Work Text:
1. Andi
Matt's spent years cultivating immense control over his body. He's aware, on some level of cognition, that this isn't really about sexual release. He also knows damn well that what he does on nights like this isn't an option for most blind people. It makes him crawl a little with guilt. But he's lonely, Foggy is out with some college friends, and just for a little while he'd like to pretend his life is ordinary.
He goes well out of his way, as far from Hell's Kitchen as he can get without bankrupting himself on cab fare. He's researched his hunting ground and cased it ahead of time. He knows he can get to the bathrooms and back to the bar with relative ease. His glasses are on the counter at home. He feels naked without them.
Her perfume hits him first. Something dark but subtle. It reminds him of Vanessa, a not entirely uncomfortable resonance. She sits down three seats away with the whisper of hosiery against suiting. Something else too-- an almost inaudible creak of elastic. Garter belt. Matt swallows.
Her voice is low as she asks for a martini, a little smoky. It curls up in his ear like a cat. She might be a little older, might just have a torch singer's voice.
He's been shot down once tonight, politely, so he bides his time. He might be out for a very specific purpose, but that's no reason to embarrass himself by being hasty. Somewhere bells chime the hour. He waits until well after a likely date would have arrived.
"Excuse me," he says. "I uh, wanted to ask if I could buy you a drink, but I'm not sure if you're waiting for someone."
Her pulse picks up just a little.
"I'm not. And another martini would be lovely, thank you. Care to join me?"
They each move over a seat so they're sitting next to each other.
"Matt," he says.
"Andi."
It turns out that Andi is in town on business-- she lives in London. They make uninteresting small talk about jobs and locations, edging closer to each other as they work through the first drink, the second, and the third. She kills the rest of the martini and then holds up her hand.
"I think that's enough for me. I've got meetings tomorrow that I don't want to be hungover for."
He can sense her looking at him. He smiles. Now is the moment.
"Do you want to share a cab?"
"Sure."
The shuffle into the cab gives them an excuse to shove against each other. She gives the cabbie directions to her hotel. Matt reaches out to tip her chin up a little and kisses her. Her lips taste like the remnants of some long-lasting lipstick, peppermint balm, vodka and vermouth. And olive brine. He smiles.
At the hotel she doesn't bother to pretend he's not coming in, takes his hand and leads the way. He kisses her again in the elevator. Her hand slips into his back pocket and squeezes.
Once they're in her room there's no need for propriety. She pushes him up against the door and rocks her hips against him. Excellent. His fingertips skim up the inside of her thigh to rub just above the edge of her stocking. Her breath catches. He can smell her, damp enough for him to slip a finger beneath the elastic of her panties and stroke, press, further in. Her hands pull the tails of his shirt out of his pants, unfasten his belt. He crooks his wrist, the slightest bend of his hand, and Andi moans into his mouth.
He moves her backwards, relying on her to get them to the bed. Pushes her back and eases her down. He mouths at the inside of her thigh, just above the stockings, and resists the urge to run his tongue over the delicate fabric. She shifts, and her skirt rucks up a little. Matt's hands move up her thighs to slip off her panties. The scent of her is overwhelming, and he wastes no time licking and kissing, touching, until he finds what makes her gasp. He eats her out, takes his time doing it. He's in no hurry.
She comes apart slowly, but inevitably. Her breath stutters, and she gasps. She moans his name, and he flicks his tongue over her clit until she's pulling his hair and bucking up into his mouth and fingers. She subsides, tugs on his collar to bring him up.
"Fuck me hard," she whispers.
"Yes."
They don't even undress. He rolls on a condom, feels her gaze on his cock, and then pushes into her without hesitation. Her voice jags up, high and broken. She rolls her hips, head back, and Matt fucks her exactly as he's been asked, his face in her neck. Her fingernails rake up his shirt, reddening the skin beneath, and he shudders. He waits for her to come, to come undone, and only when her noises drop to whimpers does he allow himself to come.
For a moment they lie there, dishevelled, hot and loose. Matt kisses down her throat to her collarbone. He excuses himself to go to the bathroom to clean up, splashes water on his face. When he comes back out his tie is retied, shirt tucked in. He still smells of sex-- reeks of it, to his own nose-- but that's fine.
Andi clicks her tongue. "Off so soon?"
He smiles at her and leans down for a deep kiss.
"Afraid so."
Rustle of fabric against fabric as she lies back.
"You'd better be Batman or something."
He's already halfway to the door. He pauses and turns around.
"Yeah, something."
2. Marc
It's not often that Matt's surprised by people. If he weren't bent over with his pants around his ankles, being fucked roughly up against a bathroom wall, he might consider how this one slipped by him. Quiet, unassuming, bespectacled Marc, who is now murmuring filthy things to him (yes, take it, god) while his hands slip and slap on cold, greasy tile.
He lets his head hang between his arms, mouth open (you want it hard?) while Marc fucks him with relentless intensity. He would never have gotten this if he'd come in with his glasses and cane, would've been avoided or pitied or presumed sexless. It irritates him, makes him want it that much harder, what he wouldn't get if he were truthful.
(fuck you're so) The words crawl down his neck (fuck fuck jesus fuck) and over his scalp like a torrent, down his spine to the tingling place in the small of his back. Marc doesn't touch his dick, but he doesn't mind. (so good, so good) He came here to be fucked, and thank god that's exactly what Marc is giving him. He arches and pushes back as much as he can, bites his lip. (wish you could see how hot you look) Matt smiles to himself and thinks me too.
It doesn't take long for Marc to come, letting out a string of even more obscene things before he pulls out of Matt and drops the condom into the toilet. Matt stands up slowly and relishes the ache in his ass. (your ass is so fucking hot) Marc pushes him back against the wall of the stall and sinks to his knees. The profanities cease while he sucks Matt off, translated to humming sounds and moans around his cock that make Matt clutch for purchase and find none.
3. Jonathan
Matt's halfway out of his chair when Jonathan takes what passes for a stage. Given the sensitivity of his hearing, he's not much of a fan of open mic nights. If it's not the performers, it's the feedback and buzz from speakers, amps, microphones.
It's his voice as he greets his audience that makes Matt pause. It's barely above a whisper, soft. Polite. Matt listens to him pick up his guitar and pick out an arpeggio. He launches into a song, his quiet voice rising. The technical dexterity of his playing is impressive. His voice is clear. It breaks over high notes like the sea against a cliff and runs down notes like waterfalls. Matt sits down again.
After a short set, Jonathan makes his way up to the bar. There are few people present, which makes Matt feel all the more obligated to say something.
"You're very talented," he says.
"Oh, thanks, thanks very much."
"Buy you a drink?"
"Cheers."
They drink in silence for a moment. Jonathan's not much of a talker. Matt makes the required chitchat for musicians and learns very little apart from the fact that Jonathan is shy.
"Are you playing another set?" Matt asks.
"Not sure there's any point. Glad you're enjoying it, though."
His voice changes as his gaze slips down and then back up Matt's body. His hair whispers over his shoulders.
"I am. But if you're not going back on, that means I can buy you another drink."
Jonathan moves a little closer, the blend of cotton and stage sweat intensifying a little. Matt can feel the heat from those lights. It's easier to dissemble and pretend he can see them if his gaze goes across the room at this or that. He gives Jonathan another smile.
At his apartment, later, Matt winds his fingers in that long hair as Jonathan's tongue curls around his dick. Matt's head drops back on the back of the sofa as Jonathan sucks him off, leisurely and slow.
4. Joanna
She paces in front of him in a measured, even stride. Each step on the hardwood floor is a pair of percussive sounds, clic-clon, clic-clon. Matt turns his head to track the sound. He glances up and down as if he were sighted and likes what he sees. He flexes his wrists behind him-- the bindings are getting a little uncomfortable, but he has no intention of getting up from his knees any time soon.
Not until she tells him to.
"You look so pretty like that," Joanna purrs. "Such a pretty boy, with such a pretty mouth. Tell me Matthew, do you suck cock with that mouth?"
His face lights up with heat. He's not sure which answer she wants to hear.
"Y-- yes."
"I bet you're good at it, too."
"S-- so I've been told."
"Mm. And tell me Matthew, do you like to be fucked? I bet you like that too, don't you? Being bent over and worked open like the little slut you are... I bet you moan like a whore at the moment of penetration."
Her enunciation is perfect, crisp, and it sends a jolt of desire right to his cock. His mouth is dry. He inhales a shaky breath and rolls his shoulders back.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't clear enough: that was a question. Answer me."
He chokes it out, "Yes-- god, yes..."
"Mm, good boy."
That too seems to take the express train from ear to brain to cock. He shudders. She stops in front of him, a cool silhouette against the heat of the fireplace. Takes his chin in her hands.
"So pretty. I think... I might tie you to my bed. Hands over your head, so you can't misbehave."
He lets out a ragged sigh.
"Then I'll tease you for a while. Bet you like that too. Get you hard and aching, desperate to come. God, I can hear you already. Whimpering and moaning. Pleading for it."
The slightest catch in her voice betrays her own desire, and Matt drinks it in.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" she asks.
"Yes, please."
"Mm, now that's a nice sound. Do it again."
He shifts on his knees to ease the ache in them. His thighs tremble.
"Please. Please."
"You want me to fuck you, precious? I've got just the thing."
He inhales sharply. It's hard to tell where the surge of lust from one thought ends and another begins.
"Yes," he breathes. "Please fuck me, fuck me hard, I--"
He cuts himself off. She's asked him to beg, but he doesn't want to overdo it.
"Go on..."
"Please, fuck me hard, do-- do whatever you want to me, I'm yours, I'll do anything..."
The desperation in his voice mortifies and excites him, a feedback loop of aural masturbation.
"What if I want to fuck you senseless and then leave you hard and wanting, hm?"
"Yes..." he whispers, hoarse.
"What if I torture you with touching until you can't take it anymore?"
"Please," he begs.
She steps up close to him, and god, he can smell her desire, knows how she'd taste. Maybe if he's good she'll let him.
5. Alex
Voices are important to Matt. He has no yardstick for physical beauty, and he tries to tune out scents most of the time. Tactile input is scarce, and taste, well... maybe if he's lucky.
He turns to the sound of the voice he's just heard-- a gentle contralto, or is it tenor? A slight accent, something European. He'll have to wait to figure it out. He smiles, making what he thinks is eye contact. It's always hard to be sure. Some people don't notice, some don't mind, but other people are intensely unsettled by his unfocused gaze.
"Ehm, hi?" the voice says.
"I'm Matt."
"Heya Matt. I'm... Alex."
He tilts his head a little at the hesitation. A pseudonym? Not that he's bothered-- he just wonders what would make Alex use a false name.
"Where are you from?" he asks, a little frown between his eyebrows.
"Scotland, originally."
Ah. That's it. Been in the States long enough for the accent to soften around the edges, flatten. It's nice.
"Can I buy you a-- you just ordered a drink." He laughs a little. "I'm sorry. I don't get out much."
He ducks his head.
"Me either, to be honest. First time I've been out in ages."
The bartender sidles over with the drink and sets it down in front of her-- him? It smells of St Germain and lime and something else. Slightly bitter, and it tastes... green... in the air. Mint.
Matt picks up his scotch and cautiously holds it out.
"Well then, to us getting out. There's hope for us yet."
Alex does him the favour of clinking the glasses, and Matt pretends to let his gaze drop and come back up. He listens carefully for fabric movement. A form-fitting shirt, trousers. Sensible shoes. No indication of gender there. He shifts incrementally closer, intrigued by the ambiguity. He can smell Alex's shampoo, something crisp, no product. Thai food for dinner.
He stops before he gets too nosy-- then laughs at his own thought.
"Something funny?"
There's an edge in their voice, a quickening of pulse. They think he's making laughing at them.
"No, no, I just... thought of a funny thing my partner said today."
Alex continues looking at him, very still. Matt sighs.
"He loves puns. It's awful. And he's--" Matt stops himself before he says learning Braille. "He's kind of an artist. He drew this... cartoon, I guess, of me, defending Satan in a courtroom. Titled it The Devil's Avocado. Sorry, that's an inside joke. We're lawyers. It's... did I mention I don't get out much?"
"I imagine not, being a lawyer. D'you have your own practice?"
He absorbs the charming sideways skid of the ooh in you.
"Yeah. The hours are insane, but... it's worth it. To feel like we're doing some good. Fighting for the little guy. Person."
A little chuckle from Alex.
"So you're a lawyer, but you've got a soul? I didn't think those existed."
Matt shrugs. "Few and far between, seems like. But don't let that fool you-- I'm a terrible person."
"Yeah, you seem pretty awful."
The comment surprises Matt into laughter. Alex isn't all shyness and soft voice, it seems. Good.
It occurs to Matt as he considers it that he's already decided to take Alex home-- if Alex will go. There's still a tension beneath the surface, a wariness in the way they hold their body. If he were to reach out and touch their back, they'd shy away, and probably leave.
"That drink looks good. What is that?"
"Mojito Parisien. Bit pretentious, I suppose, but I like the way it tastes."
"What's in it?"
"St Germain, mint, lime, rum."
Matt considers. "That sounds pretty good."
"D'you want to try a bit?"
He smiles and closes his hand around the glass that Alex slides over on its damp napkin. Lifts it to his face and inhales. He takes a small sip.
"I don't think it mixes well with scotch," he says, wrinkling his nose. "Could I have a glass of water? And... one of those."
Matt cleanses his palate and starts into his own drink. It's nice.
"Tastes like summer."
Alex scoffs a little, probably because of the cold needling rain coming down outside. It's a constant rush in the back of Matt's head, pleasant, white noise.
"So, what do you do, Alex?"
"I uh... I'm an artist."
The irony is incredible. Matt smiles and asks the usual questions about media, influence, just to get Alex talking. He's genuinely interested, even if he would never be able to see anything Alex has done. The air currents swirl, animated by gesturing hands. He's found what brings them to life.
Three drinks and four hours later, Matt completes the slow evening's journey to sit shoulder to shoulder with Alex. Warm, a bit of muscle definition in the arms, but that might not mean anything. Their face is warm from drink, but possibly also from the spark of contact. Matt gives what he hopes looks like a sly sidewise glance and then starts to move in.
Alex's mouth is warm, lips soft with some kind of honey lip balm. No smell of make-up, just a trace of lavender soap and that shampoo. Denim. He breathes it in and then out again, his mouth still on Alex's, lips parted just enough to invite but not initiating anything more intense. A flick of tongue on his lower lip, and Matt tips his head as the kiss deepens. He touches Alex's jaw and brushes his thumb across a high cheekbone. A curl grazes his fingertip, and he moves it back.
When they part, Matt's pulse is considerably quicker. He presses his lips together.
"They're going to close up soon." He swallows. "Do you want to go to my place?"
A little inhale of surprise. Alex's heart pounds, but their lips say nothing.
"I'm sorry," Matt says "Have I been too forward? I didn't mean to..."
"No, it's okay, I'm just... surprised. God. It's ah... been a while, sorry."
Matt nods. "Fair enough. Do you want my number? And you don't have to say yes."
Alex fidgets. Heart still racing, coiled to run if necessary. Matt's heart breaks a little.
"I do... but I'd also like to, uh, go to yours."
Matt smiles broadly.
"After this drink?"
"Yes, but um. You do know I'm..."
"I don't care," Matt says, and means it.
6. Steve
Steve touches a lot-- shoulder, nape of neck (he really, really likes that), arm. They haven't even kissed, but Matt's curled up in his (large, well-muscled) arms, pretending to watch some old movie on TV.
The night has gone well. The two of them are cosied up on Steve's couch, shoes off, and Matt's already planning the morning trip back to his apartment to put on fresh clothes. Thinking about what Steve's mouth will taste like.
Matt gets up to use the bathroom, glad that Steve is a tidy person with a minimalist furniture situation. He can manoeuvre easily in this space, more so than usual. He comes back and drops onto the sofa, back into the warmth and clean scent of Steve. Whose heart rate is just a little higher than it was. Maybe Steve's finally about to go for it.
"You're pretty amazing, you know," Steve says.
Heat rises in Matt's face and neck.
"Um, thank you? But why?"
"I don't know how you do it, but I've never seen a blind person move like that."
Matt stills. He keeps his face carefully blank.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You don't have to pretend," Steve says softly. "You're probably used to people being... well, assholes about it, but. It's okay."
There's a moment, a millisecond wherein Matt considers denying it further. But there's something sad in Steve's voice, and he seems so nice. Matt lies so much to people he cares about. It's exhausting. He lets his head drop.
"Sorry, I. Yeah, people tend to be a little weird about it. Sometimes I... fake it, I guess you could say."
His mouth pulls into a moue.
"I get it. I know a little of what that's like-- for people to treat you like you're made of glass."
Matt smiles. "I can't imagine anyone doing that with you."
"I wasn't always... like this. I used to be skinny, real skinny. Sickly. Asthma, heart murmur. Nearly died of pneumonia once."
"Jesus. What happened?"
Steve shrugs with a whisper of cotton against the back of the sofa.
"I got better."
Even if Matt couldn't hear heartbeats and the hesitation of breath, he's an experienced enough liar himself to know it when he hears it. He lets it ride. He's not interested in Steve's secrets, not even now that Steve knows his. He turns his face towards Steve's. They're almost close enough to kiss, but not quite.
"How did you know? That I was blind."
"I had an uncle who was blind. He used to turn his head the way that you do, to hear people better. And he never looked anyone in the eye-- well, obviously. Once you got used to it, it was fine, but he wore dark glasses a lot. Didn't like people staring."
Matt's glasses are folded up on his coffee table a few miles away. He traces the piping around the edge of the sofa cushion with a fingertip, feels the weave of the fabric, a little finer than the rest of the cushion. Distracts himself with touch. Steve's hand lifts his chin and turns his head towards him. His mouth meets Matt's firmly, but not greedy. A soft press of lips until Matt's tongue touches Steve's lower lip.
They both know what they want, but they're in no hurry to get it now. Steve's hands move over Matt's shoulders and back, up to the nape of his neck to cradle his head. The broadness of him, the cords and planes of muscle, make Matt feel almost petite. He's surprised to find the thought pleasing. He dips his fingertips underneath the t-shirt Steve is wearing, just to feel the direct warmth of his skin. His stomach is as insanely muscular as the rest of him. Matt's fingertips drift down to his navel, a bit lower, and Steve wriggles.
"Ticklish," he says softly.
Matt smiles. "So you do have a weakness."
"More than one."
The sound of it vibrates under Matt's hand. He thumbs Steve's jaw, digs his fingertips just a little into the neat edges of Steve's haircut. Steve inhales, and Matt kneads a little at the join of neck and shoulder. He shifts until he's nearly in Steve's lap. He jumps a little as Steve's hand curves around his ass and gives it a squeeze, then laughs into Steve's mouth.
Suddenly he's in the air, and Steve has him, is carrying him to the bedroom. It's not something Matt's ever really thought about, but something about it turns him on. Suddenly he wants Steve on top of him, in him, holding him down and fucking him gently until he breaks. He nips at Steve's lower lip. Steve responds by dropping both of them onto the bed so that the springs bounce and give a little squeal of outrage. Matt laughs.
Steve's weight is perfect on top of him, one knee between his thighs so that they can roll their hips against each other while they kiss. They stay there so long that Matt loses track of the time. It could be days before the intensity and heat turns up just a little, until it's too hot for clothes and Steve undresses them both.
The more immediate touch of skin separated by a couple of thin layers of cotton makes Matt's breath hitch. Steve's substantial hard-on rubs against his hip, makes him squirm. He takes a deep breath to centre himself. No need to get desperate now that they're so close.
He strokes Steve through his boxers and coaxes a little moan out of him. It vibrates directly in Matt's ear and chafes his already thin patience to breaking point.
"Mm, please," he murmurs between strokes of Steve's tongue in his mouth.
"Hmm?"
Now that it comes to it, he struggles to get it out. Steve kisses down his throat and nips at his shoulder. His lips part to mouth at it, at his neck, earlobe. He arches up against the weight of Steve's body.
"Oh, fuck, do me."
"Hm?" The fucker's just teasing him now. "How d'you want it? Hm?"
Matt swallows hard. His fingertips dig into Steve's hips.
"I don't care, I just need..."
Steve whispers in his ear, pornographic: "Say it."
"Fuck me. Please."
His face is burning, but he's reaching a point where he doesn't care. Embarrassment doesn't make it past the threshold of Matt's need.
"Okay," Steve whispers. "Okay."
He moves away. Cool air on Matt's body as Steve rifles through a drawer. Matt slips his boxer briefs off and tosses them. Maybe he'll find them tomorrow, maybe he won't. There's a light slip and slap of elastic as Steve's boxers come off. He comes back and settles in next to Matt, completely naked, hard, smelling of sex. Matt rolls into the impression he makes on the bed. They rock against each other, mouths missing and gasping for air.
Steve hitches Matt's knee up over his hip, and Matt trembles as a slick finger makes its leisurely way back to his ass and presses. He pushes down onto it, moans.
"Ah-- ah-- please--"
Steve laughs a little against his neck, but he also pushes in a second finger. He flexes his hand a little, and the fingertips in Matt's ass touch something that sends sparks down his spine. A strangled whimper comes out of him. He presses his forehead to Steve's neck, buries his face in Steve's shoulder.
Just as Matt's sure he can't take it anymore, that he'll beg if he has to, Steve withdraws to roll on a condom. Matt lies back, panting, rakes a hand through his tousled hair. Lets his thighs part, Steve back on top of him, the head of his cock pressing against Matt's ass, pushing in just enough for Matt to really feel it and moan.
"Need you..." he breathes.
Steve pushes up a little further, penetrating so slowly. Matt bites his lip at the stretch, gives himself over to it. He moans again, rising in pitch as Steve eases all the way in. His hips come to rest against Matt's ass. He rolls them just a little, and Matt shouts, "Fuck!"
"Oh god..."
His hand holds Matt's thigh, shifts him so that Steve's cock drives into him at just the right angle to make him swear again, goddammit, fuck, yes, the only words he knows are obscenities and encouragements, please and Steve and harder.
Steve won't give him what he wants. His pace is gentle, easy. He's going to make it last. When he closes his hand around Matt's cock, Matt nearly comes there and then. His fingers must be leaving bruises on Steve's shoulders.
"Oh my god... you look so good."
"Wouldn't know," Matt breathes, laughter in his voice.
"Trust me, oh fuck, Matt--"
He can't hold back anymore. He comes, hot on his chest and stomach, god knows where else. His body locks up. Above him, Steve gasps. His hips slap against Matt's ass, just the way he likes-- he'd come if he hadn't already. Then he throbs, holds for a moment or two, then settles down on top of Matt. Their mouths meet again, the heat subsiding but still very present. Matt wonders wildly if Steve might like to be fucked later.
They'll see.