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[FILL - Under the silvery, silvery Citibank lights - Part 2a/??] Wesley/Foggy - improbable fluff

[(Anonymous)]

i've been busy and this is late coming and i'm sorry but okay so this is basically just porn. hope that's cool!! next time is not going to be porn probably even a little so here it is right now very shamelessly. whoosh, there we go, all out of my system now (not really)

i personally think foggy is an A+ dom seriously just the absolute best. in this fill, that happens (i hope).

now introducing a belated work title taken from the national's “mistaken for strangers”


2: Trust Fall

“Franklin,” Wesley says, says it like it's a full sentence. He's taking a breath, like he's gearing up for something that sounds like it's going to be heavy before Foggy's even managed to say what do you want, or maybe are you calling from a parallel universe where it's not 2 AM on a Monday, or Foggy Nelson isn't in right now – try your call again during business hours. He's barely even managed to realize he's answered his phone.

And in the end he doesn't say any of these things, just yawns wide and says, “Wish you'd come around and quit calling me Franklin. You know, the literal only other person who insisted on doing that was my Nonna Nelson. I loved her very dearly, she was a very proper lady and she taught me how to count cards, sharpen a knife, and mix a damn good Old Fashioned. And she always sent me grocery money when I was in school but that's just about the last thing I want to be thinking about when I'm talking to you.”

And something that had been tense before comes a little unwound. There's a rustling noise, a shuffle. The click of a lighter. He swears he can hear Wesley's sharp, nasty little grin.

“Franklin, I've had the worst night and, before you ask, no, I don't want to fucking talk about it-”

“Cool. 'Cause I really like not knowing what you get up to.”

“Listen. What I'm saying is, right now, what I need is - I need to be absolutely wretched.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Do you think you can manage that?”

“Well,” Foggy says. Wesley listens to the sheets crinkle for a moment, a breath, bedsprings squeaking. “Figure I can do just about anything with a little encouragement.”

“That's good enough for me.”

There's a pause, Foggy makes a sound between a cough and a laugh, clears his throat in time to shiver at the sound of Wesley's long exhale.

“Hey, so. Where are we meeting up this time? It's kinda late. Early.”

“Meet you at the usual place? There should still be someone at reception, with the bar upstairs and all.”

“Y'know, do you want to maybe just, uh, come over? Be kind of a waste to have to put pants on just so I can go out and take 'em off all over again,” Foggy laughs jerkily, hoping he sounded exactly as casual as he didn't feel.

Another pause, just a breath, but Foggy feels it drag, doesn't wait long before doubling back hard.

“Hey, yeah, you know what, scratch that, I'll, um, I'll text you with the room number once I check in,” he says, ends the call quick, stuffing the phone into the pocket of the first pair of jeans he finds before he can talk himself into calling back to find out exactly what Wesley didn't finish saying.

His phone is buzzing against his hip before he can even finish pulling them on. He checks the display, even though he knows exactly who it is, takes a breath, answers.

“You didn't let me – I'll need your address.”

“I mean, unless you would rather...” he amends, quickly, not quite finishing his thought.

Foggy is almost grateful that he hasn't left himself enough time to do anything about how suddenly self-conscious he is about his Spring Awakening poster or the collection of vintage Universal monster movie figurines on his desk posed so that they're waltzing or the growing pile of clothes that bricked en route to his laundry basket. Or his mismatched thrift store bedset. Or the sad stockpile of possibly stolen, individually-packaged, single-serving condiments on his kitchen counter next to the toaster oven.

[FILL - Under the silvery, silvery Citibank lights - Part 2b/??] Wesley/Foggy - improbable fluff

[(Anonymous)]

The Wesley who meets him at the door is not the Wesley that Foggy is expecting. His jacket is missing, his tie loose. His shirt is creased damp at the small of his back and the bend of his elbows, where it sits against the back of his neck. There's a fingerprint just left of the bridge of his glasses. His eyes are dark behind them. He settles his hands at Foggy's shoulders and just watches.

Foggy feels unbalanced for just a moment, standing in his doorway in sock-feet, looking at the way the hazy orange fluorescent hall light halos out Wesley's hair, looking at himself reflected in his lenses.

“Hey,” he smiles crooked after a beat and pulls Wesley in, hands covering his.

“Hey,” Wesley echoes in a breath, lowers his chin, quick smirk like a hairpin turn and they're crowding each other, incendiary, starving. Wesley's shoulders hit the wall, his back, Foggy's knee working between his legs. He makes a sound so startled-small, Foggy pulls back, lifts a hand to brush his hair from his forehead, right his glasses and check in with a quick, “You all good?” Wesley answers with his teeth and Foggy's hands are just as sure (but not as yielding by half) when they haul his head up, hold him in place so he can lick slow and determined into Wesley's gorgeous, slack mouth.

Wesley's knees go liquid and he's just pinned. Pinned and pulling at Foggy's half-bun with both hands until he's just clutching at loose hair, shower-damp and blessedly cool under his hot palms, until Foggy takes each of his wrists, gentle, thumb on his pulse and just holds them, not against the wall, in the air. Holds until Wesley's sliding trembling down, back arched like a lyre, to brace himself against Foggy's thigh, soft and solid against the ache between his legs.

It's not enough and they both know Wesley could take more if he wanted, Foggy's grip is certain and there and grounding but it's hardly unshakable. And Foggy gets it, finally, he thinks. What was it John Waters said? All powerful people just want to give it up in bed. Yeah, that.

And he's got his lips against the shell of Wesley's ear saying low, “Gonna wait for you to give it up. Just gonna fuckin' wait. Could be here all night, Jim – your call,” and Wesley just shivers, says he's counting on it, and Foggy knows for sure he wants to give it up, has never wanted anything more keenly, except he needs a damn good pretense. Someone with as much control as Wesley, he needs to shatter.

So he leans in, slow, slow, slow with his open mouth pressed to the fragile space behind Wesley's ear, moving down his neck, bending him back until they're both slipping to the floor. Foggy's hands drag up his wrists until he can fit his fingers between Wesley's to hold him more securely and they're both breathing loud and quick, feet slipping across the hardwood floor for purchase, a stack of books scattering like sparrows.

(First person Foggy's brought home in months and this is anything but a long, slow, sighing cold weather screw under the quilts, listening to new vinyl.)

Wesley's twisting up under him, hooking a leg over his hip to get a better angle, more friction, because his hands are still caught, knuckles to the floor, and he's hot and sore and hard under his cruelly sleek-tailored slacks.

“Could make you come like this, I bet,” Foggy murmurs against his mouth.

“Don't want to come like this,” Wesley's words all jammed up between breaths, “I want to come on your cock,” he says it through his teeth, says it like it's agony. And it's vehement and decisive and crude as all hell. And with a suckerpunch groan, Foggy goes still, because, well, that's new and interesting.

“Yeah?” he asks on an exhale, letting up on Wesley's hands to slide his hands solid and sure down over his body, lay him out flat so he can take him in, every shivering inch. His bruised-bright mouth and the needy little crease welling between his brows, the rabbit-quick rise-fall of his breathing, the tiny slick, wet spot at the front of his slacks that Foggy circles with the pad of his thumb. Wesley barely nods.

“How am I ever gonna know unless you tell me?” Foggy asks, his eyes bright and wicked, a stray strand of hair clinging to his lip and his hands slipping up over Wesley's thighs, plucking at the pulls and folds in the fabric with his fingertips, watching Wesley's mouth go hard and focused.

“Yes,” he says, head back, a tendon leaping at the side of his throat, “Please.”

“Well then,” is Foggy's answer, pulling at the buttons of Wesley's shirt, hauling him out of his trousers, working him over with his mouth until he's rolling over onto his belly, palms sweating flat against the floor, legs spread and quaking. Wesley begs in snarls for more, disjointed strings of curses, until he's pleading, his cock slipping wet as he works his hips weakly against the floor and back against Foggy's fingers and tongue working him open.

“Not enough, god – want you. Want- please, just, please.”

Foggy just kisses the dimples at the small of his back and tells him they probably ought to find a bed, in that case. He doesn't bother to hide his grin when Wesley takes his hands and follows a half-step behind him on wobbly legs. They fall into his bed, Wesley fighting him out of his clothes, hands on his cock and groaning like it's already in him, telling him how big he is, how completely delicious he's going to feel when he's stretched out around him. Wesley's loose-jointed and sloppy with lube before Foggy relents, letting Wesley back him down onto the bed.

[FILL - Under the silvery, silvery Citibank lights - Part 2c/??] Wesley/Foggy - improbable fluff

[(Anonymous)]

“Turn around, I want to see you,” Foggy says and he watches the hot flush mantling Wesley's shoulders inch higher.

And he does, swinging his leg around slow, eyes down, dick hanging heavy between his legs, hands braced against Foggy's chest. He reaches back behind himself, takes hold of Foggy's cock. Foggy sucks a breath through his teeth as he bends forward to take some of Wesley's weight, steady him with gentle hands, and he feels the head of his cock just drag across Wesley's slick hole and finds himself choking on fifteen different filthy words fighting each other to the finish.

Wesley sinks onto him slow, leaving him completely wordless at the, tight, tight hot feel of his body around him. He swears he can feel his pulse thumming as he moves in fractions, adjusting to the aching thickness of him, breathing into it. And then he's riding fast and hard and shallow like he's determined to ruin himself, and Foggy's words come back all at once and he's telling him how sweet he takes it, how good he looks.

Foggy can feel the muscles of Wesley's thighs start to tremble on every quick downward arc, like he's running himself aground against his body, shaking harder and harder until his knees just give and Foggy's cock sinks home and Wesley's gasp tails into a wrecked little sob. He's falling into Foggy's lap so scorching and sudden that there's a visible tremor in Foggy's hands as he pets at Wesley's hips, a tightness in his voice as he tells him, “Easy, easy, now.”

But he isn't interested in easy or soft, leverages his hands against Foggy's shoulders, rocking himself against him, his head hanging low and his cock dragging across the soft curve of Foggy's belly with every move. The muscles of his back leap and tense under his skin as he grinds himself down against Foggy's cock in slow, focused circles that have Foggy pressing himself down into the mattress in a trembling, brief arc so he won't slam him his hips up into him the way his body wants to. Wesley's breathing ragged, open-mouthed, a quiet hitch that sends a tear slipping loose, another, as he finds the angle that jams the thick head of Foggy's cock hard against him where he's sensitive and wanting.

Foggy lifts a hand to cup his cheek and wipe his tears, to gentle him, Wesley swats his wrist away, pulls his hand back onto his hip, curls Foggy's fingers in, squeezes until he's gripping hard, until Foggy's short, blunt nails dig into his hip, rides Foggy until Foggy's meeting him halfway on every thrust, delivering a breathless litany of yes and Christ and doing so good for me, baby, just a little more.

And Wesley goddamn performs, head falling back, taking in big, wrecked gasps between peals of tears, crashing his body into Foggy's desperate and rhythmless. Foggy pulls himself up to a sit, hauls him in close, chest to chest, breathing fast and out-of-time. There's a slow-grinding hunch to Wesley's shoulders as he fits himself up against Foggy closer, face tucked against the protective curve of his neck, hands in his hair, trembling all the way down as he drops himself against Foggy once, twice, and breaks against him. A jangling shiver, a rough, wet breath. Foggy whispers, fuck, goes still, awed.

Wesley braces a hand at either of Foggy's shoulders, brackets him with shaking arms, lifts himself off and then drives himself down against him, hard, fucking himself through it, Foggy's hands all over his body, then cupping his face, their mouths open in what would be a kiss if they weren't both fighting for air. Wesley's body still clutching up around him in waves that make him ache and ache until he's trembling right at the edge, a single note climbing higher until he comes sudden and hard, a clear, good emptiness that makes him feel like a rung wineglass. He feels Wesley shiver for him one more time.

“Hey, I've got you,” he says, soft and slurred, like he's waking Wesley from sleep, an arm around his shoulders as he lays them both back down. Wesley pushes himself, still shuddering with little sobs and aftershocks, halfway onto the sheets next to Foggy with an honest-to-god whimper. Foggy brushes his hair away from his eyes as he buries his face against the mattress, then keeps his hands to himself, keeps talking him through it.

“You were so good, you were so good for me,” Foggy says, “You did so, so good.”

“Thank you for- god- for trusting me with this. Letting me see you like this. You're gorgeous, unreal, Jim, shit, I've never...”

Wesley tips his head to press his face to Foggy's shoulder, wet lips, wet cheeks, trembling hot breaths, his hand reaching up to tangle in the ends of his hair. The salt of his sweat-slicked skin cut with the citrus-floral smell of his shampoo. He runs each strand between the pads of his fingers, tugging at the ends like he's pulling the bow loose on a gift. Foggy shifts a little onto his side and wraps an arm around him, cheek against the crown of his head, tracing circles between his shoulderblades until his breathing evens out.

They're quiet and still, heartbeats coasting.

“You know, I didn't think you'd pick up,” Wesley says quietly after a few minutes, finding his voice smaller, a little frayed.

“Figured it had to be important, I mean. Not like you really... call. No, wait. No, I mean, what I mean's, like, you're no one I'd expect a drunk dial from, y'know.”

“Was it important?”

“You're asking me? Um,” Foggy pauses, considers the question, “Yeah. Definitely. You know you can call me, right? If you want to.”

“Yeah? Now I do.”

“Yeah. You don't have to pencil this in during lunch like a, like we're...”

“Like a client meeting. Like I'm running errands. You know, you're better when you can take your time, anyway. Maybe I will. I think Murdock will appreciate me cutting into company time less.”

Foggy groans, “I know he doesn't care but I've been telling him it's the buses. Missed my bus. Bus broke down, running late, never showed, had to walk. He's probably sick of hearing it.”

“You're a shit liar.” A dismissive snort, he settles his head against Foggy's shoulder. Foggy can feel the curve of his grin.

“It wasn't weird, being here instead of...”

“Neutral ground?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I don't think so, no.”

Foggy makes a noise of assent.

“For you?”

“Nah. Anyway, I'm good at weird.” Foggy says flippantly.

Wesley snorts again as he settles against Foggy heavy-limbed, the sweat on his skin drying to a chill. Foggy smooths his goosebumps with a warm hand, a blanket slung across their loosely tangled bodies.

“Hey. How are you feeling about whatever it was from earlier?”

“Nothing's changed. Situation's still as well fucked as it was when I left it. However, I'm also well-fucked. So, there's that.”

Foggy's laugh is vaguely scandalized. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

“No, Foggy, I pay someone for that. Doctor-patient confidentiality,” he smirks.

Foggy feels a guilty glint of something, like watching your keys drop down an open grate, but it passes quick, sinks into a warm, comfortable dark, the hush-hush-hush of Wesley's soft hands making patterns down his side. He's not sure whether he actually manages to reply or not before he nuzzles his face into his hair and slips into sleep. He knows he won't be there when he wakes up but this is enough.

Re: [FILL - Under the silvery, silvery Citibank lights - Part 2c/??] Wesley/Foggy - improbable fluff

[(Anonymous)]

Holy fuck, this is glorious. I never thought I would be so into this pairing but you have got me hook line and sinker. Never stop doing what you're doing <333

Re: [FILL - Under the silvery, silvery Citibank lights - Part 2c/??] Wesley/Foggy - improbable fluff

[(Anonymous)]

hahA you know what, i didn't either, but thank you so much!!!!

Re: [FILL - Under the silvery, silvery Citibank lights - Part 2c/??] Wesley/Foggy - improbable fluff

[(Anonymous)]

Well I am absolutely wrecked. I feel like I'm emotionally worn out by just empathizing with Wesley for a bit. Oi. Love this.