Fisk took him to his knees, and Matt fell forward.
It was going to be bad, he already knew, but this was the sort of pain that couldn't be predicted. Stick had been big on predicting pain, on anticipating it and shutting it out for as long as possible. Matt had considered everything that might have been meant by one night, and he'd known that it had been a possibility, but he'd hoped something like this would've been above their dignity. Now, in a hotel room that reeked of chemical pine, it was clear that this was going to be about his dignity.
That was fine. Daredevil didn't have dignity; Matt could fold his up and put it away deep inside of him, because there were some things that were worth more than - there were some things he valued more than what people thought. He could take it, he'd taken worse, as long as they didn't gut him it wouldn't - all they could hurt was his body, it was fine -
His hands were already shaking. It was probably the dislocated shoulder: normally, Matt could hold a pushup for a few minutes on his own, but he'd interrupted a group of assholes by the docks three days ago, and the puffy swollen flesh around his shoulder and armpit hadn't subsided yet.
Fisk spent ten minutes stroking his hole.
Vanessa drizzled lube and more lube: so much silky wetness running down his body Matt couldn't keep from panting, just a little. Sweat sprang up at his hairline, between his shoulders: nothing had happened yet and he was already giving up any advantage he'd had. The plan had be to fold all the important parts of himself up, tidy and neat inside his head, and let whatever happen happen to his body, but - oh, it was. He'd thought he would only have to fight the two of them: he never expected to have to fight against wanting something like this.
Big finger pressed, lightly, against the muscle: Matt could swear that at this point he could feel the whorls of the print. He bit his lip instead of making any noise, but his left arm gave out on him, which was when he dropped to his forearms.
"Not yet," she said, "not quite yet: wait for him to loosen up."
"Can you lie on your back," Fisk asked, and that distracted Matt enough that when he got a finger he pushed back, because - it was -
"That is a stupid question," he said, because it was, and because his face was hot and it was probably really obvious.
"No," Vanessa said. She traced a line over his shoulderblade, worryingly near his spine - oh, that, that had been stitched already -
"That's fine," Matt panted.
**
"Oh, not like that, darling," Vanessa said. "I can't see his face."
"ngh," Matt said. He got an arm up over his eyes, hid in the crook of his elbow.
"Really," Vanessa said. "hiding, sweetheart?"
"Yes," Matt said, and then - "nghh what are you doing - "
He would've been pissed, because her breathing had changed to the choppy rhythm that usually meant "trying not to laugh," but he didn't have the space to get pissed, because -
Wilson lifted his head from between Matt's legs. "I thought it would be obvious."
"Don't."
"Young people always think they're the ones who invented sex," Vanessa said, mildly.
Tongue. Tongue. That was - tongue - and Matt would get away, call the whole thing off and book it fucking stark naked out the window, but Fisk was fucking bigger than him, heavier, the angle was bad and that's - not - why in fuck's name would they use their leverge for something like that? Okay, fair, humiliating, but wouldn't it be worse to make Matt do it? And while he was thinking his hips went back, back, away, away, until he'd jammed himself up in a corner. Nobody seemed terribly worried: Fisk kept licking down there, broad and - wet - and -
- it's just that it was sensitive from before, a big wet finger was something that Matt's brain was conditioned to think of as positive, that's all, so now that there was a big wet tongue soft and slick and - and teasing, catching on the edge of his hole, curling in, strong and muscular -
"Oh," Matt told his elbow. "Oh fuck." He didn't want to give them the satisfaction, but it was - it -
"Hold your knee," Fisk said, short, and Matt caught the one he pushed back, automatically, and - "nrgh," because that was air, cold enough to give him goosebumps, and then a wide flat lick from his balls to his asshole -
So his arm tightened, so that pulled his leg up further, that's not- that wasn't - on purpose -
Vanessa started laughing.
**
Matt could tell the difference in cotton and synthetic fibers by touch; his fingertips were sensitive enough that if he concentrated, really concentrated, he could manage print by feel.
Until that night, he'd never bothered to consider the details of, say, someone putting both fingers and tongue in him. It was almost too much to think about: two fingers big and callused hitting deep, curving inside, and tongue so much hotter, wetter, licking around the rim and flicking - oh jesus, the flicking, that was -
he couldn't stop shifting into it, pushing into it, and that was stupid, wasn't it? to acknowledge how badly he - wanted.
(that's your prostate, Claire had said, and Matt had said yeah, but it's kind of a lot of work, right? why bother when i can just do this? and that had been the end of that experiment. Until now. Until now with the twisting sort of slide, and the tap at the end of each stroke that hit in exactly the right place, not quite hard enough unless he thrust up to meet it, which was easy, easy, easy, and the way that - distressingly - he was coming up to the point of no return, he could feel it, and it would be shameful to keep pushing for his own release, but -
- but if he pushed into every stroke of Fisk's fingers, he could set off that spangly feeling, in his spine, in his balls, it hadn't ever been quite this intense before.)
"Easy," Vanessa said, "give him a minute," and no, no, they should not give him a minute, he was almost there, he - he hooked one leg over Fisk's shoulder, pulling down, wanting more, but it wasn't - quite - enough -
to keep him there.
He was laughing, laughing far too close to Matt's fucking balls, it had all the high hot pressure of a wave that hadn't quite hit him, but - he hadn't - and he wanted - "no," he said, "no, no, don't - don't stop - "
"Oh, Matthew," Vanessa said, soft, cruel, pleased, "all night, remember?"
"Stay with me," Fisk growled, and bit at Matt's hip, and that was just sharp enough to make Matt lose the last bit of his control, come up from his shoulders to his heels, trying for something that he wasn't getting -
**
Matt and Fisk both knew, honestly, Fisk would almost always be able to pin him, once they took it to the floor. They weren't in each other's weight classes: Fisk had seventy pounds on him, at least five inches, and while Matt had the stamina to outlast Fisk as long as he stayed out of reach, once he fell under him it was pretty much a done deal.
Still.
He'd been so close, so very close to tipping over the edge, that letting that particular moment go was - he couldn't help trying to jackknife, to get Fisk closer or get himself closer, close enough to rub off, and so when Fisk came up to hold his hips down and lace his fingers with one of Matt's hands and wait, wait for him to calm down and let it go - it -
"oh shut me up," he said, hating it, and hating himself for being so blunt about it. That, surprisingly, didn't make anyone laugh: Fisk paused for a minute, and then he loomed over Matt, Matt hadn't felt this - caught, covered - in years - and the kisses were wet and biting and Matt tried to give as good as he got.
**
At some point, Vanessa Fisk decided that she wanted to watch Fisk go down on Matt, which wasn't - even - something he'd considered, but. He still didn't see the point to it, but it had stopped mattering: it was like a very long, dizzying dream. As a teenager, he'd had those dreams: as a grown man, he'd spent so many nights drifting in a thin soup of painful, hazy sleep augmented by whatever painkillers Claire'd been able to procure from her emergency stash that those dreams had stopped. Now, he was more likely to wind up in a hazy dream in which he faltered, waited too long, didn't wait long enough. People died. All his dreams smelled like blood.
Which was how he knew he wasn't dreaming, when Fisk pinned him at the hip with one arm and engulfed him meticulously, even steady unrelenting pressure, it was -
- it was hot and wet and slick, and his hips were jerking and he kept clenching from the navel, trying to thrust up up up.
(Every time he failed, though, and every time he failed to move Fisk's heavy body it sent another little curl of heat down his spine: yes, Matt thought, yeah, this, this is -)
He hadn't thought, he wasn't being mindful, being careful of who he was or who was in the room with him, and it sounded stupid to say that he'd forgotten what was happening, but he did, he did - one hand dropped to hold, clutch at his partner's shoulder, and he remembered oh, no -
- twisted the sheets in both hands, then, and let it wash across him like high tide, aching hot and desperate.
**
He'd lost the plot, which is why the second or third time Fisk pulled off just in time to keep him from going over the edge, he managed to flip them, get on top of Fisk.
"Oh," Vanessa said, and the sharp musky smell of her got stronger. Matt heard - he didn't know what to call it, but she squeezed, or pulsed, and he could practically taste her. Which wasn't - Fisk was up, it wasn't like Matt had hurt him, but Matt didn't care anymore, he shoved him down, got a hand on Fisk's chest for balance, used the other to orient, and - oh.
Oh oh oh.
The slide was better than he'd remembered, slick and hard and filthy; it was harder to do than he remembered, but he'd always been the one to jump into the pool feet first, get it over with: same thing here. Fisk had stopped moving, one big hand wrapped hard around Matt's wrist: that felt good. The burn as he slid down, that felt - it hurt, this was why he almost never did this, because that pain was the best, deepest, easiest pain of all. It felt dangerous and it felt addictive and Matt was pretty sure he had no control over his face, at this point, and he didn't give a shit, he needed - he wanted - he was going to get this, he was going to get this over with, there, that was almost the right way to put it. Breeze on his back, his chest: that felt good. Cold, of course, but -
"Ohh," Vanessa purred.
Matt heard the hum of a vibrator, which -
"oh oh oh," he had to say, had to make some kind of noise; he lost the rhythm for a minute. Came back to himself with Fisk's hand on the small of his back, hotter than it had any right to be: he clenched down, hard, let himself feel every inch of it.
"Yes," Fisk groaned, and - and that - was - "well done," he said, half-serious, half-mocking, and Matt growled deep in his throat because it made his own cock twitch and that was not okay -
Matt's thighs were burning. Sweat dripped into his face; he could feel the salt sting.
**
"Oh, Matthew, you are a delight," Vanessa Fisk said from the bed, where she leaned against Fisk's chest. They were both watching him limp into enough of his clothes to get home decently, if he took the roofs.
"Come back soon," Fisk said.