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It’s hard for him to focus on anything but Matt’s hand in his hair, the grip hard enough to sting as his head is yanked back. The pain is sharp and distracting, shooting down to pool as heat in his lower abdomen. Matt is close—close enough that Dex can feel the anger radiating off of him like it’s something physical, dangerous. There’s more than danger, though. There’s a rightness, a feeling like maybe this is exactly how they were meant to end up; Matt’s hand in his hair and Dex pliant beneath him, helpless to do anything but surrender himself to Matt’s rage. He feels himself smile.
Let it out, he thinks. Show me exactly what I am to you. His eyes flick up to look at Matt’s beneath his glasses—the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen really is handsome.
“I’m not lying,” he says. “Listen to my heartbeat. I know you can hear it.”
“Shut up,” Matt growls, his voice low and his grip reflexively tightening as he forces Dex’s head back even further. Dex can’t help the noise that escapes him at that, a soft whimper from the back of his throat that makes Matt freeze. He cocks his head to the side, brow furrowed.
“You’re kidding me,” he says, voice dripping with disgust and incredulity and something else that Dex can’t name. Amusement, maybe.
Dex squirms, his face flushing with the knowledge that Matt can sense every one of his body’s reactions. Another hard yank of his hair and Matt is directly above him, looking down on him with undisguised contempt.
“You’re disgusting.” His other hand comes up and fits along Dex’s jaw, his thumb pressing into his bottom lip. Dex’s mouth parts involuntarily, and Matt takes the opportunity to slip his thumb in further, forcing his mouth open wider.
“Look at you,” he croons. “You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?”
Dex bites down in response, his tongue flicking over Matt’s thumb. He gets a perverse thrill out of tasting Matt, any part of him. The same hands that once pushed him away so violently now holding him firmly in place. He’s Matt’s to use, to punish. He deserves it, after all. There’s a lot in his fragmented memory that he’s unsure of, but this he knows; has had it etched into his brain ever since his parents left. Not good enough. Never good enough. He tried. He always tried.
Matt’s thumb jerks free and he grips his jaw more tightly. Leaning down, he spits into Dex’s open mouth.
“Swallow,” he orders, voice low like he’s letting Dex in on a secret. Dex’s gaze lands on Matt’s mouth, shiny and parted, and he swallows, wanting to be good— needing to be good for Matt, the one person who might still be able to understand him, despite everything.
He swears he can feel Matt tracking the movement of his throat as he does. “So obedient,” he muses. His voice still holds that mocking edge, but there’s something else there, too. Something breathy and awed, like he can’t believe this is happening. Well, neither can Dex.
“You really want this.” The hand in his hair tightens when Dex says nothing, his lust-addled mind too focused on the feeling of Matt’s hands holding him down to offer a proper response. He’s aching, fully hard now just from this. God, you’re pathetic.
“Answer me when I ask you a question.” He’s speaking directly into Dex’s ear now, a low hiss that makes Dex shiver involuntarily, eyes closing against the feel of Matt’s stubble scraping the side of his face. “Do you. Want this.”
“Yes,” he breathes, eyes still closed like that somehow makes the admission less shameful. “Please.”
Finally, finally , Matt’s mouth is on his, hard and angry and exactly what Dex has needed since Matt walked into this room—no, since before that. Since Matt held him close on that rooftop, clutching him like he held all the answers; discarding him when he realized he didn’t. He knows this won’t last, knows it won’t be long before Matt remembers who he is and what he’s done. But for now, he just feels a vicious thrill at the knowledge that here, in this room, he and Matt belong to each other.
Matt takes his bottom lip between his teeth and bites until he draws blood, and then he’s licking into Dex’s mouth, tongue hot and insistent. Dex moans, open-mouthed, wanting to devour and be devoured all at once; wanting to crawl inside Matt Murdock until there’s no telling where one of them begins and the other ends.
The hand on Dex’s jaw moves down to circle his throat, squeezing just hard enough to make him gasp. He arches into the touch, needing more, his hands straining against the cuffs. He wants so badly to reach out, to touch Matt the way he’s never been allowed before. At the same time, there’s something gratifying about how powerless he is, how completely vulnerable he has become under Matt’s ministrations.
Above him, Matt seems intent on undoing Dex completely. He devours him with a single-minded devotion, blood and saliva intermingling as their teeth clash and their lips slide together. Matt’s nails are digging into his scalp, his throat. He’s on fire, every sensation vying for attention amidst the onslaught.
Matt pulls back a little and Dex whines, leaning in, his body reacting unconsciously to the loss of Matt’s mouth. Matt stops him with a tug on his hair, and he opens his eyes. Matt’s lips are swollen and red—dotted with blood from Dex’s teeth—his face flushed. The sight gives Dex a rush of satisfaction. He hopes his teeth marks stay there for days, hopes Matt is reminded of this moment the next time he’s putting his clever mouth to work.
Matt releases the grip on his neck and tilts Dex’s head back, baring his throat so he can lean down to latch onto Dex’s pulse point. Dex makes a strangled noise, the feeling of Matt’s teeth in his neck almost too good to bear. Matt’s stubble is rough against his sensitive skin; it leaves him feeling raw and frayed, exposed in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. He finds himself hoping, praying that Matt leaves a mark, that he walks out of this room with some tangible reminder of their shared weakness.
“More. Please,” he hears himself gasp softly.
Matt pauses, detaching from his neck and pulling his mouth back next to Dex’s ear. “You want more?”
“Yes.” It’s whispered, breathy, perceptible only because of how intently Matt is focused on his answer.
“Hmm.” He hums, pretends to consider it. “I don’t know. Do you really think you’ve earned it?”
Dex nods, eyes closed. Matt’s hand is back around his neck, thumb pressing into the newly-formed bruise where his teeth had been a moment ago. Dex hisses, sound escaping through his teeth in a rush of air.
“Please, Matt.” It’s the first time he’s called him that, the name intimate and unfamiliar on his tongue all at once. Maybe it’s that, or maybe Matt takes pity on him, but he finally relents. One hand still firmly gripping his neck, he takes the heel of his other and grinds it into the bulge on Dex’s lap. Dex moans, unbidden, the sudden friction just this side of unbearable.
“Aww, sweetheart,” Matt coos. “You like that, don’t you? Is that what you needed?” His tone is mocking, but the words land as shooting points of pleasure in Dex’s gut.
Matt’s hand is still moving, a steady pressure that drowns out everything else. Dex moans again; lower this time, pained. His hips buck up, desperately seeking more friction. He knows he’s close already—knows that Matt knows it, too. As if in response, Matt scoffs, tightening the grip around his neck. “I’ve barely even touched you, and look at you.”
Dex whines, but Matt’s pace remains maddeningly slow and even, so that Dex is forced to grind up against him to set his own.
“This is all you’re getting. If you want to come, you come like this.”
He huffs, his body arching further into Matt’s touch, chasing the release that he knows is close. A minute later he’s there, letting out a choked sob as he spills into his pants. Matt works him through it, past the point of overstimulation, until Dex is squirming beneath his palm. He finally pulls back, releasing his hold and straightening up again.
Dex immediately misses his touch. He feels boneless, undone.
Matt takes a step back and wipes his mouth, hands clenching around nothing. Dex can see the tent in his pants, hear his heavy breathing—the evidence that this hasn’t left him entirely unaffected. Dex feels his mask slip back into place as he realizes he has the upperhand again.
“Anything I can help you with, Counselor?” He’s grinning lazily now, satiated, his eyes tracking Matt across the room.
Matt turns away, ignoring him. He shakes his head to himself like he’s trying to clear a fog, then seems to reach some decision. Gathering his cane, he walks over to bang on the door with his open palm—the same one he’d been using to get Dex off not a minute prior.
“Guard! We’re done here.”
The door is unlocked and Dex is hauled to his feet. He’s still watching Matt, studying his face for some reflection of Dex’s own thoughts. Who is this lawyer, this Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, who has somehow disarmed him more thoroughly than anyone has ever been able to?
As the guard drags him away, he takes a last glance over his shoulder. “Looking forward to our next meeting.”
A pause, and then a huff of laughter from behind him, low, just for him.
The door slams shut, and Dex smiles.