(also at http://archiveofourown.org/works/3872779)
It's like there's this itch under his skin, this tension that starts building up from nothing until it's consuming him so his nerves are on fire and there's nothing else he can think about. It's a distraction, one he can't afford, not with finals coming up and so much research to do.
Matt goes to the gym to try to punch it out. It's worked for him on occasion in the past, and it's a lot safer and more expedient than the alternative, so he punches the bag until his knuckles are raw. If he could risk asking one of the guys there to go a few rounds with him, he would, but there's no way to do that without revealing himself so he rinses the blood off, rewraps his knuckles, and starts in on the bag again.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . . The prayer grounds him, and he whispers it under his breath while he hits the bag.
Forgive us our tresspasses, as we forgive those who tresspass against us. (forgive me for what I am about to do)
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen. (please Lord stop me from wanting this, stop me from needing this)
It hurts. It hurts, but it's not enough. Not enough to absolve him of this feeling, to burn out his desires, and when he's sweaty and exhausted he stops and leans his forehead against the bag. The heaving of his chest makes him a little unsteady, and the bag sways with his body. He wants it to come unhooked and fall on top of him, wants to be crushed by its weight.
Instead, he stands up straight and hits the shower, then goes out into the city.
***
It only takes a couple of hours to find what he's looking for. He stops in at the bars where he knows male prostitutes get picked up (he can tell by the smell -- multiple semen contributors and sweaty dollar bills) and in the third one he finds a couple of men standing near the bar who shift their weight between their legs when they see him. Matt makes a show of trailing his fingers along the bar to find the first empty stool near them and sits down.
"Come here often, or do you not even know what kind of a place you just walked into?" the first guy asks. He smells like wood chips, grease, and asphalt. A construction worker, probably. His friend is smaller, slighter, but has the same scents clinging to his clothes and his skin.
"I know exactly what kind of place I just walked into," Matt replies. "You and your friend here just in for drinks or are you looking for something else?" He can feel the change in the air as the men exchange glances. The bigger one leans against the bar next to Matt.
"I got a few buddies ready to meet up with us in a few minutes, but I don't know if a blind guy could handle our sort of party. No offense."
"What, afraid you're going to break me?" Matt laughs. "I've been around the block a few times. You ever blindfolded someone you picked up? It's just like that." It's not, really, but it puts the guys at ease a little bit, and the thrumming in Matt's veins picks up in anticipation. "I don't mind rough handling. In fact, that's what I'm here for." It makes his stomach twist to say it out loud, but he knows by now there are only two ways to scratch this itch, and only one that doesn't involve hurting anyone else.
The man shrugs, or maybe gestures, but even if Matt was focusing enough to tell exactly what he was doing (difficult with his mind as distracted as he is) he'd have to pretend he didn't know anyway. There's a beat where the man realizes that blind guys can't read visual cues, then he says, "How much?"
***
They go to a cheap hotel across the street and the two men's friends meet them there. The first two guys grope Matt's ass on the walk over and it's humiliating but he's so amped up he doesn't care. There are six in all, different sizes and shapes based on the pressure of their steps, the sound of their breathing, and the way they displace the air in the room. Four of them are already hard, the smell of their arousal thick in the air. Matt resists the urge to lash out and beat them all until they're unconscious and bleeding: exactly the thing he's trying to avoid by coming here.
There's some discussion in hushed tones, intended to be whispers, and Matt tries to tune them out and not hear them but a few fragments come through anyway. He's hot but a blind guy? . . . only wanted cab fare home, says he's not a hooker . . . says he wants it rough.
Matt taps his way over to the bed and sits down on the edge of it, taking off his shoes while they come to an agreement. He can feel one of the guys looking at him and hear the sound of his hand sliding over fly of his jeans. It makes his stomach turn. It makes his skin prickle and his airways constrict.
"Take off your shirt," one of them says, so he does, carefully taking off his glasses, folding them, and setting them next to him on the bed while he pulls his shirt over his head.
He holds out the glasses and his cane in front of him. "One of you want to put these somewhere they won't get broken?" The small guy from the bar takes them and sets them near the door. Matt stands up and then kneels down on the floor. "Let's get this show on the road."
FILL: Matt, gangbang (1/2)
It's like there's this itch under his skin, this tension that starts building up from nothing until it's consuming him so his nerves are on fire and there's nothing else he can think about. It's a distraction, one he can't afford, not with finals coming up and so much research to do.
Matt goes to the gym to try to punch it out. It's worked for him on occasion in the past, and it's a lot safer and more expedient than the alternative, so he punches the bag until his knuckles are raw. If he could risk asking one of the guys there to go a few rounds with him, he would, but there's no way to do that without revealing himself so he rinses the blood off, rewraps his knuckles, and starts in on the bag again.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . . The prayer grounds him, and he whispers it under his breath while he hits the bag.
Forgive us our tresspasses, as we forgive those who tresspass against us. (forgive me for what I am about to do)
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen. (please Lord stop me from wanting this, stop me from needing this)
It hurts. It hurts, but it's not enough. Not enough to absolve him of this feeling, to burn out his desires, and when he's sweaty and exhausted he stops and leans his forehead against the bag. The heaving of his chest makes him a little unsteady, and the bag sways with his body. He wants it to come unhooked and fall on top of him, wants to be crushed by its weight.
Instead, he stands up straight and hits the shower, then goes out into the city.
***
It only takes a couple of hours to find what he's looking for. He stops in at the bars where he knows male prostitutes get picked up (he can tell by the smell -- multiple semen contributors and sweaty dollar bills) and in the third one he finds a couple of men standing near the bar who shift their weight between their legs when they see him. Matt makes a show of trailing his fingers along the bar to find the first empty stool near them and sits down.
"Come here often, or do you not even know what kind of a place you just walked into?" the first guy asks. He smells like wood chips, grease, and asphalt. A construction worker, probably. His friend is smaller, slighter, but has the same scents clinging to his clothes and his skin.
"I know exactly what kind of place I just walked into," Matt replies. "You and your friend here just in for drinks or are you looking for something else?" He can feel the change in the air as the men exchange glances. The bigger one leans against the bar next to Matt.
"I got a few buddies ready to meet up with us in a few minutes, but I don't know if a blind guy could handle our sort of party. No offense."
"What, afraid you're going to break me?" Matt laughs. "I've been around the block a few times. You ever blindfolded someone you picked up? It's just like that." It's not, really, but it puts the guys at ease a little bit, and the thrumming in Matt's veins picks up in anticipation. "I don't mind rough handling. In fact, that's what I'm here for." It makes his stomach twist to say it out loud, but he knows by now there are only two ways to scratch this itch, and only one that doesn't involve hurting anyone else.
The man shrugs, or maybe gestures, but even if Matt was focusing enough to tell exactly what he was doing (difficult with his mind as distracted as he is) he'd have to pretend he didn't know anyway. There's a beat where the man realizes that blind guys can't read visual cues, then he says, "How much?"
***
They go to a cheap hotel across the street and the two men's friends meet them there. The first two guys grope Matt's ass on the walk over and it's humiliating but he's so amped up he doesn't care. There are six in all, different sizes and shapes based on the pressure of their steps, the sound of their breathing, and the way they displace the air in the room. Four of them are already hard, the smell of their arousal thick in the air. Matt resists the urge to lash out and beat them all until they're unconscious and bleeding: exactly the thing he's trying to avoid by coming here.
There's some discussion in hushed tones, intended to be whispers, and Matt tries to tune them out and not hear them but a few fragments come through anyway. He's hot but a blind guy? . . . only wanted cab fare home, says he's not a hooker . . . says he wants it rough.
Matt taps his way over to the bed and sits down on the edge of it, taking off his shoes while they come to an agreement. He can feel one of the guys looking at him and hear the sound of his hand sliding over fly of his jeans. It makes his stomach turn. It makes his skin prickle and his airways constrict.
"Take off your shirt," one of them says, so he does, carefully taking off his glasses, folding them, and setting them next to him on the bed while he pulls his shirt over his head.
He holds out the glasses and his cane in front of him. "One of you want to put these somewhere they won't get broken?" The small guy from the bar takes them and sets them near the door. Matt stands up and then kneels down on the floor. "Let's get this show on the road."
***