Foggy whistled, between his teeth, and Matt fought the urge to grab a shirt and leave.
(He could; there was nothing stopping him, he absolutely could, but that would be it. He'd go home to his cold bed in his cold apartment and sleep for a few hours, wake up restless and exhausted, dreams full of sirens.
He didn't dream of sirens when he let Foggy wear him out.)
"How'd you get that?" Foggy asked, drawing a finger a hairs breadth away from Matt's skin, along the six or seven inches of bruised muscle.
"I don't remember," he said, which was true, to a point. It had either been the guy wielding the pipe or the two-story fall, neither of which were stories that Foggy needed to hear about. "It's not a big - look, I liked what we were -"
"Yeah," Foggy said, softly, "I'll bet you do."
He sounded strange.
Matt had expected to be thrown out or for the whole thing to be ignored; he hadn't expected the weird, curious kind of arousal that Foggy kept up, behind him. Touching his body.
"Hey, Matt?” Foggy asked.
“Can we leave it?” he asked.
“No,” Foggy said, and sighed. “How am I supposed to fuck you when you're this bruised up?” he asked, and Matt didn't say anything. (All he had to say was “do it anyways,” and “i don't mind,” but those were not effective methods, historically speaking.)
“Nah,” Foggy said. His heart stumbled, once. “Nah, I think you gotta learn that I'm not okay with this shit. You're ruining the mood, Murdock.”
“I can still,” Matt tried, because Foggy was still hard, and Matt could taste it in the air: faint, bitter smell of arousal. It made his mouth water. “I can still. I want to hear you come, I do, please -”
It came out embarrassingly honest.
“I know you do,” Foggy said. He smelled like Foggy, and like he was sad, and horny. “Does it sound stupid to say you haven't earned it? - because you haven't, bud, like: dick move, not letting me know how bad you were hurt before I fucked you.”
“I think I fucked you,” Matt said.
“Hey hey,” Foggy said, and he leaned in to kiss Matt, sweet and soft: oh; yes, that was good, that meant – it was a little bit of truth and a little bit of a game. “You can make it up to me,” he said, seriously. “Why don't we see how long you can touch yourself, huh?”
“What?” Matt asked. He didn't - “ - what's the point of that?” he blurted, bewildered.
“That I know I'm not hurting you,” Foggy said. “And that way I get to watch you squirm a little," he said: he sounded like he was smiling.
Re: Matt/foggy, masturbation as punishment 2 (2/3)
(He could; there was nothing stopping him, he absolutely could, but that would be it. He'd go home to his cold bed in his cold apartment and sleep for a few hours, wake up restless and exhausted, dreams full of sirens.
He didn't dream of sirens when he let Foggy wear him out.)
"How'd you get that?" Foggy asked, drawing a finger a hairs breadth away from Matt's skin, along the six or seven inches of bruised muscle.
"I don't remember," he said, which was true, to a point. It had either been the guy wielding the pipe or the two-story fall, neither of which were stories that Foggy needed to hear about. "It's not a big - look, I liked what we were -"
"Yeah," Foggy said, softly, "I'll bet you do."
He sounded strange.
Matt had expected to be thrown out or for the whole thing to be ignored; he hadn't expected the weird, curious kind of arousal that Foggy kept up, behind him. Touching his body.
"Hey, Matt?” Foggy asked.
“Can we leave it?” he asked.
“No,” Foggy said, and sighed. “How am I supposed to fuck you when you're this bruised up?” he asked, and Matt didn't say anything. (All he had to say was “do it anyways,” and “i don't mind,” but those were not effective methods, historically speaking.)
“Nah,” Foggy said. His heart stumbled, once. “Nah, I think you gotta learn that I'm not okay with this shit. You're ruining the mood, Murdock.”
“I can still,” Matt tried, because Foggy was still hard, and Matt could taste it in the air: faint, bitter smell of arousal. It made his mouth water. “I can still. I want to hear you come, I do, please -”
It came out embarrassingly honest.
“I know you do,” Foggy said. He smelled like Foggy, and like he was sad, and horny. “Does it sound stupid to say you haven't earned it? - because you haven't, bud, like: dick move, not letting me know how bad you were hurt before I fucked you.”
“I think I fucked you,” Matt said.
“Hey hey,” Foggy said, and he leaned in to kiss Matt, sweet and soft: oh; yes, that was good, that meant – it was a little bit of truth and a little bit of a game. “You can make it up to me,” he said, seriously. “Why don't we see how long you can touch yourself, huh?”
“What?” Matt asked. He didn't - “ - what's the point of that?” he blurted, bewildered.
“That I know I'm not hurting you,” Foggy said. “And that way I get to watch you squirm a little," he said: he sounded like he was smiling.