Well. He does know how to knock, anyway. But one of Matt's kitchen windows is slid upward without any further exchange of niceties and one boot after another, Frank unfolds into the apartment. In the unlit room he's just another shadow against the neon and halogen backdrop of Hell's Kitchen.
His glance around looks casual. Is casual, reflected even in the strong, regular beat of his pulse. The Devil of HK might be less than an enemy, but Frank doesn't have many people left he'd go so far as to consider friends. This turf belongs to Murdock; steady pulse regardless, he's ready for anything.] C'mon, [Frank calls to the darkness, moving toward the coffee pot,] that was good. You said yourself you've got a great ass.
[He clocks Frank about a block away. It's easy to pick out the sound of his heavy boots and the way that he smells like gun oil, powder and coffee. He stays passive from where he's seated in the living room when the window to the kitchen opens and the Punisher slides into his apartment. It's not the first time. It definitely won't be the last.
He reaches to turn on the light to illuminate the way for Frank, even if he's sure the other man could navigate his apartment in the dark with ease now. He rises from his chair and moves toward the kitchen to meet Castle at the coffeemaker.]
You're probably the better judge but I haven't heard you complain.
[He reaches to retrieve a couple of mugs and sets them on the counter.]
[Red's a spook; so is Frank, but there's a difference and Frank's aware of it and can't help but trying to work it out. He leans a hip against the kitchen counter and pushes his hood back. There's a perversion to watching a man who can't watch you back and Frank feels the tug of do-do not as Murdock crosses the kitchen and pulls out the mugs.
Yeah, maybe he glances at the ass in question, though.] It ain't bad.
[He takes care of pouring the coffee into both mugs but other than that doesn't offer assistance. It's hot enough to burn but that doesn't stop Frank from putting his nose into the steam and taking a drink. Fuck. It's good coffee. Frank swallows and exhales in appreciation.] Yeah. Now that's a cup of coffee. [He takes another sip, watching Murdock over the rim of the mug.]
[In his own home, Matt doesn't bother with the glasses and when he pads barefoot across the floor in an old t-shirt and his pajama pants, he probably doesn't look too much like the Devil. He can change quickly, if it comes to it, but he can't say that he's really itching for a fight tonight. That's not why he let Frank come over.
The answer about his ass sparks a smile.] I'll just take the compliment and move on.
[He takes a sip of the coffee once it's poured.] I told you so. There's whiskey in the cupboard if you want to add to it. Good stuff is on the top shelf. Mid range is the bottom. I stick with the bottom unless there's something worth celebrating.
[He likes this - Murdock without glasses, without lenses of any kind. Eyes the color of the coffee they're drinking. It's a new enough discovery to be something he's still taking in, the almost oxymoronic idea that they're two feet apart and Murdock's eyes can't find Frank but it's damn sure his knuckles could. Something about the friction between those two things always causes a heavy pressure to uncurl at the bottom of his gut.]
Nah, I'm good. Use whiskey more to disinfect than drink. [Frank pushes off the counter and walks slowly around the kitchen as he sips the coffee. He uses a finger to check the cupboard. The level of amber liquid in each bottle.] Curious what you consider worth celebratin', though. Winning a case?
[He's gotten more comfortable with Frank now that it feels like their run-ins involving their fists seem to have come to an end. At least for now. They're still diametrically opposed in all of the ways that matter so he doesn't fool himself into thinking it won't happen again someday. But for now, he can feel an ease around having Castle in his home and seeing him as something softer than the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. He's aware of every movement Frank beside him while they stand drinking their coffee.]
For once, you're not bleeding. [He doesn't taste copper in the air.] There's beer in the refrigerator but I don't think that pairs as well with the coffee. [He makes the offer with an easy, charming enough smile.] Yeah, sometimes. Depends on the case. Sometimes victories don't always feel like it.
You can smell that, huh. Yeah, quiet day. [Black tee, black jeans, black sweatshirt. Some things don't change but it's true; no blood. The cupboard is knocked shut, softly enough. Frank turns to look at Murdock. Old t-shirt. Cotton pants. A blind man. A man a world away from the Devil he's fought on the rooftops but still there's a common thread, isn't there? The way the angle of his jaw tracks Frank's location. He does that in the suit, too.
Sometimes victories don't always feel like it.] I hear that. [There's a goad there, waiting, but Frank doesn't take it. Murdock doesn't seem like the type to drown his losses. He wants to feel them. Just like Frank.] So what about today? You whistle, and your dog without morals comes running? I'm not that, Red.
Yeah. I can smell that. I can smell that you were cleaning your gun earlier. There's still some oil under your fingernails. [Sometimes it feels like a bit of a party trick but it's the advantage that he has in the world and Frank knows about it so he doesn't mind making a point of it. He spends so much fucking time trying to be something that he isn't in a feigned helplessness that isn't really him that it feels nice to be honest. Comfortable. Maybe it's strange that he finds that with Frank Castle.
Yeah. Figured you would. [Matt takes another sip of his coffee.] Today was...one of those days. Sorry. I didn't mean to make it seem like you don't have a code or something. I know you do and I know it matters to you. It was supposed to be a fuck buddies joke, not a referendum on you as a person. [He's over explaining but he feels kind of bad about it now.]
[Frank brings his fingernails to his nose and then exhales a laugh.] Yeah, takes a real rocket scientist. [But he knows it's not just a guess.
That idea of comfort, it's not so strange. Guys like them, they're weapons. Murdock has his safety on. Frank doesn't. But they're still both weapons, walking down the sidewalk everyday with people who don't understand what they're brushing elbows with. Is Frank comfortable with Murdock? Nah, not the way those people on the sidewalk take comfort in each other - but there's a release in knowing he's standing with someone who understands guys like them, they don't get to have that. Even if they do make referendums on each other as people.
Frank laughs, the too-loud, too empty kind of laugh that is already falling from his face as he pulls a hand over his mouth.] Jesus christ, yeah; sure. [He looks at the front door, the window. Knows he ain't gonna use either. He's not offended. He doesn't care. Truth is that if Red decided to take the safety off, yeah, Frank would be there.
His boots are loud, antagonistic as he crosses the hardwood back to Murdock. Stops too close, slides his mug onto the counter behind but doesn't touch. Sharing space as a threat, but he's not sure yet of what kind.] 'm here, aren't I? [Frank's voice, already low, drops into a rumble.] Sure as shit ain't for the coffee.
[He flashes a quick smile when Frank disregards his appraisal. It doesn't matter. He knows that Castle is likely very aware that it's not the only thing that Matt picks up but he doesn't feel the need to list everything; what kind of soap Frank showered with, the last thing he had to eat, the detergent he uses or any of the other dozen things that Matt can tell just by his presence. It's nice both to not have to feign anything while also not have to prove anything either.
He doesn't have to like it, but he and Frank are warriors. Sometimes on the opposite side because of method and motivations, but they exist in a space together where it's easy. They both stand in easy confidence because there's a strange safety in knowing how unsafe either would be if the gloves came off. They both hit hard but Matt's hands aren't anything resembling fists right now, circled around a warm coffee mug while Frank effortlessly stalks through his apartment.]
I'm glad you're here. [It's about as close to sentimentality as he can muster for Frank and that seems fine with the both of them. He sets his half finished mug down behind him and stands still in Frank's presence. They're both assessing.] And I assume not for my sparkling conversational wit.
[It's perverse, yeah, and strange, being able to look at a man all you want without him looking back. Murdock's probably, certainly, keeping track of other things, but vision - Frank's way of it - is his alone. He looks at the sleepless night in the light purple of the skin under the man's eyes, the imperfect line of his shave that's regrowth, not fumble. How does Murdock shave? Huh. The corner of Frank's mouth twitches upward as he stands there, muscles not quite still. Never quite as still as when he's looking down a scope.]
You talk too much, that's for sure. [But the spark of intentional aggression, that's gone from his tone.] Looks like someone else thought so too. [Frank reaches up without hesitation, his hand moving toward the dark edge of a bruise peeking from the corner of Murdock's shadowed jaw - and stops, fingers hovering. He breathes out through his nose.
[Matt might not know the things that Frank sees in him like the shade of his hair and eyes or what color clothing he's wearing but he tracks a wide variety of other things in their proximity. He can feel the small movements of Frank's body next to him and the way that he shifts slightly on his heel. Sometimes he wonders what Frank is looking at when they stand like this but he doesn't seek to ask.]
I've been told that a time or two, believe or not. [Of course Frank would believe it. The remark about the bruise forces a small smile out of him, especially when he feels Frank start to reach and pause inches from touch. Matt takes a small step forward to close the gap between them so rough fingers can connect with the bruise.] Yeah, well, you should see the other guy. [He came out ahead on that exchange. He almost always does.] What color is it? The bruise. [It's a day or two old but shallow so he wonders how obvious it still is. That's something he can only guess at with experience.]
[Fingernails too short to catch trace through an inch of bristles before stopping, shy of anything that could be called a caress. There's no real pressure in the touch. Someone else, maybe anyone else, Frank would have handled to his liking - and maybe he will, later, when Murdock's doing the same to him. But not right now.] Green, yellow. [Like the sky just before a bad storm.
His thumb moves, settling just to the left of center, where the leading knuckle must have made contact.] And red. The color of your suit. [He's not Murdock's dog but that doesn't mean the metaphor is false. Frank's fingers curve against the sharp line of Murdock's jaw, turning the man's face just so into his own. Hangs there, breath heavy, mouths separated by not even inches.
There's loyalty for a hand that reaches out, even after it's been bitten. Especially then.]
[He instinctively closes his eyes against the soft touch. It's an irrelevant action for a blind man but maybe an instinctive one that comes all the same. It's nice, either way, how Frank's hand doesn't immediately pull or push. It's soft in the only way they're capable of being to one another; just on the fringes of contact in the spaces between.]
Sea stories. Same as all the other ones. [He says by way of explanation of where the bruises came from. One fight or another. It doesn't matter. Some brawl that ended in a way that Frank probably would disapprove of with the assailant in question in custody and maybe a hospital instead of a morgue. Standing in his kitchen, the gulf between them exists but it feels more shallow like this. They'll never really understand each other, not completely, but sometimes a little bit is enough. It is, anyway, when Matt tilts his head up to close some of the distance and height between them and presses his lips to Frank's in a ghost of a kiss.]
Frank stays still at the first press of Murdock's mouth. It's a whisper. A nothing, except a starting point. Consent that's so often denied from this man that it feels like a goddamn benediction to be weaponized. But that's good. Frank understands that. It's enough.
His mouth moves hard and sudden against Murdock's, teeth catching against lips and a thumb pressed into the tender center of a bruise as he backs them fully against the counter with a thud of weight and muscle.]
[He and Frank are complicated. They have been from the first moment they met and even as they have shifted from enemies to something else, it will never be easy. Matt accepts that and also recognizes that there are times when it's so breathtakingly simple because it happens in the moments when he turns off his over active brain and just lets things happen without care of code and the forever arguments of redemption against retribution.
Softness gives way. It always does and Matt never minds. He feels a spark of pain on the bruise push point and he kisses it back in kind while his hip bumps against the edge of the countertop. The corner presses against fabric covered skin, biting, but he doesn't complain against the kiss.]
[These night between them, they are a mirror of their paths across the rooftops of New York. They never start gently. Maybe that's Frank - maybe Murdock would have it different but Frank can't, won't. Doesn't want to know if the man yearns to listen to his angels instead of his demons in times like these.
So his mouth pushes Murdock's, his body angles to hem him in against the sharp line of the counter, knowing how easily the tables could be flipped. His fingertips curl into the neat, short hairs at the nape of Murdock's neck and pull as their bodies find a way to fit roughly together and Frank leans into that friction he always feels in the Devil's presence, giving it rein to spark toward an inferno.]
[If Matt sought out softness, he would look elsewhere. He knows what they're about when they're together and that it's not a matter of a search for something gentle. They only seek the peace that lasts in moments when the din is quieted and the world can go silent. Just for a little while. Frank has a way about him that allows Matt to close out the world and he doesn't seek anything else but that and to offer it as much as he can in kind.
It would be easy to shift things, to roll their bodies until it was Frank's back against the countertop but he doesn't. Instead, he presses his hand to the back of Castle's neck and pulls him in until they're flush against each other and the weight pushes Matt's hip even harder against the edge. He can feel Frank's heartbeat against his chest instead of just hearing it and the steady rhythm is a strange comfort.]
[Seek peace in the moments when the din is quieted and the world can go silent. Frank would say that's exactly why he does what he does. He pulls that trigger and the voices stop. Retribution gives him that.
But funny enough, so does this. Murdock's body against his, callused fingers scraping at his skin, his body, made lean and deceptive by those nice suits, taking up the space it's due. Frank pushes the man back over the counter just enough so that his other hand can palm a back and feel the arch of a spine before sliding down to fist into a cotton hem. It's a struggle, getting himself to back off enough to try and strip Murdock from the waist up.]
Right now, Matt isn't listening for a distant shout of pain or distress. He's not seeking out the sounds of a world to fight against. His focus is just on the sound of Frank's breathing and his heartbeat.
He breaks the kiss long enough to help Frank tug the old t-shirt up over his head to be tossed haphazardly onto the floor. There are new bruises on his ribs and shoulder but that's not unusual. He probably wouldn't be Matt Murdock if he didn't carry some wound of war and he doesn't let it bother him. They will mingle with the litany of scars and be forgotten like all of the other strikes that he wears. His mouth returns to Frank's as soon as the fabric is gone, crushing and eager.
[Later Frank might stop to catalogue Murdock's new scars. Later. Right now the man's mouth is back on his, hot and insistent, and that's all he gives a good goddamn about. The edge of teeth. The burn of facial hair.
Frank grabs Murdock's hips and sinks fingers in, giving the man a shove back against the counter only to drag him forward again. Pulling him in close. He bites, too-soft, at a lower lip before bumping his forehead against the other's and stepping back, breath a little too loud. Frank turns away, scraping himself out of his hoodie and throwing it over the back of the couch as he heads across hardwood toward the bedroom. His tee-shirt is likewise stripped and discarded as he walks, the motions perfunctory, efficient; blind men don't need strip teases.] C'mon, Red. Let's see what all this thread-count fuss is about, huh?
[The separation from the countertop and where it was digging into his hip is welcomed and he takes a step forward after the nip at his lower lip that breaks the kiss to start the shedding of clothing on the way to the bedroom. Matt doesn't give it much thought how items just get tossed onto his floor from Frank; the less between them, the better. He smirks at the comment about his thread count sheets and he knows that, even if Frank will never admit it, he doesn't mind the little luxuries that Matt Murdock brings into his life on the periphery of it. Good coffee, a soft bed, and then...whatever this is. Whatever label this strange intimacy takes on.
In the threshold of the bedroom, Matt wraps his arm around Frank's neck to pull him into a hard kiss while he backs them up against the bed so they can tumble back on the mattress. It's less graceful than what he's known for in a tangle of limbs but it's the thought that counts.]
What do you think so far?
I tried out "Murdock" but I hate it lol. "Red" just sounds more natural.
Frank still isn't sure when they became this - Red's mouth rough against his, his hands too-fuckin-sure on Frank's body; there wasn't some pound of flesh point in time, just a death by a thousand cuts. Frank isn't gonna lie, the natural antagonism between them always got him going. It's easy with Red, even when it's hard.
The bed... yeah, the bed's nice. Frank's muscle catches them in their fall back, lending some control to the tumble, but. It's Red lack of control that he likes. That he likes being the spark for. His hands push down the jagged topography of the man's sides, dig fingers into the corded muscles of his lower back before moving on to span the curve of ass through thin cotton.] Think maybe some people might actually know what they're talking about. [His hands squeeze as his head falls back to the bed.] As far as the sheets go, well, can't make a say without further testing.
[The way Matt figures it, it was either kill each other or end up in bed together and the latter seemed like the better option. They argue and fight like cats and dogs because of an incompatible ideology that seems to get left at the door in moments like these.
Frank's rough fingers digging into his skin force a gasp against the kiss and the grab at his ass through his pajamas has his full attention. He reaches down to start to tug them off to add to the ever growing pile of clothing scattered around his floor. He likes the sensation of the rough fabric of Frank's pants against his bare thighs when he pulls off the pajamas and he kisses Frank fiercely in response both to the grabbing of his ass and the remark about his sheets.] I think deep down, you're just as prissy as you tell me I am. [Those would probably be fighting words if not said with an easy smile and punctuated with another rough kiss.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Something like that. I can hear you outside. I assume you don't need an invitation to come in.
no subject
Well. He does know how to knock, anyway. But one of Matt's kitchen windows is slid upward without any further exchange of niceties and one boot after another, Frank unfolds into the apartment. In the unlit room he's just another shadow against the neon and halogen backdrop of Hell's Kitchen.
His glance around looks casual. Is casual, reflected even in the strong, regular beat of his pulse. The Devil of HK might be less than an enemy, but Frank doesn't have many people left he'd go so far as to consider friends. This turf belongs to Murdock; steady pulse regardless, he's ready for anything.] C'mon, [Frank calls to the darkness, moving toward the coffee pot,] that was good. You said yourself you've got a great ass.
no subject
He reaches to turn on the light to illuminate the way for Frank, even if he's sure the other man could navigate his apartment in the dark with ease now. He rises from his chair and moves toward the kitchen to meet Castle at the coffeemaker.]
You're probably the better judge but I haven't heard you complain.
[He reaches to retrieve a couple of mugs and sets them on the counter.]
Kona coffee. Let me know what you think.
no subject
Yeah, maybe he glances at the ass in question, though.] It ain't bad.
[He takes care of pouring the coffee into both mugs but other than that doesn't offer assistance. It's hot enough to burn but that doesn't stop Frank from putting his nose into the steam and taking a drink. Fuck. It's good coffee. Frank swallows and exhales in appreciation.] Yeah. Now that's a cup of coffee. [He takes another sip, watching Murdock over the rim of the mug.]
no subject
The answer about his ass sparks a smile.] I'll just take the compliment and move on.
[He takes a sip of the coffee once it's poured.] I told you so. There's whiskey in the cupboard if you want to add to it. Good stuff is on the top shelf. Mid range is the bottom. I stick with the bottom unless there's something worth celebrating.
no subject
Nah, I'm good. Use whiskey more to disinfect than drink. [Frank pushes off the counter and walks slowly around the kitchen as he sips the coffee. He uses a finger to check the cupboard. The level of amber liquid in each bottle.] Curious what you consider worth celebratin', though. Winning a case?
no subject
For once, you're not bleeding. [He doesn't taste copper in the air.] There's beer in the refrigerator but I don't think that pairs as well with the coffee. [He makes the offer with an easy, charming enough smile.] Yeah, sometimes. Depends on the case. Sometimes victories don't always feel like it.
no subject
Sometimes victories don't always feel like it.] I hear that. [There's a goad there, waiting, but Frank doesn't take it. Murdock doesn't seem like the type to drown his losses. He wants to feel them. Just like Frank.] So what about today? You whistle, and your dog without morals comes running? I'm not that, Red.
no subject
Yeah. Figured you would. [Matt takes another sip of his coffee.] Today was...one of those days. Sorry. I didn't mean to make it seem like you don't have a code or something. I know you do and I know it matters to you. It was supposed to be a fuck buddies joke, not a referendum on you as a person. [He's over explaining but he feels kind of bad about it now.]
no subject
That idea of comfort, it's not so strange. Guys like them, they're weapons. Murdock has his safety on. Frank doesn't. But they're still both weapons, walking down the sidewalk everyday with people who don't understand what they're brushing elbows with. Is Frank comfortable with Murdock? Nah, not the way those people on the sidewalk take comfort in each other - but there's a release in knowing he's standing with someone who understands guys like them, they don't get to have that. Even if they do make referendums on each other as people.
Frank laughs, the too-loud, too empty kind of laugh that is already falling from his face as he pulls a hand over his mouth.] Jesus christ, yeah; sure. [He looks at the front door, the window. Knows he ain't gonna use either. He's not offended. He doesn't care. Truth is that if Red decided to take the safety off, yeah, Frank would be there.
His boots are loud, antagonistic as he crosses the hardwood back to Murdock. Stops too close, slides his mug onto the counter behind but doesn't touch. Sharing space as a threat, but he's not sure yet of what kind.] 'm here, aren't I? [Frank's voice, already low, drops into a rumble.] Sure as shit ain't for the coffee.
no subject
He doesn't have to like it, but he and Frank are warriors. Sometimes on the opposite side because of method and motivations, but they exist in a space together where it's easy. They both stand in easy confidence because there's a strange safety in knowing how unsafe either would be if the gloves came off. They both hit hard but Matt's hands aren't anything resembling fists right now, circled around a warm coffee mug while Frank effortlessly stalks through his apartment.]
I'm glad you're here. [It's about as close to sentimentality as he can muster for Frank and that seems fine with the both of them. He sets his half finished mug down behind him and stands still in Frank's presence. They're both assessing.] And I assume not for my sparkling conversational wit.
no subject
You talk too much, that's for sure. [But the spark of intentional aggression, that's gone from his tone.] Looks like someone else thought so too. [Frank reaches up without hesitation, his hand moving toward the dark edge of a bruise peeking from the corner of Murdock's shadowed jaw - and stops, fingers hovering. He breathes out through his nose.
Waiting for permission.]
no subject
I've been told that a time or two, believe or not. [Of course Frank would believe it. The remark about the bruise forces a small smile out of him, especially when he feels Frank start to reach and pause inches from touch. Matt takes a small step forward to close the gap between them so rough fingers can connect with the bruise.] Yeah, well, you should see the other guy. [He came out ahead on that exchange. He almost always does.] What color is it? The bruise. [It's a day or two old but shallow so he wonders how obvious it still is. That's something he can only guess at with experience.]
no subject
His thumb moves, settling just to the left of center, where the leading knuckle must have made contact.] And red. The color of your suit. [He's not Murdock's dog but that doesn't mean the metaphor is false. Frank's fingers curve against the sharp line of Murdock's jaw, turning the man's face just so into his own. Hangs there, breath heavy, mouths separated by not even inches.
There's loyalty for a hand that reaches out, even after it's been bitten. Especially then.]
no subject
Sea stories. Same as all the other ones. [He says by way of explanation of where the bruises came from. One fight or another. It doesn't matter. Some brawl that ended in a way that Frank probably would disapprove of with the assailant in question in custody and maybe a hospital instead of a morgue. Standing in his kitchen, the gulf between them exists but it feels more shallow like this. They'll never really understand each other, not completely, but sometimes a little bit is enough. It is, anyway, when Matt tilts his head up to close some of the distance and height between them and presses his lips to Frank's in a ghost of a kiss.]
no subject
Frank stays still at the first press of Murdock's mouth. It's a whisper. A nothing, except a starting point. Consent that's so often denied from this man that it feels like a goddamn benediction to be weaponized. But that's good. Frank understands that. It's enough.
His mouth moves hard and sudden against Murdock's, teeth catching against lips and a thumb pressed into the tender center of a bruise as he backs them fully against the counter with a thud of weight and muscle.]
no subject
Softness gives way. It always does and Matt never minds. He feels a spark of pain on the bruise push point and he kisses it back in kind while his hip bumps against the edge of the countertop. The corner presses against fabric covered skin, biting, but he doesn't complain against the kiss.]
no subject
So his mouth pushes Murdock's, his body angles to hem him in against the sharp line of the counter, knowing how easily the tables could be flipped. His fingertips curl into the neat, short hairs at the nape of Murdock's neck and pull as their bodies find a way to fit roughly together and Frank leans into that friction he always feels in the Devil's presence, giving it rein to spark toward an inferno.]
no subject
It would be easy to shift things, to roll their bodies until it was Frank's back against the countertop but he doesn't. Instead, he presses his hand to the back of Castle's neck and pulls him in until they're flush against each other and the weight pushes Matt's hip even harder against the edge. He can feel Frank's heartbeat against his chest instead of just hearing it and the steady rhythm is a strange comfort.]
no subject
But funny enough, so does this. Murdock's body against his, callused fingers scraping at his skin, his body, made lean and deceptive by those nice suits, taking up the space it's due. Frank pushes the man back over the counter just enough so that his other hand can palm a back and feel the arch of a spine before sliding down to fist into a cotton hem. It's a struggle, getting himself to back off enough to try and strip Murdock from the waist up.]
no subject
He breaks the kiss long enough to help Frank tug the old t-shirt up over his head to be tossed haphazardly onto the floor. There are new bruises on his ribs and shoulder but that's not unusual. He probably wouldn't be Matt Murdock if he didn't carry some wound of war and he doesn't let it bother him. They will mingle with the litany of scars and be forgotten like all of the other strikes that he wears. His mouth returns to Frank's as soon as the fabric is gone, crushing and eager.
no subject
Frank grabs Murdock's hips and sinks fingers in, giving the man a shove back against the counter only to drag him forward again. Pulling him in close. He bites, too-soft, at a lower lip before bumping his forehead against the other's and stepping back, breath a little too loud. Frank turns away, scraping himself out of his hoodie and throwing it over the back of the couch as he heads across hardwood toward the bedroom. His tee-shirt is likewise stripped and discarded as he walks, the motions perfunctory, efficient; blind men don't need strip teases.] C'mon, Red. Let's see what all this thread-count fuss is about, huh?
no subject
In the threshold of the bedroom, Matt wraps his arm around Frank's neck to pull him into a hard kiss while he backs them up against the bed so they can tumble back on the mattress. It's less graceful than what he's known for in a tangle of limbs but it's the thought that counts.]
What do you think so far?
I tried out "Murdock" but I hate it lol. "Red" just sounds more natural.
Frank still isn't sure when they became this - Red's mouth rough against his, his hands too-fuckin-sure on Frank's body; there wasn't some pound of flesh point in time, just a death by a thousand cuts. Frank isn't gonna lie, the natural antagonism between them always got him going. It's easy with Red, even when it's hard.
The bed... yeah, the bed's nice. Frank's muscle catches them in their fall back, lending some control to the tumble, but. It's Red lack of control that he likes. That he likes being the spark for. His hands push down the jagged topography of the man's sides, dig fingers into the corded muscles of his lower back before moving on to span the curve of ass through thin cotton.] Think maybe some people might actually know what they're talking about. [His hands squeeze as his head falls back to the bed.] As far as the sheets go, well, can't make a say without further testing.
He will always be "Red" to Frank
Frank's rough fingers digging into his skin force a gasp against the kiss and the grab at his ass through his pajamas has his full attention. He reaches down to start to tug them off to add to the ever growing pile of clothing scattered around his floor. He likes the sensation of the rough fabric of Frank's pants against his bare thighs when he pulls off the pajamas and he kisses Frank fiercely in response both to the grabbing of his ass and the remark about his sheets.] I think deep down, you're just as prissy as you tell me I am. [Those would probably be fighting words if not said with an easy smile and punctuated with another rough kiss.]