered himself. 

“At this point, separating almost feels like more trouble than it’s worth.” He says. “This is… I’ve been having a good time. I like someone who can keep my pace. I think I’d spend so much time regretting giving this up, it’d be difficult to find someone else, or god-forbid go it alone.”

It’s the truth, something Matt has come to face over the last handful of hours. As though in exchange for all the good-sense he’s throwing out by coupling up with Frank, he’s getting a kind of relief he rarely allows himself to enjoy. Frank’s good at reading him. He’s not afraid to press Matt’s buttons or rile him up, but he knows that Matt has limits, and knows the time and place to test them. If there was anyone Matt should want more of this with, more dizzying hours blending sex and violence into a languid, hedonistic cycle, it should be Frank.

“Also, back at my place I have everything I need to teach you how to fuck an alpha.”

Frank nods along as Matt speaks, and in Matt’s lap, Frank’s fingers curl around Matt’s own. At the last addition, Frank laughs.

“I guess that one’s on me, asking a lawyer to plead his case.”

Matt grins back, already curling his legs under him to stand. In the time since they’ve moved to the floor their clothes have gone further scattered around the room, but Matt can navigate his way to Frank’s sweater.

“Great. Let’s get out of here.”

“Shit, sucks that bad here, huh?” Frank says, getting to his feet and following Matt’s lead. But even though he teases, he moves with a similar amount of hustle.

Matt finds the sweatpants, and tries to ignore the damp patch between the legs. Then it’s on to collecting pieces of his suit, and helping himself to the final beer in the fridge, considering Frank’s probably driving.

He turns to face him as he unscrews the cap from the bottle, relishing in the hiss. He says, “I mean, kind of.”

.&

“So where’s an alpha lawyer get a crash course on abusing his prostate?”

Frank’s van creeps smoothly through the relatively empty streets, the earliest of early birds and the latest of late owls moving together through the twilight. It’s still cool enough to tell Matt the sun’s not out yet, but it won’t be too much longer until daybreak. 

“College.” He replies. This gets him a full-chested bark of laughter from his companion, and another one when he realizes Matt isn’t kidding. 

“Okay, Red. Okay.” Frank says, voice soaked in coy approval. “You a party animal way back when?”

“I dabbled.” Matt preens. “Though, most of my experience came from one person.”

Frank mm ’s an agreement, and Matt wonders if he can relate. He chews his lip momentarily, then says, “I think you’d get along with her, actually.”

Frank takes his eyes off the road for that one, turning to give what Matt guesses is an amused stare. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Which is a little concerning, now that I think about it.”

Matt’s not sure if he’s massively relieved or just a little bit disappointed that Elektra and Frank had never crossed paths, but it’s not something he wants to think on for too long. One, thinking about Elektra in any capacity immediately feels like teeth sinking into his chest, and if he does it for too long he could find himself back in the hole that feels impossible to crawl out of.

And then, second, he’s having enough of a hard time as it is not just groping himself in the passenger seat without imagining the three of them in a closed space, the heady mix of Elektra’s sharp perfume and Frank’s earthy musk.

“Yeah, well,” Frank says, his voice pulling Matt back down to earth, “You don’t need more of me in your life than you’ve already got.”

Which is quite the thing to hear in Frank’s van while they’re en route to go have a fuck-a-thon in Matt’s apartment, but he can’t bring himself to disagree. Or rather, he can’t make himself disagree out loud.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

It’s surprisingly relieving, finally making it back to his apartment. Even though he’d only stepped out hours ago, he feels like he’s made it back after a particularly draining case or brutal late-night punch out. Even just walking past the couch, Matt’s overcome with the desire to flop down on it and give in to the exhaustion currently at war with his libido. 

Frank doesn’t seem to be suffering the same internal debate. As soon as the door’s shut behind him he’s on Matt, nudging aside the collar of Matt’s sweater and nipping at his shoulder. Matt is happy enough to comply, shrugging off the borrowed clothes as he makes for the bedroom.

After a night of gravel, mattress foam, and whatever it was they lined Frank’s floor with, sinking into his sheets elicits a moan from Matt that rivals anything Frank’s brought out from him tonight. 

Frank reacts similarly, the softness of the mattress pushing him into a full-bodied stretch that ends in a deep, satisfied sigh. For a moment Matt’s content to bask in the comfort of familiarity, of the softness of his sheets, the warmth of a body beside him. But when Frank shifts slightly, moving aside the blanket and slowly inching his way down the length of the bed, Matt doesn’t stop him.

It doesn’t occur to him to be nervous as Frank closes in on Matt’s hip, nipping and sucking his way down until he reaches the bed of Matt’s pubes. Maybe it should be concerning, that the man who once unloaded a handgun into his forehead is now nosing down the skin of his cock, dragging his tongue over its length in the lightest of licks, wetting it with his heavy breath. But Matt is incapable of thinking of anything that isn’t the feeling of Frank’s soft lips, his curious tongue. His stubble scrapes along Matt’s thighs in that way that’s almost painful, but it’s the right kind of pain.

“Frank, come on. You gotta-” He jerks his hips helplessly, whining as the warmth of Frank’s face retreats.

“Easy, easy.” He murmurs, moving to mouth at Matt’s balls, one and then the other. “How about you get that lube ready?”

Matt can work with that. Even if he hates leaning away from Frank’s touch for the second it takes, it’s worth it to be able to root around in his bedside table and produce the small tube. He gives it a quick, fruitless roll between his palms to try and heat up the contents, and then he passes it to Frank, who has moved back in close.

Frank mouths and sucks at the head of his cock, drawing full-throated groans from Matt as he lubes up his hands. One moves to the base of it, his touch cold for just a second before warming as Matt bucks forward. The other hand goes to Matt’s thigh, inching it open a little wider to give him greater access. Frank pauses for a moment, and then pulls himself off of Matt’s cock to ask, “So, just like you would with an omega and beta, or?”

“Ugh,” Matt flops his head down on his pillow. “Frank, you’re killing me.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Frank breathes into Matt’s pubic bone. “That a yes?”

“Yes, it’s a yes.” Matt says, pushing his thighs that much more open.

Frank lets him know how much he appreciates Matt’s tone through touch, the warm, slick pad of his thumb quickly pressing against Matt’s asshole.

Matt moans, immediately caught between the dual sensations of Frank’s touch. He’s content to just rock there for a while, bask in how good it finally is, but Frank’s less patient. As Matt relaxes under him, the pressure in his thumb becomes more insistent. He massages skin until the muscle goes lax, and the tip of his thumb slips inside.

“Yeah,” Matt pants, “Yeah, just like that.”

Frank uses the bluntness of his thumb for a minute before switching to a longer finger, something Matt appreciates immensely. Frank’s touch is intense and curious, and it’s all Matt can do to tell him to keep going. It’s as though Frank is still waiting for Matt to tell him to stop at any moment, but Matt welcomes it. He’s almost relieved at the initial discomfort of it all, if only because it’s a precursor of what to come.

And with Matt’s encouragement, Frank continues. He’s generous with lube and his fingers are long and thick, and it’s not too long before one of his curious digits lands right where Matt needs it to.

“Oh!” Matt says, lurching. The sensation is enough for his entire body to jolt, for Matt’s hands to grasp at the sheets. The fingers inside him freezes too soon, but the deed is already done. A single poke and Matt’s body convulses, cock jerking and spilling across Frank’s lips. Frank makes a surprised sound, luckily more in awe than annoyance, and begins to pull away. But Matt stops him, swings his thighs together in an attempt to keep him from going anywhere.

“Keep going.” It’d been a fast orgasm, sharp and good and not nearly enough.

“You just busted a nut all over my chin, you sure you can handle more?”

It’s not meant to be goading. In fact there’s even a little concern there, as though this is the one situation in which hurting Matt would be unacceptable. But Matt’s dick isn’t even softening, and he barely feels stretched or sated. And when he thinks of what’s coming after the fingers, his body hungers and pulses as though it hadn’t just come at all.

Matt can’t help the dry laugh that joins his response. “I’m sure. Try me.”

First they shuffle positions, until Matt’s comfortably splayed open in Frank’s lap with a pillow folded under his hips. And then more lube, and finally the thickness of Frank’s fingers are back where Matt wants them. After the initial prod, Matt’s body has adjusted when Frank finds his prostate again. It still drives him insane, but no longer to an almost painful degree.

No, this is a deeper, hungrier relief, the kind that builds on itself until the feeling is the very heartbeat of the universe. Matt's toes curl, his thighs shake. And considering how deep and heavy Frank’s breath gets as he watches Matt squirm on his hand, how Matt can smell the precum beading at Frank’s tip, it’s working for him as well.

By the time Frank’s got three fingers in him Matt’s come again, another quick blast across his chest that took him by surprise. This time though, Frank had been able to watch. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath as Matt clamps down on his fingers, palming at himself with his free hand. He keeps his fingers moving as per Matt’s instruction, even as he’s biting at his lower lip and taking in quick, shallow breaths, almost shivering like an excited dog told to stay until finally Matt says, “You ready?”

Frank lets out another ch at this, surprise and desire alight in his voice. “Am I ready? Christ.”

As a response Matt just shuffles himself further into position, knocking Frank playfully with a knee. And Frank needs no further invitation, taking a quick moment to slip his knotsleeve into place before taking his cock in hand. Matt expects a little buildup, some teasing, considering this is the man who so often enjoys making Matt’s life hell. Instead it’s only moments before Frank is settling over him and guiding himself inside.

And Matt is not complaining.

The actuality of getting fucked is a lot, yes, but it’s Frank’s closeness and weight that Matt needs a moment to take in. He smells more familiar now, thoroughly coated in an array of Matt’s scents, in much the same way Matt is his. His heartbeat is steady and close enough that Matt can feel it as their chests brush, through Frank’s fingers when he cups Matt’s jaw and bites the area around his lips. It’s so much, overwhelming in a thousand different ways. He drinks all of it in like a dying man.

“Good?” Frank asks, easing the last of himself in. He only stops when the edge of his sleeve reaches Matt’s entrance, which is what Matt had expected. And while internally Matt does opine for that last inch or so, getting it wouldn’t be worth the loss of Frank’s trust, or his touch.

Instead Matt draws in deep breaths, tensing and squirming as he adjusts. 

“Yeah.” He breathes. “It’s good.”

Frank bounces his forehead’s off of Matt’s, fond and sweet as a kiss. He swears he can hear the smile in Frank’s breaths as he carefully begins to move, drawing out staggered, satisfied moans between the two of them. But Matt’s body is impatient, needy, and it doesn’t take him long to start rocking back into Frank, insistent for more.

Frank is more than happy to respond. His movements start to pick up speed, until the room is a cacophony of slapping skin and heavy breaths and thudding heartbeats, the perfect backdrop to Frank’s weight atop him and the even draw of his cock against Matt’s prostate.

The air is charged and hot, and the way Frank’s body boxes him in, it feels like the world’s narrowed to just the two of them. Finally, the incessant need inside of him is being tended to, finally the heat grows from sizzling embers to roaring flames. Matt clings to Frank like he’s a lifeline, like he needs him to survive.

“Where do you want it?” Frank pants some time later, his muscles shivering as he tries to maintain pace. “You want me to paint your belly white? Drip down and ruin your fancy sheets so soon?”

“Gnh,” Matt breathes, trying to push past the sensations so he can bring himself back to thoughts, to words, “Inside.”

Frank groans, and his fingernails momentarily dig tiny crescents into Matt’s skin. “Shit, you sure?”

Matt can’t handle more questions right now. He can’t handle anything that isn’t the feeling of being completely filled. He crosses his legs around Frank’s sides, holding him as tight as Frank will allow. “Yeah, yeah. I can- there’s pills. Almost no chance anyway. Oh my god, Frank, please.”

Frank says nothing further, but he pulls Matt impossibly close. He stops even attempting to move with finesse, growing more and more breathless and erratic by the moment. Matt revels in this, rolling his head back as as Frank noses the juncture of his neck and shoulder, going so far as to put his teeth on the skin but never to bite. 

And then Frank is moaning, lurching into Matt as his orgasm takes him. He mutters hot, incoherent nothings into Matt’s skin as his hips hitch slowly, and the weight of it all drives Matt’s hand back to his cock, where just a few strokes later he’s coming too.

They cling to each other as they ride their individual highs, Matt going lax while Frank continues to move himself slowly in and out. With the sleeve in place Frank’s body reacts the only way it knows how, spilling long and deep into Matt, enough that Matt can feel it start to leak out from him while Frank is still going. Noticing this, Matt finds, extends his orgasm just a little longer.

They lay in a sweaty, breathless pile for as long as they can handle, until the wetness around Matt’s thighs and the suddenly suffocating weight of Frank’s body become too much. They pull apart, collapsing on either side of the bed. 

“I’ll get- I’ll clean up in a second. Just let me breathe.” Matt says. Despite the words, Matt can feel his body falling into a lull. Between the exertion and the length of his mostly sleepless night, exhaustion is catching up with him fast.

Frank just slaps a hand on Matt’s thigh, a sign of acknowledgement before he swings his legs off the mattress and heads for the bathroom. Matt tells himself he’ll do the same in just a second, but before he can press himself to move, Frank is back. The sheets are a mess, but pulling off a layer of them presents a large enough dry spot for the two to sleep. They’ll change them, Matt says, after he gets up.

Matt swears he’s only nodded off for a second when he realizes Frank is by his side again, even though moments ago he’d been tossing some soiled paper towels in the kitchen’s garbage can. Frank has brought more water with him -thanks, late-nineties rutcare PSAs- and whatever he’s managed to scavenge from the kitchen.

“Did you raid my fridge?” He asks, voice drunken and syrupy with sleep as he listens to Frank slurp down some Thai noodles.

“You asked me to come here.” Frank replies, mouth full. He drops some items on the table beside Matt, a couple of oatmeal bars and the other half of a sandwich he’d gotten from a bodega the day before.

Matt’s hardly present enough to argue. “Touche.”

He rolls over, entirely intent on helping himself to the food. It’s just, he just needs a minute to relax. He just has to rest for a second, and then…

Matt awakens with one hand between his legs, and the other stretched across the empty side of his mattress. His brain scrambles out of fuzziness as best it can, worry pricking along the curve of his spine. Did Frank have enough? Was it too much, or just a shitty lay? Did he-

In the kitchen Frank burps, and then the toaster pops. Matt centers himself as his senses catch up to him. No, for better or worse, they’re still in this.

He’s well-rested if slightly sore, but not nearly as tired as he should be, considering. But the bliss of being thoroughly fucked-out has faded, leaving him parched and hungry and coated in god-knows-what from the night before. He bites down on his lip, wondering if he can get a decent meal down before he invites Frank to share the shower.

First things first- he slaps his hand over the button on his alarm clock and it answers, “2:35 PM .”

He cringes, pulling himself out of bed. It’s true the rut would have thrown his sleep schedule off no matter what, but still, what a way to start it off. In the process of getting in and out the bathroom his phone tells him he has several missed calls and texts from both Foggy and Karen, though at this point they’re so used to his schedule that it takes more than a few hours of radio silence to send them into a panic. He still doesn’t want to press it though, give them another chance to worry on his behalf. 

Ugh, so. Reach out to his friends to give them a vague outline of what’s going on here. Get some files sent over even though there’s no way he’ll have the ability to focus long enough to ingest them. Put together a grocery order and call it in, along with the usual rut supplies; the morning after pills, bulk lube order, topical cream for irritated skin. It’s enough to make the day, what’s left of it, loom a little too overbearingly for Matt’s taste, and he’s balancing this to-do list and his already painfully hard cock when Frank finds him in the bedroom.

He greets him with a coffee mug, which Matt accepts greedily. The coffee, bitter and strong, burns his lips and stings his tongue, but Matt sips at it dedicatedly, letting the heat and caffeine carve a path through the haze in his head.

“You’re making yourself right at home, huh?” Matt asks, setting the mug down on the bedside table. On the edge of his senses, Matt notes the sandwich from before is gone, swapped out for a single, fist-sized orange.

“What, you don’t want the coffee?” Frank says teasingly, making to grab it. Matt deflects the attempt easily, but Frank was never really trying.

“Maybe I don’t want criminals picking my shelves clean while I’m unconscious.” Matt says.

“Well, you don’t gotta worry about that. Shelves were empty before I got here.” This time he manages to snag the mug, but only helps himself to a sip before putting it back down. Matt just shoves him.

Frank allows himself to be pushed away, then takes a seat on the side of the bed next to him. “This still good for you, Red?”

It’s a good question. Last night everything felt frantic, like if they didn’t take the most obvious out right then and there, things would only get worse. But now it’s not spontaneous, now it’s something that’s going to eat up the better part of their week, together. All the doubt and second-guessing from the night before should be hitting Matt in waves, reminding him that they’re not friends, that this isn’t even a favor, they’re just two desperate, needy people who can put up with each other long enough to make the other person come.

But that’s not stopping him. And the good sex is a factor in this, a big one, but Matt knows concretely in the moment that he doesn’t want anyone else for this. He’s been fascinated by Frank for some time, the furious, unyielding parts of him and the impossibly soft sides as well. He wants more insight into this broken creature whose fingers that make Matt tremble have also pulled the trigger to end god-knows-how-many lives. He wouldn’t have chosen a mutual rut as the time for this, but the opportunity is here, and he can’t make himself give it up.

“I think it is.” He says, which is the most honest he can be about it. “You?”

“‘S weird.” Frank replies easily, to which both of them laugh. “But I’m not hating it. Not opposed to seeing it out.”

“That’s about where I am too.” Matt replies. 

“Mm.” Frank agrees. A small silence stretches then, as Matt listens to Frank give a couple tries at starting a sentence before, “You’re not worried about, you know, bonding are you?”

Matt tries not to snort, and fails. “No, Frank, I don’t think I’m going to matebond with you this week.”

But Frank’s not amused, and he’s not convinced. “Those head chemicals are powerful. Shit messes with your brain, and we’re gonna be stewing in them for days.”

He’s not wrong. The idea of all caveats Matt has to enjoying Frank’s company dissolving in a few days is absurd, but at the moment, not impossible. It makes sense why Frank avoids things like knotting and marking bites if the man has no interest in the sudden-onset affection that comes with it. Spending such an intense, pheromone-soaked time together does things to the brain, especially in a mate-seeking phase like a rut. Long-lasting mistakes springing up from decisions like these aren’t uncommon.

But the chemicals always recede in the end. Any affection built upon that foundation is suddenly faced with just how shaky it was to begin with, as the participants are left having to see their prospects no longer as potential satisfaction but as people. That’s why Matt knows there’s nothing to worry about. Once his mind is clear and they’re together without the ever-present fog, he’s sure they’ll remember why their contact before had been limited to rooftops and alleyways. 

So, does Frank want Matt to promise not to fall in love with him? Is this the only way he knows how to verbalize, I’m afraid of feeling towards you, what I felt about them? Or is this simply practical, that they have a system set out between them, and this isn’t a wrench they need?

“Once this is over, it’s over.” Matt says simply. “I’m not worried.”

He’s trying to be reassuring, but Frank’s unmoved. 

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” He says, finally. And he leans in a little, so the mattress sags and pulls them closer together. “And I expect you to do the same for me.”

And then, where do you go after that? Certainly not outside, where every sensory input is laced with unyielding need. But Matt hadn’t exactly been preparing for a roommate, and something that had fallen to the wayside among bigger, more important concerns had been the everything else.

Because first Frank pins Matt to his icy shower wall and gets him off twice, Matt repays the favor, and then they eat breakfast-technically-lunch. They chat back and forth about what food to order, anything Frank might need brought over, whatever minutiae crosses their minds. But they aren’t used to just, sitting. Being near each other. Sharing opinions on things that aren’t morality and hope, but instead music, books, New York bullshittery.

For a large chunk of the day filling time isn’t a problem. The rut’s settling in now, which means there are moments when Matt’s handing Frank a drink or passing by him, and next thing he knows it’s an hour later and he’s got rugburn on his back, and it’s time to get in the shower again. Naps are also frequent as they are essential, which means there are only a few spare hours in the day to get distracted by.

But they find them. It’s nighttime when Frank finally has to call his friend David to get logins for some streaming services, as he’d not had a chance to consider that Matt wouldn’t own a TV. Luckily he does have a laptop and they’re able to make due, but it’s still strange. It’s not like having Foggy or Karen around, their presence in his life so normal that he’s used to it. He’s not dancing around Frank, he’s not uncomfortable , he’s just so aware that the man’s there.

“No wonder you’re always out in that goddamn suit,” Frank comments finally, as Matt breaks out of his meditation pose again to scratch at his jaw. “Can’t sit still for five minutes.”

“I’m antsy.” Matt says, getting up off the ground and heading for the kitchen. “Usually get it out of my system by going out, but.”

“Mm.” Frank responds. He pauses his episode of Pawn Stars so he can ask, “You need another round?”

Matt waves a hand dismissively. “Not yet.” These moments of clarity will be hitting him less and less in the coming days, he wants to appreciate them while he can.

He makes his way to the table near him, and his copy of Dracula waiting there. His days of considering himself an avid reader fell away around the time college textbooks took up all his brainspace, but he still has some old classics lying around, gifts and the like. But no matter how many times he starts his finger at the edge of the page, the words disappear from his mind as fast as he reads them. 

He’s stuck sitting in the relative quiet, only letting the scratchy sounds of the laptop speakers and the steady thrum of Frank’s heart find him. He knows that if he lets his senses wander further, it’ll be easy to find any excuse to get out. Valiantly, of course, for the good of justice and the protection of his city, but also just to get this energy out. To swing his fists and-

Wait, wait. How did Matt find himself here, in need of a good distraction from himself and with Frank Castle six feet away draining his laptop battery, and decide to start reading? He springs up from his seat, crossing the apartment space while Frank’s face follows the movement from the couch. Matt has to bite his lip hard to keep memories from biting at him as he raids his own drawers, digging into his cold weather wear until he finds what he needs.

When he gets back to the living room, Frank’s got the laptop shut and is leaning forward, watching.

“Playin’ dress-up?” He asks at the array of clothing in Matt’s arms. Then, “Don’t tell me you’re nesting.”

“God, no.” Matt laughs, dumping the sweaters on the kitchen table. He finds the oldest one, the one that stinks more like stale air and dust than it does a person, and starts working it around his fist. It is not particularly easy or well-fitting, but Matt thinks it’ll work. “But going bare-knuckled could get bloody, and this would be a house call I can’t ask Claire to make.”

Frank’s pulse picks up. He’s recognized what Matt’s going for and he’s interested. “That so?”

“Mm-hm.” Matt says through the sleeve between his teeth, struggling to wrap his right hand as tightly as he had his left. When this proves difficult for an array of reasons, Frank joins him and helps with the last of it.

Matt takes a few test jabs at the air, making sure the wraps stay put through the strain. 

“Not your usual ninja-doing-parkour style.” Frank remarks. 

“That’s because I’m a boxing parkour ninja.” Matt says, falling back into his stance to test out another flurry of blows. The wraps aren’t ideal, but they’ll get the immediate job done. “Before the ninja lessons, before the accident, it all goes back to boxing.”

“Huh.” Frank says, head staying still in a way that implies to Matt he’s staring. “You’re somethin’ else, Red.”

Matt snorts.

“I’m glad it’s the boxing, not the costumed vigilantism that makes you say that. But how about you, you ever box?” He asks, trying and failing to use his shapeless stumps to help Frank with his own makeshift gloves. 

“Not in a ring.” Frank says, shooing Matt away. “But over my life I think I picked up the basics.”

Matt smirks, widely enough to get Frank going. 

“Oh, is that funny?”

“I picked up a gun once.” Matt says, crossing the living room and making for the rooftop staircase. “Pointed it in a direction, pulled the trigger. I think I picked up the basics.”

Frank’s hot on his heels. “Alright, hotshot. You gonna show me, then?”

“If you can keep up.” Matt says, just to hear Frank’s indignant, “ Ha! ”

It’s a warm night, summer closing in over the lasting chill of spring, and the rush of fresh air gets Matt’s pulse pounding. He steers Frank to the center of the roof, taking a minute to go through the actual basics; stance, breathing, so on. He runs them through a quick array of warmups and they take a few experimental jabs at each other, getting acquainted with the boundaries of their so-called equipment. And then it’s time to go.

Frank is brute strength, power behind every shot and far more glad to take a hit if it means he gets an extra chance to strike. Matt reminds him again and again to keep his hands up, protect his face, focus, but Frank’s not used to playing by rules. Matt relishes in the restraint, in having patterns and stances to return to in order to center himself. Without his guns or knives to fall back on, Frank is only concerned with getting in enough blows to end the fight, his own wellbeing be damned.

That’s fine, Matt doesn’t mind demonstrating the error of his ways. He reads Frank’s movements easily, ducking and blocking smoothly, taking every opening he can find to land a strike. He pushes until Frank’s focus starts to sharpen, until he asks Matt to stop so he can correct his stance. He does not appreciate the way Matt is dancing around him, and having struck that vein of annoyance, Matt digs in deep.

He feints, ducks, twists, does anything but let Frank land a clean blow. And where others might lose themselves in the frustration, regress and grow sloppy, Frank’s focus dials in. He reads Matt’s every movement, slowly learning what to anticipate and how to respond. Matt loses track of how long they’re up there, circling each other like hungry dogs, but by the time Matt lands a blow that sends Frank staggering, they’re both breathless and reeking of salt.

“You’re not bad.” Matt says through heaving breaths, perched on an air conditioning unit. “Lots of finesse, control. It’s a little late in life to get into it, but you’ve got promise.”

Frank pretends to pat his back, using the opportunity to try and playfully shove Matt off his seat. He says, “Go fuck yourself,” but he’s laughing through the words.

“Sounds like a waste for you.” Matt replies, grinning. There’s no way to be sure, but Matt likes to think Frank rolls his eyes. His chest is light in the moment, his mind buzzing. He feels alive and light, and so unyieldingly fond. He bounces a fist off of Frank’s shoulder as he walks off.

“You and your smart mouth staying out here?” Frank asks him. “‘Cause I still know one good way to beat your ass.”

They head back in, fishing out cold waters from the fridge before moving in tandem to the shower. Frank is more than true to his word, which leads to the pair of them collapsed on the living room couch, Matt going over texts and emails through a single earbud while Frank catches up on ESPN highlights. He feels warm and sated, and there’s a particular pleasure to be taken in feeling Frank doze beside him, this knowledge that Frank’s ostensibly enjoying this as much as Matt is.

Matt shuffles on the couch as he gives in to sleep, moving so his back is leaning against Frank’s side, head just gently lolling over the curve of Frank’s shoulder. If Frank’s conscious enough to notice this he says nothing, and his breathing only deepens with the closeness.

.&

It’s a surprisingly easy pattern to fall into, spells where there’s nothing else in the world but each other, followed by a few spare, lucid moments to make food or do laundry.

The first thing to go between them is space, as Matt rediscovers that the only thing more uncomfortable than just existing in his rut is existing too far away from Frank. Sitting next to him during the downtime, Matt can think and focus, even if just for minutes at a time. But as the space between them increases, when Frank’s scent and presence aren’t there to ground him, the fog takes his mind completely, incapable of thinking about anything but how badly he needs pressure and warmth.

For Matt this just means staying close, hovering close enough to Frank’s personal bubble to keep his senses straight. They’ve talked failsafes and safewords, and what to do if one of them just needs some goddamn space, but the problem hasn’t presented itself yet. If anything, Matt’s thrown off by the peace he finds in meditation one afternoon, while he sits and takes even breaths of the gun solvent Frank’s using on the roof next to the open door. Teeth or silence, he’s surprised by how much he enjoys having Frank around.

Frank is also tactile in a dozen different ways Matt never expected. A bad joke will get him a punch to the shoulder, while a good one earns him a slap to the knee. If Frank needs to get behind him he’ll steer Matt away with a hand between his shoulder blades or on his hip. If they’re sitting idle, Frank always helps himself to the area on the couch directly beside Matt, and has yet to do more than scoff when Matt uses his lap as a pillow or a footrest. It’s such a strange thing, finding all the little things that make The Punisher so human. A part of Matt knows he shouldn’t, that every moment of humanization will only make their inevitable parting worse, but he drinks in all he can learn about Frank nonetheless.

It’s a warm, humid afternoon when Matt finally breaks and asks Frank to bite him. The thick air and the haze magnifies and melds sensations as Frank’s hands speak reverence into Matt’s body. He studies Matt’s form through his fingers, tracing over old scar tissue and the flushed skin that runs down his chest. Matt arches needily into the touch as one of Frank’s hands finds his throat, thumb resting right over Matt’s pulsepoint.

It’s a cheap imitation of the feeling he wants, the skin flushed and sensitive as the glands work to release their onslaught or hormones. Frank’s nuzzling into the skin above Matt’s ear when Matt sighs, “Frank, just, please.”

He pulls Frank away from his ear and directs him to his throat, and Frank is happy to lick and taste, but Matt needs teeth , pressure, more.

“Just bite,” he says, rolling his head to expose as much skin as he can, “Just one. Please.”

“Red,” Frank warns, pulling back.

“Frank, do you think you’d be the first?” Matt snaps. “You think, you think I haven’t had people give me a goddamn necklace with their teeth? And look around, none of them are here. If you’re this worried about forming attachments because of bitemarks, maybe you’re going about it the wrong way.”

Frank snorts and stills for a long moment, and even underneath him, Matt holds his ground. It occurs to Matt a beat too late that he’s never actually asked Frank about these quirks of his, only avoided them so as to not set the man off. Tiptoeing around it had seemed like the appropriate solution at the time, until it absolutely wasn’t.

Matt’s about to fold, gearing up for a dry apology when Frank’s incisors snap at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and they cling. 

Matt shouts, then moans as it feels like someone’s released a pressure valve in his head. Frank bites hard, a punishment, maybe? A lesson? But all it does is drive Matt mad while his hand works frantically between their twisted bodies.

Frank releases the first bite, takes a moment to survey it before tracing it with a couple of low-effort licks. Even without the pressure the spot still thrums, the sharp sting mixing deliciously with the rush of stimulation. That alone was worth whatever is to follow, Matt thinks, and he’s entirely unprepared for Frank to come in again, biting another link in the chain down his collarbone. He does this until Matt’s a babbling, shaking mess, spilling over and over in short bursts across his belly.

And when they’re done Frank climbs off of him and heads to the bathroom, and Matt listens to him jerk himself off in the shower, muttering curses into his fists.

They box again that night. Apparently Foggy hadn’t been expecting boxing equipment when he’d told Matt he’d pick up anything his friend needed, but he and his spare key to Fogwell’s seen it through all the same. Matt would tell his friend he owes him, but they’re both well aware of this by now.

Frank’s not in the mood to try and learn this time. He’s internalized some of the lessons, improved as much as one can in a handful of days, but he’s still wildly outclassed by Matt. This is something they’re both well aware of, and it only incenses Frank further as he lands blow after easy blow.

“Spare me the martyr bullshit, Red.” Frank sighs as he swats another one of Matt’s punches away. “At least fuckin’ hit back.”

“Using rut feelings to get what you want is an asshole move, I deserve it.” Matt counters, taking his stance again. Frank squares up, and the circling begins. “But at the same time, this isn’t the 40’s. No social conditioning is going to be more powerful than what we actually want.”

Feint, duck. Feint, swipe. Move and oh, shit, that wasn’t a hit he’d given away for free.

Matt clutches his side and spins, Frank follows.

“I’m fuckin’ telling you, Red, rut does shit to your brain. Everything you do to encourage the bonding process, it buries deeper into you.”

“For a couple weeks, maybe.” Matt replies. He manages to hold his gloves up just fast enough to not lose some teeth. “And you go off for months at a time, Frank. Once we’re done here you can disappear again, get some, I don’t know, mountain air. It’s not the rut-born romance that lingers, Frank. It’s…”

“Yeah, I know what it is.” Frank replies too quickly, skin running too hot. Matt regains some of his footing but Frank stays on him, trying to keep him on the defensive. “Maybe it ain’t just me I’m worried about.”

That’s a lie, or at least some kind of half-truth.The only lawyer on the roof doesn’t miss that Frank’s shifting the attention off-subject, but to call it out would mean pressing buttons Matt can’t un-press. No, not over this. They’re throwing punches, but they’re not out for blood.

“Oh, how very noble of you.” Matt says, voice dripping in contempt. He starts striking fast, taking back ground. “Worried you’ll leave me staring out my window, waiting until the night lights up with bullets and screams? I think I’ll manage.”

“It ain’t that simple.”

“Nothing about this needs to be complex.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I got plenty of ways to ruin your life, Murdock.” Frank says as his gloves drop. Matt jerks to a halt before he cracks Frank’s jaw. Something sparks at the nape of his neck in hearing Frank use that name. He’s not speaking to casual frenemy Daredevil, he is speaking to Matthew Michael Murdock, “Maybe this ain’t the way I want to do it.”

Later that night, as they paw at each other in a tight, charged silence, Frank drags a hand up Matt’s scalp and directs him to the exposed column of his throat. He swallows heavy, and his face is pointed at the wall when he says, so quietly, “Please.”

Matt says nothing, only obliges as he takes in the scent of warm skin so close, tongue lighting up at the salt there like it’s wasabi, like a line of fireworks. Matt bites down until water from his mouth is running down Frank’s throat, and he lends a hand down below too. But when Frank comes, when he reaches for Matt to keep him close, it’s Matt’s head he holds in place until the aftershocks subside.

Matt catches himself tracing the mark Frank had left several times over the course of the morning. He can still feel the ghost of Frank’s teeth, something his body is holding on to as it’s been repeatedly told, what a satisfactory person to be around, carnally and otherwise. Guess we’ll feel good when he’s here.

It’s not bullshit that sharing bites around these areas draw people closer together during mating periods, it’s backed by a lot of biology and science that mostly ejected itself from his head after finals in college. But it shouldn’t matter. It can not matter.

Why is Frank letting it matter?

Frank spoke of ruining lives before, but that’s something Matt’s no stranger to. And the implication that someone can do better than himself at burning down all that’s good around him is almost, almost offensive. But until now the idea of more had remained firmly outside the realm of possibility. Matt never allowed himself to think of their… this as anything other than a bad idea, and Frank never stays around long enough to warrant anything else.

And to worry about anything further is just pheromones. 

Yeah, it does feel like the real thing, Matt tells himself the next morning, trying not to get distracted by the way his shirt collar shifts against the memory of the bite. That’s what mating cycles do. How’s it gonna feel when he ignores the no killing rule? When a body drops in front of you by his hand? 

No, Elektra was different. It was different. 

This. Is. Different.

Frank deals with the events of the night before by going back to his normal; letting whatever’s on the laptop run as background noise while he does pushups or dishes, then retiring to the couch to thumb at a novel Foggy had loaned Matt when he mentioned his, uh, partner liked to read. He and Matt give each other space for the breadth of the morning, but as they realize that neither of them are gearing up for another fight, their hackles begin to lower.

Matt fixes lunch, something he’s happier to do now that Frank no longer makes impressed little noises every time his food comes out better than decent. Instead Frank accepts the sandwich, chips, and beer with a “Thanks,” and they eat in companionable silence together, listening to a rerun of Judge Judy. Matt doesn’t even realize what he’s doing as his hand drifts back to the bitemark, running his fingers over it as his mind wanders. But Frank notices.

“How’s it feel?” He asks, and a rock forms in Matt’s stomach immediately. 

“Doesn’t hurt.” Matt answers. There’s not a single string of words he can think of that won’t make this worse, so he just speaks freely. “Feels like my body’s telling me I found a good rutmate, releasing enzymes and… all of that.”

“Mm.” Frank says. “Me too.”

“Look, it won’t happen again.” Matt says after a stretch of quiet. “I got caught up in the moment, I knew you had boundaries, but-”

“Calm down, altar boy.” Frank says. “I took a bite, not a kidney.”

Matt huffs in surprise. “That’s not how you felt last night.”

Frank nods, taking a sip of his beer. “It’s not. But that’s ‘cause I let myself get in my head, and you talked me down. Did you think it would be easy, telling me how I feel?”

“Oh, the thought never crossed my mind.” Matt replies. He’s trying to keep his expression neutral, taking in the array of cues Frank’s giving off. He’s tense, Matt’s tense. Both take another drink.

“I just mean, I appreciate it.” Frank continues. “This is going good. You’ve been… You’ve been real good. But sometimes I start to have too much of a good time, you know? The shit that’s going on in my head when I’m around you is strong, and it’s got me starting to believe crazy things. The bites are good, the ache is so fucking good, Red . I just gotta remember to trust you to bring me back to earth.”

“Right.” Matt says, chewing on the inside of his lip. Frank’s chosen his words so carefully, Matt wonders just how much work went into avoiding his lie–detector senses. It’s hard to tell exactly how Frank feels about his own vague wording, but his pulse, the twitch of his muscles, suggests he doesn’t believe it all. But, god, it’s not something Matt wants to press on.

Instead he says to Frank, “And you’ll still do the same for me?” 

Because Matt’s had a lot of practice with this, pushing feelings down, keeping people away. But as he’ll discover again and again, as many times as it takes, it never gets any easier.

Frank lets out a bark of laughter. “Oh yeah, sure, Red. When I catch you gettin’ all moony over this ugly mug, I’ll let you know”

“I mean, you said it best, Frank.” Matt says, leaning back, wishing the knot in his stomach would dissolve, “Those pheromones are strong. We’ve just got to remember that’s all they are.”

“Exactly, exactly.” Frank says. He gathers his and Matt’s plates and bottles and makes for the kitchen, steps as light as Frank Castle’s can be. Matt just sits for a moment, letting his attention drift. As usual, he’s very grateful to be the only human polygraph test in the room.

Frank’s staring at him. He’s comfortably folded between Matt’s thighs, a fresh bottle of lube in-hand as he works Matt open, slow and patient in the way that drives Matt wild. There are plenty of moments where the sex is fast and greedy, nails, bruises. But right now it’s languid, slow and teasing as Frank once again chases Matt’s hand away from his own cock.

“Ah-ah,” He says, curling his fingers again in a way that has Matt spasming on top of him. “Weren’t you the one going on and on about the wonders of the alpha prostate?”

Matt just babbles something, lost in sensation and Frank’s unyielding assault inside of him. Matt’s toes start shaking, thighs trembling as every ounce of his focus narrows down to the pressure inside of him. And Frank is drinking it in deeply, making small, impressed noises as Matt bucks uselessly into the air, desperate for just a little extra friction. When it becomes clear that Matt’s getting close, he mutters small encouragements in time with the draw of his fingers until finally Matt’s calling his name, throwing his head back, clawing at the sheets. 

It’s about now that Frank usually moves in to wipe up Matt’s belly, asking if he needs a moment or if he’s ready for Frank to continue forward. But Frank just watches Matt breathe, fingers still inside the man, until Matt props himself up on an elbow and asks, “Everything okay?”

“Is it really that good?” Frank asks in a tone Matt can only classify as shyly. And as though Matt can’t pick up his meaning through context alone, Frank gives another quick crook of his fingers, sending hot jolts of lightning through Matt’s body. He hisses, wriggling away and folding himself into a sitting position.

“Well, it was.” Matt says as the sharp discomfort fades. He hands some tissue paper to Frank and says, “I mean, I’m clearly a fan. Why, you interested?”

He’d been joking but, yes. Absolutely yes, according to the thrum of Frank’s pulse, the cloud of pheromones that flares up around him. But Frank doesn’t answer, doesn’t budge except to shrug his shoulders. “I ‘unno.”

The thought of laying Frank Castle down beneath him and working his body until he’s a sobbing mess in the center of Matt’s sheets hits him like a fist to the gut. His cock bobs with interest, but Matt keeps his tone even and light as he speaks.

“Listen, I’ve got no interest in judgment. And it’s true, it’s not for everyone. But if it’s something you want to try you can just say it. You can ask.”

Frank huffs, rolling his neck before he says, “I’ve just been thinkin’ about it, you know? You grow up around a certain type of people, you spend enough time in certain circles, you pick up stuff, right? You get told your whole life that tryin’ this stuff is omega shit, submissive behavior. Real alphas don’t do that. But goddamn, it sounds so stupid when you’re the one saying it out loud.”

Matt smiles, sympathetic. “Oh, I’m familiar. I was pretty much the same until, you know, college and some, uh, hands-on experience.”

“Right, right.”

“And there’s no hurry.” Matt says. “If everything keeps going normally, we’ve still got three, maybe four more days.”

Frank looks at the mattress for a long minute. When he reaches for the lube, Matt’s certain it’s to get them both hard again and continue on with what they’d been doing. Instead he passes it to Matt and moves to lie down on the bed with his knees open, and Matt’s left ‘staring’ dumbly, brain and libido colliding in his brain at top-speed.

“Fuck it,” Frank says. “Best time to try was twenty years ago, second best time is right now and all that shit, right?” 

Matt needs an extra moment to form a response, he can’t believe this is happening. But at the same time, he’s got no complaints. 

“You’re sure about this, right?”

Frank’s blushing so hard Matt could roast a marshmallow off of him, but he holds his ground. “You think I wouldn’t ask if I was sure? Would you just touch my asshole?”

Little thrills of excitement run up and down Matt’s arms as they swap their usual positions. Frank’s tense, but that’s not too unexpected, and Matt’s reveling in the idea of helping him relax, helping ease years of internalized toxic bullshit out of his system in the hunt for one of the best orgasms of his life. 

He begins by just rubbing Frank’s thighs, reminding him of all the familiarity and comfort that comes with having someone between his legs. Frank slowly leans into the touch, relaxing so his heels slide down the length of the bed. Matt moves to his cock then, his balls, his taint. Working the soft pads of his fingers over every inch of sensitive skin and reading each muscle spasm he inspires. 

His first few passes over Frank’s hole are dry, quick, letting him get used to the sensation. “You know it’ll be uncomfortable for a minute, right?”

“I know how sex works, thanks.”

Matt forgives him for the defensiveness. His pulse is steady, but it jumps every time Matt applies pressure to his hole. He won’t say it, but his body’s telling Matt he’s nervous. He’s also ridiculously hard, and the air flares with pheromones when Matt uncaps the bottle of lube. 

“Tell me if you don’t like it, Frank, I mean it. There’s nothing to prove here. I want this to feel good, and so do you.”

Frank swallows hard, but he nods. Matt once again takes his time, familiarizing Frank with each sensation before he presses on. When Frank tenses too much up from discomfort he pauses even though the man says nothing, and for minutes on top of minutes he’s content to move his finger in a circle no larger than the size of a quarter if that’s what Frank needs to feel good. 

When Frank’s gotten used to the initial intrusion, he lets Matt know by gently grinding his hips downward, signaling for Matt to go deeper, to move.

“It’s different, huh?” Matt asks as he begins a slow, simple in-and-out motion. If there’s anyone capable of feeling their way to someone’s prostate it’s Matt, but he’s in no hurry. They’ve got all the time in the world. 

“It’s uh, new.” Frank chuckles dryly. 

Matt rubs his free hand up and down Frank’s thigh soothingly, switching to palm at the man’s dick when he makes a particularly unsure sound. As Matt’s movements become smooth and rhythmic he begins to experiment with feeling around, crooking his finger until he finds the engorged bundle of nerves that has Frank throwing his head back with a sob. His cock jumps in Matt’s hand, his pulse picks up speed.

“Oh, holy shit.” He gasps, rutting back into Matt’s hand, hissing as he impales himself too deep. “Do that again.”

Matt eases Frank backwards, back to stillness, before he obliges. He’s careful not to hit Frank’s prostate on every stroke, giving him time to get accustomed to the feeling. The jolt of pleasure is intense, but too much of it easily falls past the border of discomfort, and that’s not something Matt’s eager to show him. 

But the heat of this moment, the rawness, the vulnerability on display as Frank softly mutters, “Oh, pleaseple aseplease ,” is hitting Matt like a drug, giving his brain a buzz and making his cock drip.

“There you go, that’s it.” Matt says, wetting his free hand with the excess lube of the other so he can properly jerk Frank off in time. Frank’s trembling under his hands, rung tight and breathless in his need, still jolting each time now both of Matt’s fingers brush that spot inside. “Nothing wrong with this, right? Nothing wrong with feeling good.”

Frank starts bucking into Matt’s hand in earnest, pace picking up as his body becomes increasingly desperate. He’s not even saying words now, but mumbling pleas that soak into Matt’s brain like liquor.

Frank groans as he comes, his muscles gripping tight around Matt’s fingers, thighs holding him tight. His dick pulses hard in Matt’s palm, spilling over his fingers and down his own chest.

Matt can’t help it, it’s too much. He pulls off of Frank’s cock to grip his own tightly, lurching forward to the man spread out beneath him, desperate for contact. Frank just hums an amused sound, offers his limp palm for Matt to hump while the tips of his fingers still sit inside the man. As he pumps himself with one hand, he lifts the one covered in Frank’s cum and cleans his fingers, at least until his orgasm hits so hard that he needs to bite down instead.

“Oh, fuck, Red.” Is all Frank can say as they sit and catch their breath. Curled beside each other, pheromones surging, Matt can’t help himself but gently groom the nape of Frank’s neck, wicking away the sweat with his tongue and nuzzling him to meld the scents there. Frank says nothing to this, but he does turn his head to encourage access.

“So we’ll be trying that again?” He asks, nosing the soft, fragrant skin behind Frank’s ear. He feels the muscles in Frank’s face shift as he grins.

“Yeah,” Frank laughs. “We’ll be tryin’ that again.”

With nothing but searing fog between their ears, Matt and Frank ease into the high haze of the rut. Time loses meaning, food loses taste. Dishes go unwashed, laundry piles up. Frank hangs spare sheets over the windows of Matt’s room, turning the space into a blurry warmdark for himself, and putting up a barrier from the ever-present buzz of New York outside. It hardly dulls the barrage of sounds, but it helps muffle it just enough so Matt can better focus on his and Frank’s heartbeats instead. 

Matt’s unsure there’s a world outside his bed, that if he were to move off of the mattress he’d just slip, fall in open air until he lands back in Frank’s arms. Fine with him, really, if it means he can taste more of the salt on Frank’s skin.

And Frank is just as desperate for him. If he’s not got the man in his arms or on top of him, he’s constantly touching him somewhere, a hand on his back, his ankle tossed over Matt’s under the covers. When they’re not actively fucking he’s content to just be close, to just scent Matt in every place he can reach. So many times Matt’s mind brings up why Frank clings so desperately to him, but Matt can only let the thoughts drift past, blurred under the reward of being touched.

There seems to be no greater reward to Frank than the noises Matt makes as his slips his tongue into a myriad of places; his needy whine when Frank tongues at his hole, his strangled gasp as Frank licks a line straight up his armpit. Frank’s starving and desperate for him, and Matt is just the same, and for a few touch-drunk hours in the middle of the day, that’s not terrifying at all.

“You wanna fuck me?” Frank asks breathlessly, rolling away from the line of bruises he’d been sucking into Matt’s neck. Ever since Frank had voiced his curiosity the other night, his hunger for Matt’s touch had only grown, as had his boldness in requests. As far as Matt could tell he’d torn the band-aid off of Frank’s old wounds so well that he’d barely felt the sting of it, and he’d gone after the resulting freedom with a fierce hunger. (Later on he would feel some stinging however, after he got particularly impatient.) He’d taken Matt’s cock like a champion since, the experiment mostly proving a challenge on Matt’s end as he tried desperately to not come as soon as he’d bottomed out and draped himself across Frank’s back.

“Of course, of course.” Matt pants, more than happy to switch things up from the events of the last hour. 

Frank’s greedy for contact, too impatient to have his hands on Matt to sit and wait to have himself eased open. His mouth is on Matt’s jaw, his ear, his throat, hand working Matt’s cock to the point where the base has already begun to swell.

“Easy,” Matt shushes him, giving Frank’s chest a push so he can fall back on the pillows. 

Frank’s not interested in easy, but he bites back his impatience so Matt can work him open, though not as thoroughly as Matt would have liked. Far be it for him to think Frank is in need of a lot of delicate touch, but he also never likes to hurt the man without a reason. All the same, when Frank starts pushing his hips back hungrily, Matt decides the man knows his limits and that this is what he wants. Basking in the tiny, eager coming out of Frank’s throat, Matt eases one of Frank’s legs over his shoulder and slowly guides himself in.

They’ve been fucking for days but he never gets used to it, the slide of heat and pressure, the way their bodies writhe and buck, still hungry for the taste and desperation of each other. And this new opportunity, the chance to pound deep into Frank, to hear what happens when his thoughts and burdens get fucked away, is its own kind of addicting. That this has even happened, that this is something that even the most pheromone-drunk, fuck-driven Frank Castle would allow him to do, is still something he can’t believe. 

Maybe wouldn’t believe, were the man not panting beneath him, jerking himself off desperately and panting, “Faster, faster, faster.”

Matt only allows himself to slow as he feels the telltale pressure at the base of his cock, as something sharper, needier hits him in the moments where he’s pulling out of Frank. His mouth waters at the idea of continuing, of easing the swelling bulb in and out of the man as much as he can before it’s too much, before they reach the zenith and Matt’s body calls it, and they’re locked tightly together.

He allows himself a fleeting moment to crave the idea before he cuts himself off, forcing thoughts back into his brain. That’s not a decision for him to make, and considering Frank’s staunch dismissal of knotting that first night, it’s also not a question he wants to ask.

Matt adjusts his pace, thrusting in a slightly more shallow manner that brings a whine to Frank’s lips.

“Whatcha’ doing Red?” He pants, “C’mon, don’t tease.” 

“Gotta, unless you wanna get tied.” Matt says. 

He redoubles his efforts, trying to make up for the shortened thrusts with speed and gusto. Frank takes it for a few moments before his free leg wraps around Matt’s waist and he says, “Then do it.”

Matt pulls back, while simultaneously his mouth goes try and his knot pulses.

“Frank, that’s, you’re asking-”

“I know what I want. It’s not getting the knot that trips me up, Red. And right now, oh my god, I need it. I need you that close, I need you so bad.”

“I, are you sure?” Matt’s trying to keep his muscles from shaking with want, continuing to fuck Frank while they speak, but never bottoming out. There’s a sensible part of him hoping he can get Frank to come before it gets to be an issue. The other part wants to lock himself inside Frank, hold him and praise him while Matt deposits so much cum in the man that Frank can taste it.

“Pretty goddamn sure.” Is all Frank says, rolling of his hips in time with the pressure of Matt’s thrusts. “I want it, Red. It’s your call.”

And the explicit permission, the begging, Matt is only human. He picks up speed again, reveling in Frank’s celebratory growls as he starts hitting all his deepest parts once more, moving against his prostate at a bruising pace. More and more Matt finds himself putting extra effort into the snap behind his hips, working his knot in and out of Frank as it grows, until doing so has Frank babbling and whining.

And then Matt pushes his hips flush to Frank’s, and Frank lets out a groan different from the others. It’s deeper, pulling out the air from the very bottom of his lungs. The only other time Matt has heard the sound was the first time Frank had taken Matt’s cockhead, stunned and overwhelmed in all the best ways. Now Matt can feel him clenching desperately against Matt’s knot, familiarizing himself with the sensation of being tied.

“Tell me if it’s good.” Matt coos as he feels the knot expand even further. The pressure is delicious, an unyielding squeeze that feels like it’s yanking the rest of the sensation from Matt’s body and centering it all right there. And Frank is still leaning into it, in slow, short pumps of the hips as part of Matt’s cock grinds back and forth against his prostate. 

“So fuckin’ good.” Frank murmurs. “So goddamn full. Full of you, covered in you. Best place to be in the world.”

“My favorite.” Matt says, wrapping his palm around Frank’s cock just to feel him seize. The way Frank’s internal grip tightens around him sends Matt’s head spinning, his hips stuttering. Frank’s milking his knot like a champion, like a desperate man, and Matt is powerless to do anything but seize the moment until finally, finally, a shudder passes through him and he snaps.

Coming with the knot is… Well, they based pillars of society around it, didn’t they? This moment of absolute rapture, of losing oneself to prolonged pleasure, the kind that makes him feel so good it leaves him lightheaded. Matt’s partially aware that he’s toppled on top of Frank, mouthing desperately at him in between whispers of absolute bliss. But in this moment nothing else exists beyond this connection, beyond this bond, beyond the scent and solidity of Frank beneath him.

Matt rides the high as long as he can, slowly gaining back the ability to parse thoughts, to notice things. Frank is feeling more than content beneath him, the stickiness on his stomach and the deepness of his breaths telling Matt that Frank’s also been enjoying himself. Is still enjoying himself, if Matt’s reading each of his tiny grunts and squeaks correctly.

But what if he isn’t?

Reality hits him like the shock of cold water, so much so that he finds himself jerking back, both of them yelping as the knot tugs but doesn’t dislodge. The sudden pain brings Frank down as well.

“Ah, fuck, Red.”

“Shit, shit. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t gotta be sorry, just don’t jerk around like that. What the hell?”

“No, I mean, this. Are you still sure? Frank, I just don’t want to-”

That seems to get through to him, but Frank doesn’t react beyond letting out an amused little breath.

“Calm down, Red. Don’t be sorry.” Frank says. nosing at Matt gently, putting his forehead against Matt’s and staying there as they catch their breath. “Please don’t be sorry.” 

And who is Matt to deny such a request when Frank is asking so nicely?

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for, Matt, nothin’ at all. Keep going, don’t stop.”

Hearing his name on Frank’s tongue should terrify Matt. It should freeze him solid, it should be grounds for ending this immediately. Instead it sends tremors up his spine and lightning snapping through his brainstem, mouth falling slack as another wave of euphoria overtakes him. His balls constrict, his chest heaves. Frank purrs as the shakes from Matt’s body resonate inside of him.

As the waves subside though, Matt has a choice to make. He can take this, this time, the happiest and most fulfilled he’s been in months, and ruin it because in the heat of the moment the wrong syllable fell out of Frank’s mouth. Or he can hold on to this, cling to it as tightly as he can simply because he knows it’s soon to end, and he can tell himself, at least it was good when I had it. At least I have no regrets.

He kisses Frank deep, something much hungrier than the quick, fleeting kisses they’ve shared in the midst of passion. This is something intentional, something with purpose. Frank stills at the pressure of Matt’s lips on his, but he’s got no interest in denying himself more of the man, or the opportunity to taste him in another way. Frank gasps around the wet glide of Matt’s tongue, angles his face so their noses don’t crash together. He runs his hands up and down Matt’s sides, tweaks Matt’s nipples and laughs into his mouth when the other man gasps.

They stay there entangled, all together starving and sated until Matt’s finally able slip out, and the both of them can sit and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“C’mon, Red.” Frank says later as they’re coming down, trading a water bottle back and forth. “When was I ever gonna get another chance?”

He takes a bite of a churro from the paper bag on Matt’s nightstand, freshly-made by a local business a couple of blocks over and still warm. Matt’s not big on things that are too sugary (Frank has no such objections), but this place manages to get the texture and sweetness just right. And in a time where he’s exerting as much energy as he is, his body is more than happy for the extra fuel. They’d had a few different places delivered over the course of the week, and churros had won the title of favorite.

“Can you blame me for being surprised? I don’t think anyone would ever expect The Punisher to take the knot.” Matt licks the sugar and cinnamon off his thumb, Frank licks his lips.

“Yeah, probably because you’re the only one I’ve been stuck around long enough to have the chance.” 

A lie, small, fleeting. Matt lets it pass. 

“Well, it helps being able to get on the roof and kick your teeth in every night.” He says through a fond smile.

“Shit, don’t I know it.”

They go through the motions of cleaning up and then head towards the bathroom for a thorough wash. While they’re standing and waiting for the water to warm, Frank rests his chin on Matt’s shoulder, muttering sweet, filthy things to him. In the midst of it, the thought of Frank misspeaking pings off of him again, nagging like a mosquito circling his ear. 

It’s fine. Hindbrain, pheromones. It’ll pass.

Matt remains distracted while Frank steps around him and into the tub. Frank offers his hand and the warm water follows the line of his arm, the spray bringing Matt back to the moment. He steps in after Frank, and he’s welcomed back into the man’s arms. It’s Frank who kisses him this time, just as hungry as before, and Matt’s relieved to be able to think of nothing else. 

“Where do you think you’ll go after this?”

It’s late, deeply late. Hell’s Kitchen is as quiet as it ever gets, the world lost to uneven snores and forgotten, blaring infomercials. Frank’s breathing is steady, and Matt can feel the man’s heart thrumming behind him, his chest pressed tight to Matt’s spine. He tenses though, at the question.

“Dunno.” He says after a moment of thought. “I’ll probably reach out to Lieberman, see what’s changed while I’ve been out here. Before all this I was on the trail of some weapons smugglers, small-time guys brought in to fund their bosses trafficking ring while the bigwigs hide out in the shadows. We’ll see how it works out for them.”

Matt nods, chewing the inside of his lip.

“Go ahead, say it.” Frank says.

“All I want to point out is that there’s a practicality to bringing them in beyond justice. Information is key, and if we-”

Frank laughs dryly. “I’m aware, save me the lecture. It’s just who I am, Red. You know what I’ve gotta do.”

Matt makes a point of rolling his eyes where Frank can see him do it, hoping it comes through in the dark. This is just Frank’s regular role in his life, the immovable object to Matt’s unstoppable force. He doesn’t always like it, but there’s a twisted little satisfaction in knowing Frank will always feel just the same way when Matt manages to swoop in and disarm him at the last second. Frank and cathartic little thrills go well together.

“Well, if that work brings you back to the kitchen and you don’t feel like sleeping on a ten-dollar thrift shop mattress, you know where to find me.” Matt says finally, a casual admittance of defeat. “But here, the no-killing rule still stands. Maybe I can’t protect the world from you, but I will protect The Kitchen.”

Frank kisses the back of his head, keeps his lips there for a long moment. 

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

.&

It’s like being taken by the undercurrent. It’s the difference between a warm day in spring and the dog days of summer. It’s as though every thought that isn’t in response to being touched is worthless, is to be disregarded in pursuit of greater pleasure. Matt loses himself in Frank, learns to respect the old clichè of forgetting where one begins or the other ends. They are one writhing animal in search of endless physical release, a starving, voracious ouroboros. 

Matt’s absolutely lost in Frank, the two are drunk on each other, and it’s a surprise that he’s present enough at all to notice that something’s different. But at the same time there’s no missing the extra deepness Frank reaches as he pushes in, until his hips are flush with Matt’s ass.

And it feels good. At this point, any sensation that they haven’t mutually wrung out of each other a hundred times over is a treat, and this happening while Frank is balls deep inside of him is an experience that goes beyond words. Matt loses himself to the sensation again, beyond the point of reason right up until he feels Frank’s base start to swell.

Matt pushes through, forcing his head above the pleasure and the fog.

“Frank,” He gasps, putting out a shaking hand to try and still the man. “Frank, your knot.”

“‘S okay.” Frank pants, “‘S gonna feel so good.”

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey, hold on.” Matt says, nerves shrieking at the lack of sensation. Frank’s still moving slowly and sensually on top of him, but awareness is returning to his movements. “Frank, talk to me.”

“Ah, shit. You honestly telling me you’re not into this?” Frank asks.

Of fucking course I am. Matt wants to tell him. Instead he takes a deep breath and says, “You’re the one that told me you have a problem with knotting people. You’re the one who didn’t want to do it. Where’s the sleeve?”

“Ugh, the fuckin’ sleeve.” Frank sighs. “I can’t do it anymore. I need you, I need you. Half the time you’re inside me, all I’m thinking about is how incredible it’s gonna feel to do it to you. I want my fuckin’ turn, Red.”

“That’s not happening, Frank. I’m doing what you asked me to do, I’m pulling you back down to earth. What even happens when you knot people? We’re talking about trauma. Have you, have you even done it with anyone since-”

“Ugh, ‘trauma’ . Like I’m not dealing with that shit every day of my life as it is.” Frank huffs. “But no, you wouldn’t be the first since her. Since Maria.”

Silence, tension floods the room as their pulses gradually slow. 

“But everyone I have, they’ve- shit’s come their way. I know it’s stupid of me to think if I fuck them right, being around me won’t automatically ruin their life. Plenty of people I don’t want to test that out on. But you know, whether or not I’m around you, shit keeps flying at you, and you keep handling it. Maybe if we’re already fucked, it won’t matter that we’re fucked together.”

“Frank…”

“Look, obviously I’m not saying you’re not allowed to say no. But I can see the goddamn disappointment written across your face whenever I pull the sleeve out, it’s no secret we both want this. You don’t need to moralize me out of this, Murdock. Let’s feel good.”

Matt wants to. He wants to so badly he can feel it in his teeth, in the sweat pooling in the dips of his collarbone. But the only thoughts in his head are those of Frank at his lowest moments, desolate and alone, curled against a gravestone, packed into a van with only shadows in his heart and a duffle bag filled with guns. If this is something that could somehow be made worse by giving Matt his stupid cockbulb, then no amount of pleasure and satisfaction is worth it. 

“I’m sorry, Frank, it’s not for lack of wanting. But no.”

Frank stays quiet for a while, blood running hard as his heart picks up speed. No part of him is happy about this, but he doesn’t push the issue further. He moves away from Matt and Matt’s heart sinks, but he’s only gone momentarily to cross the room and pick up the abandoned sleeve. Matt spreads his thighs and Frank plants himself there once it’s snugly back on and sets a brutal pace, not stopping until he’s breathing too hard to move. 

They peel themselves off of each other afterwards, the air between them tense. The weight of guilt and desire is heavy around Matt’s neck, and Frank’s plainly annoyed and trying his hardest not to show it. Any attempts at conversation are short and clipped, fading away in the immediate aftermath. It’s almost strange at this point, leaving the room to clean himself up and get a snack without Frank in-step behind him, but the man just remains on the bed, splayed out, face pointed towards the ceiling.

It goes against every instinct Matt is feeling, but he forces himself to give the man space.

“Red.” Frank says into the darkness. “Thanks.”

Matt takes to the living room, and moves to the gloves hung on the banister of the rooftop stairway. His brain is buzzing, it’s almost impossible for him to keep a train of thought going, but the weight of the gloves help. Finding his stance, jabbing at the air in time with his breathing, his muscles know the movements and slip into them without effort. It’s a poor replacement for the kind of movement his body wants, but sweat and exhaustion are good all the same.

Matt batters the open air as long as he can take it, his mind starting to take stock of what he cares about the least in the apartment and would make a half-decent punching bag. It’s about then that Frank makes his reappearance.

God, Matt had thought the sliding glass door was doing next to nothing when it came to holding back Frank’s scent. It’s still enveloping him, still choking him, and when the man steps into the open air Matt all but has a coughing fit from the way the waves of it roll in, hot and insistent like summer storm clouds.

Should Frank ask, Matt would be more than willing to drop the gloves in this moment and pounce his body. He’s still well aware of the tension between them, as he is well aware that they need more distance right now, not less. But none of that matters to the rut, to the fog steering Matt’s body the second he lets it. And considering the waves of need Frank is giving off, he expects Frank is feeling much the same.

But he doesn’t go to Matt. He heads for the staircase, snagging the other pair of gloves on his way up.

Matt’s mouth starts watering the second the thought hits him, of Frank in nothing but his boxers and gloves, sweat running down his back as his muscles roll and flex with every punch. His little warmup session, whatever this was, is over. Once the door closes behind Frank, Matt’s plan is to collapse on the couch and drink in every labored breath, every effort and grunt he'll be able to pick up, and hope it gets him all the way there.

Instead, Frank pauses by the door. His feet shift back and forth, drawing a complaining groan from the floorboards. He hesitates there, taking breaths to speak but then releasing them, taking the handle of the door but not twisting it open. “ Shit.” Matt hears him hiss.

And then louder, in a clearer voice, “You comin’?”

As if it’s even a question. 

Sex and beating the shit out of each other, the two pleasures have become close bedfellows over the past week. And while it’s nothing like clawing at his back, or having Frank mouth wantonly at his throat, it’s contact. It’s touch. It’s pounding out painful sounds from each other until there’s blood in the air and they’re both cackling at nothing.

It’s a brawl reminiscent of a different fight on a rooftop, in their earliest days of crossing paths when all they had were myths and notions about monsters and half-measures. Their swings are heavy, their grunts carnal. Matt’s body twists to follow a myriad of patterns, defensive boxing, lithe ducking and rolling, and Frank follows every movement, unyielding, unstoppable.

Matt is more than happy to give as good as he gets, restraint slipping away from him in exchange for the ability to send Frank staggering, to hear the blood spattering over the man’s lip after the breaths Frank huffs out of his nose.

They fight dirty, messy. Toes get stomped, throats get swung at, more than once Matt has to twist and narrowly avoid a knee straight to his groin. The air is filled with nothing but the sound of their pained, heaving breaths and that’s the way they want it, desperate to have it in any form they can grasp. Even as the fight goes long, even when their steps begin to wobble. It’s a wordless something they’re both deeply aware of, that this is a fight they can’t stop. That as much force as they’re putting into slowing the other man down, the real battle is happening inside them.

Matt squares up again, lifting his fists. He doesn’t even remember ripping his gloves off, but his and Frank’s hands are bare, knuckles bloodied. His arms are shaking with the effort to keep them up, his legs are sluggish as they move in a loose, wobbly circle around each other. Matt feels like he’s been boiled down to his most basic components, the desire for closeness, the will to fight.

He lunges again, and collapses in Frank’s arms. He’d moved in to try and clinch the man’s arms down, but the second their chests brush, it’s over. Frank groans and moves his hands to Matt’s hair immediately, dragging his fingernails across Matt’s scalp as Matt bites hard on his shoulder. They stay there for a moment, grabbing at each other with hard, drunken swipes until they’re shaking with the effort it takes to stand.

“Oh, Frank, promise me you want this.” Matt moans, unable to pull himself off of the man but feeling his knees begin to buckle. 

“Goddamnit, Red. I haven’t thought about anything else since you showed up on that rooftop. Ain’t it fuckin’ obvious I can’t stay away from you?”

“You’ll leave after this.” Matt pants, easing himself and Frank down on the ground before giving Frank’s chest a hard push, taking in the satisfying crunch of him landing on gravel. “You’ll be gone for months. I won’t hear a word.”

Frank shucks off his boxers, hissing at the scrape of bare skin against concrete. “That’s for the best. You don’t need to be distracted by my bullshit, you’ve got a city to protect.”

“A very noble thing to tell yourself.” Matt grumbles, wriggling his own sweatpants off before spreading himself across Frank’s lap.

“Well what the fuck do you want from me? You want regular updates on the people who cross my path? You think the story’s ever gonna end a different way?” Frank spits on his fingers and Matt parts his thighs, clenching his teeth at the less than gentle treatment Frank gives his hole.

“I don’t know what I want, Frank.” Matt admits, body lighting up once again at the touch. Frank’s cock is hard and warm underneath him, base already swelling. “I want you. I just want you.”

“I can give that to you, Red.”

Matt kisses him, holds him close until his lungs are burning and his cock is aching. Frank’s rock-hard against his thigh and he’s gently humping the air, even if doing so brings him back down on the cold scrape of the roof. There are hundreds of tiny stones digging into the flesh of Matt’s knees and he hardly feels it, hardly aware of anything but what’s underneath him.

He aligns himself and falls back on Frank’s cock easily, like his body was made to do it. For a second it’s so much, too much, and all they can do is shiver and pant in the night air. Matt can feel the knot, hardly formed, pressing at his rim and there’s not a single feeling, a thought in his head, an innate pull, that can stop him from rolling his hips downward and taking it in.

“Fuck.” He grunts.

“Oh, god,” Frank moans.

There’s still some time for them to fuck each other proper before the knot’s too big and so they make use of it, Matt with his hands splayed across Frank’s chest, bouncing and taking Frank as deep as he can manage, grateful as he’s ever been to be so flexible.

Frank’s putting in the effort to fuck Matt back, but it’s Matt who’s in control, who sets the pace, whose body makes the call to push itself down on Frank’s knot again and again.

“So good, so good.” Matt says, shuddering. The knot swells further, and he gasps with the effort it’s taking for him to slide all the way down once more. “You’re the worst, you’re my favorite. I can’t stand you. I need you. Fuck, Frank- Frank!”

He pushes down on the knot one final time, groaning as it all but locks into position. Frank’s dick is pulsing inside of him, crammed against his prostate in a perfect way so that when Matt clenches or twists, a livewire jolt pulses throughout his body.

Frank says nothing, just making wet mouth sounds and panting. His vital signs are what Matt expects, tense, heart racing, lungs heaving, but anything beyond ‘turned on’ is lost to the darkness.

“Still with me, Frank?” He asks, moving a hand to cup Frank’s jaw. He’s so close, and Frank is so good inside of him. When his palm meets the rough surface of Frank’s stubble the other man reaches for him, taking the hand, holding it there. Frank turns his face and presses small, soft kisses to Matt’s palm, following up the line of his fingers. He holds on to Matt and keeps them there for a long pause, and then lets go of the hand.

“Keep goin’.”

There’s a part of Matt that is desperate to know what’s happening in Frank’s head right now, but concentrating on that is like pinning down a goldfish in the ocean. How is he supposed to focus on anything but the sounds they make when Matt’s flush to Frank’s hips, writhing on top of him, milking his knot until his thighs are shaking and sweat drips into his eyes?

“Flip over.” Matt says, not even sure if Frank is present enough to hear him. But he reacts to the words, doing his best to follow the request with minimal strain between them. The resulting yank is just about as pleasant as the gravel and bird shit Matt’s no-doubt lying on, but it’s all second to Frank, to the point where they are tied.

Matt lets Frank take over thrusting then, with what minute movements he can manage. They gingerly rock into each other, and Matt begins licking and nipping at Frank’s jaw as the pleasure grows. There’s still nothing quite like being pinned by Frank, being smothered, blocking out the rest of the world for a few precious moments of relief. Matt bucks up to the best of his ability, desperate for the further stimulation of his cock gliding across Frank’s belly. And when he gets it, when Frank pushes into him as Matt rocks to meet the movement, when the knot and Frank’s cock hit so many just-right spots at the same time-

Matt lets out a sob, head falling back, concrete forgotten. It’s as though every muscle in his body locks down, his thighs wrapped tight around Frank’s hips, his arms hugging desperately around his shoulders, teeth sunk into the man’s skin; everything inside of him is focused on dragging out as much sensation as it can from the core of him. Matt curses, lets go of one bitemark to start another. 

Frank’s a goner as soon as Matt starts clamping down, babble building up and spilling out of his lips as his voice grows more and more taut, a slurred run of syllables that only tightens into a single sound as he comes. “Oh, oh Matt. Matt. ”

Heat spreads through Matt’s insides, the knowledge filthy and terrible and delicious. Even as as his thoughts clear, his body continues riding the pleasure, tensing again and again just to hear Frank whine.

Frank reaches for him in the midst of it, pulling them together so he can kiss him, nuzzle him, nip the area around his lips. “Thank you.” He says, over and over. “Thank you. Fuck you. Thank you.”

All the pheromones, all the fog, all the desire and self-justification in the world can not bring Matt to be in the same room as Frank Castle. As soon as he’d been able to pull out, Frank had. He’d stood up, dusted the roof grime off of himself, grabbed his boxers and made for the door.

Matt had stayed there a little longer, until the natural needs of the situation drove him to the toilet. By then Frank was already back in the bedroom, heartbeat present in the space but not where Matt knew the bed to be. If Matt’s reading the bloodflow right, and listening in for the creak of floorboards, it sounds to him like Frank’s sitting in a corner.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

Had Frank known it would feel this futile when he’d told Matt to watch out for him, for all those ‘head chemicals’? Had he secretly been hoping Matt would fall victim to his own desires the whole time, or did he really think there was so much decency inside of Matt that he’d just be able to shrug off the feelings when they became inconvenient? Idiot.

After he showers, Matt spends the next hour sat cross-legged on the couch, doing a piss-poor imitation of his meditation routine that mostly just consists of letting his attention drift back to Frank, how in the midst of his war-drum heartbeat his pulse will start to jump and he’ll shift back and forth on the floor. Matt tunes in to the breathing techniques Frank uses to calm himself down, how they’ll work for a time before something in the man’s pulse flutters and he’s back to labored, heaving breaths.

Matt gives up on the meditation, throws himself off the couch and sulks into the kitchen. He drinks deep from the coldest bottle of water he can find and straightens himself out, trying to ignore the part of this that feels like walking into a confessional. 

Frank doesn’t move when he opens the door. Matt had been right, Frank’s hunkered down in the corner of the bedroom between the two covered windows, one leg curled up to his chest, the other laid out in front of him. 

Having not been in here since the fresh air of the roof, the stink of bodies and sweat and sex almost knocks him out as he steps in, body reacting treacherously when Matt couldn’t want to touch anyone less.

“Frank.”

“It’s fine, Red.”

Matt gestures to the room around them, to Frank’s position in it. “This is fine?”

“I’m thinkin’ about stuff.”

“Is there someone I should call? Is this, does this happen every time? Your friend, David, does he-”

Frank huffs, dragging his palm down the length of his face.

“I’m fine.” Frank says sharply. His heartbeat somehow suggests he actually believes this. “This ain’t the knot.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

“It’s me.” Frank spits. “Problem is me coming here in the first place, knowing exactly what would happen. Me laying on that brain chemical shit so thick, all that talk of holding each other accountable, knowing full-well we’d be fucked from day one. And now I’ve got you, the martyr, feeling like you did something wrong by just letting yourself feel something. It was me who did that, because I was such a goddamn coward.”

“Frank, the pheromones aren’t bullshit. There’s a lot going on inside your head right now, we both need to calm down.”

“This is as calm as I’m getting.” Frank says. “You wanna know something, Red? I knew I was dropping by this city weeks before I had any clue the rut was coming. Soon as I realized a lead could take me here, I got giddy as a goddamn kid going to Disney World. You think I stalk around your precious couple of blocks tryin’ to catch sight of your dumb horns for fun?”

“I don’t pretend to know why you do anything you do.”

It’s surreal, being in this space that has only been warm and soft for so long, now with their hackles raised and arms crossed. Matt’s heart is pushing ice-cold blood through his veins, violently testing his label, Man Without Fear.

“And you wanna know something else?” Frank asks, mirthless laughter on his tongue. “I didn’t come to you. You figured out I was in town and you came running. ”

Matt flinches, driven by the instinct to turn his head away even if he can’t look Frank in the eyes.

“You fired a sniper rifle. ”

“And then you stayed. ”

Matt grinds his heels into the floor, his mind whirring. “So what is this, Frank? Are you saying that you love me? You want to move in together, you want me to be your boyfriend?”

“That’s not- you think I’m that much of an idiot?” He says this with full confidence, but the blush that takes his ears down to his chest only frustrates Matt further.

“How are you so ready to make both of our lives worse?” He snaps. “You think I keep people at a distance because it’s fun and I enjoy it?”

“Our lives are already so goddamn stupid.” Frank says, pulling himself to his feet. “Is it so unimaginable to keep this going even when it ain’t as easy? Goddamnit Red, I’m not asking for your hand in marriage here, I’m-”

“What are you asking for? What was the point of all of this?”

“You, you asshole!” Frank shouts, moving in close. Matt doesn’t budge. “I want to be able to come crawling back to you, even though I’ll never deserve it. I want to fall into the black hole of this city whenever I can, and spend some time with the guy who’ll uppercut me for taking out a druglord and tell me I’m not a bad person in the same ten minutes. And maybe I just want to be around you and enjoy your goddamn company and your pretty mouth. Is that so bad?”

It really is something, to hear thoughts, conclusions he’s wondered about for months finally hit the open air. The knowing doesn’t make his head swim less, doesn’t make his heart feel less like a hummingbird desperately trying to free itself from his chest. It’s a dizzying mix of sensations, the relief of just having it being said, the dread for what it means now that someone else has heard it. Matt wishes he was more capable of taking in some of that relief, but it’s frustration that has him now.

“And what happens when that’s not enough? What happens when it goes wrong?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t we find out?”

Something about the indignance lights Matt’s fuse. Frank wants to act like Matt’s the one being unreasonable when he’s here saying this?

“Aren’t I allowed to be sick of this? Tired of this happening? Frank, what happens when you die out there and the only way I find out is through the good news section of a morning talk show? If I’m lucky enough to ever hear of it at all?”

Frank just shrugs. “Probably similar to what’ll happen if I hear Wilson Fisk finally got his mitts on Daredevil.”

“Exactly!” Matt says, throwing out his arms. “So just wanting isn’t enough when people could get hurt, when it impairs judgment, and sense, and-”

“No, you goddamn idiot, it means we should grab whatever shreds of happiness we can still get before our pasts catch up with us!” Franks steps to him, giving Matt a rough push on the chest. It’s nothing, it’s gentle compared to the amount of force spring-locked behind Frank’s muscles, and Matt just takes it, expression perplexed.

“You think I don’t know about grief, about loss?” Frank continues. “It eats at me every second of every goddamn day. That’s why I’m trying to take these goddamn moments of relief when I can actually get them. I thought that’d be something both you and I could understand.”

And it’ll all feel so worth it, right up until it doesn’t. 

Matt hangs his head. He pulls in and lets out a deep breath, and allows Frank a chance to do the same. He’s said a lot of nice things, pretty words, laid out expectations like a man still capable of hope.

And yet underneath the anger, the conflict, the want, is something else Matt can’t ignore. He and Frank can’t get too close to each other for too long, or the fog will begin to roll back in. Because despite all of this, they are still here because their bodies are lonely, needy things that will do anything to the mind in exchange for company, even convince a serial killer and a Catholic lawyer that they can put aside their differences. Convince two broken men that they won’t just drag each other further down to hell.

“You told me to hold you accountable, Frank, and that is what I’m doing. I already messed it up once, and just look where it got us.”

“Red,” Frank says. “Matt…”

“Give yourself some time.” Matt says, pulling himself out of Frank’s warm orbit. “None of this will even matter in a week, and you’ll realize how you sound right now. Once you’re gone, it’ll be a lot easier to see reason.”

And so Frank leaves.

He walks past Matt, into the living room and then the closet there, where he’d been keeping his bag of guns tucked next to Matt’s father’s trunk. He takes another look around, Matt assumes checking for anything else he’ll need, but he’d packed light. He’s only got his coat, his boots, the contents of his duffel and the clothes on his back to leave with.

Matt stays put in the bedroom, still rooted to the spot from before. He’s aware of every single one of Frank’s moves and the furious, incoherent mumbling that pours out of him as he stalks around the space. But he’s ignoring it. He doesn’t want to fight with Frank anymore, verbally, physically, whatever may come. He wants to throw a tantrum like a four-year-old. He wants to get drunk. He wants to go back to a week before and warn himself that this had ended up just as well as he’d expected.

.&

The adrenaline fades, the anger subsides. Matt paces harried circles around his apartment which, somehow, feels more cloistering than it had when Frank was there. The place is suffocating, every inch of it smells like them, but leaving still feels impossible. Frank has his van, and hunkering down in the small space will help with the clouds of pheromones he must be putting off, as well as the ability to move throughout the city without attracting attention. Matt could try the rooftops, but he doesn’t even know where he’d go. 

It’s getting harder to think anyway, as the meat of his body starts to complain that it’s not getting the attention it’s been basking in for so many days. It won’t be long before the real discomfort starts to kick in, and Matt doesn’t want to be anywhere near another person when that happens. He could go up to his own rooftop to at least escape some of the smell, but he’s already rolled the dice on getting caught outside with his dick out by a neighbor once tonight, and has less interest in it when it’s just him.

Finally he resigns himself to the bedroom, collapsing in the center of his mattress where their mingled scent is strongest. It’s nothing, doesn’t begin to sate the craving his body is calling out for, but it’s more than he had seconds ago. It’s all he has left.

Matt spends roughly the next 24 hours in agony, as nothing he tries even scratches a tenth of the itch that remains within him. They’d been lucky, the actual process only had a day or two left so the withdrawal won’t last too long, but that’s a weak comfort when Matt’s sweating through his sheets, when he can’t sleep, when both his cock and the hand around it are red and going numb from overuse. 

But when he wakes up the following morning, day two of Frank being gone, it feels as though a fever has broken. The shakes subside, a majority of the pheromones evaporate, and the only thing Matt wants to use his dick for is pissing. And he even does that sparingly, considering how tender the skin is. He’ll need another day or so just for his body to recover, but with the fog in his head cleared out, he can at least think about other things; chores, emails, the world outside this apartment.

Can’t stop thinking about Frank, though.

He’s not so foolish as to think the well-seeded matebond -because that’s what Matt had been doing no matter how he spun it to himself, feeding and grooming and growing close during a rut, that’s matebonding- He knows that will take a little longer to work out of his system. But this isn’t an unheard of thing. And he’d rather have it this way then spend an extra few days deluding themselves into thinking this could work, and then having to face reality when it didn’t.

There’s only one point where the regret finds him, sneaking up on him when he’s not ready. He’s taking down the covers from the bedroom windows, hungry for what little warmth and sunshine makes it past the billboards and on to his skin. He’s thinking about Frank, and a sharp, grating voice from the back of his mind speaks up. Matt has the fleeting thought that Stick would be proud of him for this, for the control he’s shown. So he must have done something wrong.

But at least he can leave the damn apartment.

He starts off small, just heading to work, and even that’s a lot to take in after the events of the week. He’s been around one person exclusively, and now he’s swimming in heartbeats and scents, none of which are the one he wants. He’ll acclimate again in time, but it’s still strange to think about. These past few days have done the job of flipping Matt’s life into turmoil, and yet the world has kept on turning without him.

The same can not be said, at least, in the workplace. It’s a great relief to be able to stand in the same room as his friends, take their jabs about how he looks like he had a rough week. (“She just winked,” Foggy says.) Matt tells them it feels like his mental computer is rebooting, so be patient with him if he’s a little out of it, and they think nothing of it. Foggy brings him coffee and catches him up on what he’s missed out on. Karen shares the egg rolls she gets with her lunch, and drops off some aspirin when she catches Matt wincing when he moves too quick.

One thing he loses with the rut is the urgency . Everything had been so heightened when he was in that state, and emotions weren’t exempt. What had seemed so dire in the moment is so achingly trivial now, in a way that Matt can’t help but let get to him. They’d been so worked up, so lost in what they wanted and what they feared- 

There was never going to be a peaceful outcome, Matt thinks. But the feelings remain steadfast.

That’s something that’s easier to admit when Frank’s not right there, bearing witness to Matt admitting he’d been wrong. Now that the volume in his mind is no longer at full blast, he can accept that saying the damn words out loud, “I want you too,” didn’t cosign them to an immediate, macabre doom.

But rut is desperation, it’s infatuation. It’s strong enough to have Frank Castle begging for the knot in a matter of days. It’s enough to have two grown men spitfucking on the roof, or shouting each other down while desperately trying not to let their boners brush. It’s not a time for sense and decision making, for making grand, sweeping statements, and that’s something Matt stands by. Still, the more time he replays the argument in his mind, the more he understands Frank’s frustration.

Matt tells himself if he had a method to do so, he’d reach out to Frank. Check in on him, see if the fallout of the rut was as fun as it had been for himself. Maybe ask if he wants to take patrol around the city, talk some things out. But he’s only ever known Frank to carry burner phones, and if he actually manages to scrounge up a number, it’ll already have been changed twice.

He allows himself to take the rooftops at night. Sit there right near the edge, head twisting and cocking like a desperate pigeon, feeling for any trace of the resonant sound he’d grown so attached to over their time. But it’s fruitless, and similar positions atop the city lead him to the same conclusion; that Frank has left The Kitchen behind. Matt doesn’t really blame him, he told the man to do as much.

Foggy and Karen give him time for the worst of the after-effects to wear off, but by day four of him being in “full on party-pooper mode,” according to Karen, he allows himself to be cajoled out of his head and back into society. Josie’s, for all its blaring noise and sweat-stinking patrons, is a welcome respite as they lay claim to their usual table. Karen brings them the first round and they chit-chat about nothing for a while, until they’re a few more in and considerably looser.

Inevitably, Matt’s mind wanders back to the week before, still in the achingly embarrassing everything reminds me of him stage in of all this. That means the clink of beer bottles and a pop song Frank hates coming on overhead is enough to have his shoulders sagging, if only momentarily.

Foggy, a man well-trained in spotting Murdock-induced meltdowns in both Matt and other people, picks up on this immediately. He shifts next to Matt, leaning in an extra inch, voice kind as he asks, “Hey man, everything okay?”

Matt laughs before he can even think about it, takes a sip of his beer.

“That bad, huh?”

“Just a good thing that couldn’t last.” Matt says. He runs them through an abridged version of the story; how he “met” someone whose rut just happened to coincide with his, and how they hit it off too well. And how, when the other person talked about this lasting beyond the rut, Matt got way too in his head about it and it all ended badly.

“Oh, buddy.” Foggy says, “You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.”

“Seriously, why not just keep it going afterwards?” Karen asks, baffled.

“It’s not that simple.” Matt sighs. “We’re, we’re not the right people for it. Relationships are difficult for a guy like me, and I have to put a lot of work into maintaining the few that I have.” Foggy and Karen drink to that. “And honestly, the same can be said for that person too. We’ll just be tearing each other down.”

“That’s not something you can just keep telling yourself, Matt.” Foggy says, frustration and sympathy playing twin chords in his voice. “It sounds like there was really something there, why snuff this out prematurely?”

Matt frowns.  “What if they weren't a good person? What if they were dangerous?”

The air around Foggy spikes with adrenaline. “Oh my god, is Elektra back?”

“What? No, it’s not- damnit.” Matt drops his head into his hands. He would have liked to keep this information to himself a little longer, but it’s pretty inevitable at this point that these two will find out each and every one of his secrets, so why not? “It’s Frank Castle.”

Silence. Someone at the other end of the bar loses it at a different joke while Matt’s friends stare him down. Finally, Karen can’t hold it in and lets out a small laugh. “Are you- are you joking?”

Matt keeps his face hidden. “God, I wish I was.”

“Oh my god, Matt, the serial killer? Are you-”

“Foggy.” Matt sighs. “You know there’s more to it than that.”

“Yeah, and that was fine when I thought it was just you guys kicking each others asses and, and kissing each other's boo-boos afterwards- but not, not literally. Matt. Matt. ”

Matt can only shake his head and shrug. This isn’t new information, he’s not saying anything Matt hasn’t also said to try and talk himself out of this.

“You know what? I think you made the right call, actually.” Foggy says. “Good for you, wise decision. I need another drink.”

He slaps Matt on the back as he goes, more of a you-poor-sonofabitch gesture than anything with actual anger in it. Matt doesn’t blame him for being upset, but he’s also not worried it’s something Foggy will hold against him. The man is well-versed in Matt’s habit of finding himself in comfortable beds with dangerous people.

Less explosively reactive had been Karen, who is watching him now as she takes a long pull from her drink, letting the silence between them hang before, “ Frank Castle?” 

“I know, I know.” He says. Her tone is similarly stunned but there’s no malice there, only amusement. And more than just a hint of understanding. “He’s a complicated guy. A bad guy. But a good man.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” He can hear Karen’s slight smile when she responds. “I just, I can’t believe you managed to get him to do it. Denying himself good things is like, it’s his crutch . And you actually got him to stop using it.”

“Well, there were extenuating circumstances.” Matt tries.

“I mean, I guess. But to even let himself get that close is- shit. I mean, I’m sorry. You had your reasons for what you did too, I know that.”

“No, you get it. That’s why this is all so difficult.” Fuck it, they’re here, aren’t they? “I mean, it’s obvious that you and Frank had a real connection, but you never…”

Now it’s Karen’s turn to speak to the table, looking anywhere but at Matt. “Yeah. Yeah, we did. But there were a lot of, like you said, circumstances that made things more complicated. He thinks I still have a chance at a good life, at happiness, and he doesn’t think that can happen with him around.”

Matt chuckles. “Well, that explains why he didn't have a problem trying to stay with me.”

“How very brooding of you.” Karen snorts. “But here’s what I don't understand. You’re viewing this, pardon the expression, as two downtrodden people trying to keep themselves from falling apart while ruining as few undeserving lives around you as possible, yes?”

“Sure.” Matt shrugs.

“Whereas I see two powerful, capable men with an incredible range of expertise and drive between them when they can manage to get along, and they’re getting along well . Why not put some of that energy into trying to make life better for each other?”

Matt turns to her and gives her a kind look.

“That’s a lot easier said than done.” He says, but it feels like a concession.

“Matt, you’re a lawyer. ” Karen tells him. “You’re an expert in saying and then doing.”

What else can Matt do? He presses on. Over the course of the next month he throws himself into his daywork and then, not long after, his nightwork. And in the few, fleeting moments of silence he allows himself, his mind drifts to Frank. Their memories in bed together will stay burned into Matt’s brain forever, but those aren’t where his mind wanders. Instead he finds himself remembering the warm, quiet moments in between their carnal spells; Frank cutting slices off of a mango for himself and reflexively handing some to Matt, Matt reading out the events of his novel while Frank dozed in his lap. 

Thinking about it too much makes his chest feel like it’s going to cave in, sure, but as time marches on and it all solidifies into memory, he still wants to keep it with him.

He’s actually doing fairly well this morning. His day is going to be filled with phone calls and emails and client meetings, and more than anything that’s what’s buzzing around in his head as he walks to work. He doesn’t even note the significance of the bagel shop he’s passing until something underneath the roasted sesame scent hits him like a bulldozer and then he’s very, very alert. 

He doesn’t even buy a coffee when he walks in. Just follows his nose like a bloodhound on a mission, down the cloistered hallway that leads to the bathrooms and then right out the back door. 

God, he’s not- there isn’t time for this. His day is fully booked, he can’t just drop everything to track this man. And that’s even if Frank wants to be found. Maybe the fact that he’s in the heart of Matt’s city and hasn’t sought him out means something.

Matt stands in the back-alley of the shop for too long, pacing after the already faded scent that leads in one direction, and then turning around to get back on to the path of work. He wrestles with the stupid tug-of-war as long as he can until duty wins out. If Frank is looking for him, he’ll come looking. He knows where to find him.

But his focus is absolutely shot for the rest of the day.

When there’s a client in the room, someone to read and respond to, Matt’s mostly able to keep his thoughts under control. It’s nagging, but there is someone in front of him who needs his help, and that’s more than enough of a reason to give them his time. But listening through audio files? Emails? It’s useless. Matt spends most of the day spacing out, pushing his hearing out as far as he can reach, scrabbling for even a trace of the heartbeat he’d fallen asleep to so many times before. But there’s nothing.

Work runs long, and by the time Matt’s hastily putting away his things and getting ready to leave, Foggy and Karen can tell something’s up. He doesn’t tell them about Frank in case things go poorly, pads it over with, “Something important has come up.” They don’t ask for further details, but Matt catches the sound of their heads turning to glance at one another, and he can only guess at what’s behind the look they shared.

Foggy leaves him with a wearied sigh and tells Matt to reach out if he needs to talk. Karen gives his shoulder a squeeze as he walks past, voice soft as she tells him, “Good luck.” 

Matt walks like a normal man for as long as he can, until he’s close enough to the bagel shop that it’d be quicker to take the backroads. Once he’s boxed in between bricks and concrete he takes off, sprinting and darting and launching off of any surface that will hold him. By the time he’s back in the alleyway he’s winded, and the scent has long faded past traceability.

Matt curses, he spits on the ground. Logically he’d known that this wouldn’t be as simple as floating right to Frank on the scent cloud like a cartoon character, but he’d at least had a lead, if only for a moment. 

Running a hand through his wind-tossed hair he turns back towards the sidewalk, chewing his lip in contemplation. It’s no good to be running around like a wild man out here like this. He forces his feet to turn towards home, ruminating on his next steps. It’ll be best to wait until the dark settles in, and then he can suit up and head for the rooftops, get a cleaner way to search than trying to parse scents in the middle of New York.

Matt’s first reaction upon walking into his apartment is to laugh. It’s been over a month since Frank last stepped foot in here, but there are still times when Matt swears he can still catch the scent, fleeting and stale. He’s gone through phases of being particularly desperate for it and has found himself walking the space, seeing if he can find anywhere it’s managed to cling. He knows this is mostly fruitless. He also knows this means that the scent he’s breathing in, faint as it is, is recent. 

Matt sprints in the direction of it, bounding up the staircase and out onto the roof. Best as he can tell Frank never actually came inside, but stood around the doorway long enough for the scent to linger. His heartbeat’s nowhere around but it’s something, it’s more, it’s a chance. 

Once out on the roof, Matt finds that Frank’s made no effort to be subtle. As soon as Matt’s out there he can tell where Frank’s been, where he’s lingered, where he’s rubbed his skin against the bricks like a tomcat marking its territory. Matt’s mind whirs, bringing him back to the night things had gone wrong.

Frank’s voice tells him all he needs to hear. “You figured out I was here. You came running.”

Matt makes a quick stop back inside to change. It’s hard to say, but something inside tells him Frank’s not going to welcome him back with hugs and kisses. And then he’s back on the trail, following the fire escape down and through the alley below. Frank leaves little clues for him every so often, a bullet shell, a coffee cup that still smells like his lips. Matt’s heart picks up speed.

But then the clues start to thin out. The scent’s a little fresher, but points of skin contact are fewer and further between, and after a few confusing minutes Matt finds himself in the bowels of the city, surrounded on all sides by pipes and clotheslines. Matt’s got his mind open as he can take it, searching the area around him for a hint of Frank’s heartbeat, but there’s nothing. What, had he been mistaken? How else was he supposed to take all that?

What he does start to pick up on, though, is someone in trouble. A different kind of heartbeat, one that’s pounding fast, and surrounded by a static hum.

Matt’s gut clenches, but it’s not even an option. The longer he hesitates, the more bodies join the one being attacked, and that’s not something Matt can ignore. Turning away from where he’d last had the scent, Matt follows the twisting maze of back-streets until the sounds of scuffle and conflict hit the open air. Several heartbeats now, congregating on one massive frame. Dread and terror pools in Matt’s stomach as the scent of blood hits the air, hot, fresh, familiar.

“Frank!”

Matt descends on the mob like a wild thing, instincts snapping into action without even having to think. There’s six of them, three with guns, one with some kind of whirring device in his hand. The sound emitting from the device reminds Matt of a taser, and a similar sound is coming from below, where metal bands are wrapped tight around Frank’s ankles. Frank’s grunting, convulsing on the ground and scrabbling to get his wrists free of some kind of tether, though whatever pulses the device is sending out never lets him get too far. He makes progress though, as Matt leaps into action and shifts the attention on to himself. 

Matt deals with the guns first, falling into the motion of disarming strikes one after the other, taking a little too much pleasure in using the butt of the gun to knock one of the guys out. The others pounce on him and get their licks in but Matt revels in it, adrenaline surging through him as he keeps them away from the man on the ground.

Meanwhile, Frank's managed to free his hands and crawl towards the guy holding the controller, who had been keeping back from the action as each of his friends fell to Daredevil’s hands. Matt hears the man shout, and then the sound of impact as he’s dragged to the ground. 

Matt leaves Frank to his victim, at least for as long as it takes him to dispatch the rest of the group. The whole time he’s aware of Frank and the man, and the methods Frank’s using to subdue him. And while Matt wouldn’t want to be the poor bastard once Frank manages to get the ankle bindings turned off and kicked away, Frank’s force isn’t lethal.

Matt lets Frank have the pleasure of knocking controller-guy unconscious, and then it’s just the two of them, lips bloodied, chests heaving.  Frank lifts a hand to give a small wave, and he gets out, “Good to see you, Red.” before his body goes limp and drops like a sack of bricks. 

“Jesus, Frank-” Matt scrabbles to him, running his hands over any place he can reach in search of injuries. He’s got some real nasty cuts and is sure to be a tapestry of bruises later on, but nothing that feels dangerous, lethal.

“It’s okay.” Frank says, twisting in Matt’s arms. “I’m okay. Just got my bell rung good when they got the drop on me. Guess they had my number as much as I had theirs. ‘N then I was too distracted playing my little games, I guess.”

Matt moves in close, something in his chest blooming and warm. 

“Well, if you’re not gonna keep yourself alive, then I guess it’s up to me to step in. Again.”

Frank wheezes, the happiest sound he can make given the circumstances.

“Fair enough, Red. Fair enough.”

Matt gives him another once-over, deciding the best option is just to keep him close for a while and make sure the head wound is nothing serious, maybe see what Claire’s up to. But first he has to take care of the bodies scattered around them.

“So these were some of the guys you were looking for?”

“Somethin’ like that. Real shitbags, even before they tried to fuckin’ electro-shock my legs off.”

“Then I’m gonna call the police.” Matt says, pulling back. It’s not lost on him that this is a precarious position he and Frank are in. Backup could be on the way, or someone could find a bloodied Daredevil and Punisher surrounded by bodies.

Frank huffs from his position on the ground. “Yeah, yeah. Their lucky day.”

Matt puts in the call, uses the spare tethers they’d used on Frank’s wrists to bind them and leave them waiting by the roadside. Then he makes his way back to Frank, who has pushed himself against the wall and is using the ruined corner of his shirt to wipe blood off of his forehead.

“Welcome back,” He says, leaning down and looping an arm around Frank’s side to hoist him up. Frank allows this, his weight sagging into Matt. “Let’s get to my place. Don’t know if you’ll need stitches anywhere, but we might as well check.”

Frank just holds on to him, the arm he’s tossed around Matt’s shoulder clinging there tightly. 

“Sure,” he says. “Sure.”

They begin the long shuffle home, wheezing and flinching every few steps, and teasing each other about being sore, battered old men. As they’re about to leave the shadows and make for Matt’s apartment building, Matt pauses. He gives Frank’s side a squeeze and leans in.

“Hey,” He says softly. Frank faces him and Matt steals a kiss, chaste, fast. “I missed you.”

He doesn’t need to see Frank’s face to know the man’s broken into a grin. The words are like sunshine as Frank replies to him, for all the warmth they carry. “Yeah, me too.”

.&

The couch is empty the following morning. 

Between injuries and baggage, the two had come to the mutual decision to keep some distance between them the night before, and it had felt like the right call at the time. Now Matt’s lying in his bed and there’s no trace of Frank’s heartbeat in the living room, or the kitchen, or the building.

He lays there as long as he can, until the results of the night before call out for some aspirin. He shuffles into the living room and stands there, dumbfounded, as the coffee machine hums to life. There’s no way Frank’s gone. There’s no way this is happening. He’s about to call up Foggy and tell him he might need the day off when a sound reaches his ear. Steady as a war drum, approaching fast.

Matt moves to his entryway of his apartment, arms crossed, listening as the sound makes it into the building and up the stairs. As it gets closer he can pick up smells as well; coffee, fried dough, sugar, cinnamon. The familiar scents of a restaurant Matt hasn’t been able to walk past for a month.

Matt stands on the other side of the door as Frank tries it and finds that it’s been locked. There’s a pause, and then a tentative knock. Matt makes him wait the extra beat before he twists the handle.

“For the record, I still don’t think this is a good idea.” Matt says, keeping the doorway blocked.

“Oh, god no.” Frank replies. “Churro?”

Matt takes the bag. “And don’t think this means I won’t step in if you start raising the wrong kind of hell in my city.”

“If you didn’t, what would be the point?”

Matt tries to frown, but his heart won’t have it. He steps aside, and Frank walks in.

“So those guys who attacked you, are they the reason you’re back in town?” Matt asks, settling in on the couch. Frank follows him, putting their coffees down on the table.

“Uh-uh, that was pure luck. I got a guy I wanted to check in on while I’m here. Made the poor bastard promise me something impossible, then got real pissed at him when he felt bad about failing. I fucked up pretty bad, and I got some stuff to make up for.”

Hearing this, Matt moves his knee closer to Frank’s.

“Oh yeah? I’ve got a guy like that too. I promised him something impossible, knowing full-well I couldn’t do it. But he took me at my word, and I made myself look like a fool. So we’ve got a lot to talk about once he gets here.”

Frank snorts. “Wow, sounds like quite a guy.”

“Oh, he drives me insane. But I don’t think I could get rid of him if I wanted to. Lucky for him,” Matt moves in closer, pushing their bodies flush. Just a soft touch, a handshake, and Frank relaxes into it. “I don’t. He’s a complicated person, but there’s a lot more to him than meets the eye. For whatever that’s worth coming from a blind man.”

Frank’s quiet for a moment, and then, “‘S worth a lot, I think.”

“I’m glad. What about your guy, any good?”

“Nah.” Frank says. “Real mouthy, for a start. But he’s a great lay.”

Laughter cracks out of Matt’s throat as he slaps Frank’s knee. “Oh, fuck off.”

Frank laughs back, pulling Matt closer so he can headbutt the man before he steals a kiss.

“Ha, just giving you shit. I’m crazy about him, and he’s pretty into me, too.”

“The head, the mouth, the fruit, the eating.
The pit, the teeth, the branch, the falling.
The wet, the swollen, the light, the seeing.
The picking, the washing, the cutting, the quartering.
The sweet, the having.”

- Catie Rosemurgy, from “Peach”, The Stranger Manual