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Rain fell in a steady, whispering curtain beyond the window of Matt’s apartment, the sort of late-night drizzle that gentled Hell’s Kitchen’s perpetual roar to something almost tender. Matt sat propped against the headboard, legs stretched long beneath silky sheets, a Braille volume of Gerard Manley Hopkins open across his lap. The raised dots beneath his fingertips had long ceased to form words. He hadn’t turned a page in nearly ten minutes. His focus had drifted six blocks east, where Frank’s heartbeat carved a clean path through the damp night like a flare he could never fail to notice.
Strong. Steady. Unmistakable.
Three weeks. Twenty-two nights of waking in the small hours, palm sliding across cool sheets in instinctive search of solid warmth, waking to the phantom press of Frank’s forearm draped heavy across his waist only to find empty space.
Matt understood that missions demanded what they demanded. Curtis had needed backup, and Frank never owed explanations for his departures. He left. He returned. Matt was the same way. That had always been their rhythm.
But the calendar had made today unbearable.
Valentine’s Day.
Matt usually dismissed the holiday with an eye-roll. It was nothing but a capitalist confectionery slathered over a martyr’s violent end, wrapped in pink cellophane and sold at a premium. And today New York City had refused to let him escape it.
Foggy had spent the afternoon recounting, with gleeful detail, every element of the elaborate evening he’d planned for Marci. Even Karen had mentioned “dinner with an old friend” with a small, private smile. The streets pressed in on him: couples leaning into each other beneath shared umbrellas, lips brushing at crosswalks, laughter and murmured endearments spilling from restaurant doorways. The air carried waves of cloying perfume, melted chocolate, the faint metallic bite of lipstick. Everywhere hands linked, bodies angled toward one another, boundaries dissolving under the socially sanctioned excuse of… romance.
If being single on Valentine’s was hard, then being half of something real—something that had quietly become as necessary to him as breathing—and still spending the day alone cut deeper.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and refocused on the approaching heartbeat.
Closer now. Two blocks. Heavy footsteps striking wet asphalt, a subtle limp Frank was attempting to mask. Bruises unfurling hot across the ribs. A shallow cut on the left forearm, no stitches needed, already clotting. Nothing bad.
The tension coiled in Matt’s shoulders began to loosen by degrees, muscle by muscle, until he could breathe around the knot that had lived there for weeks.
The stairwell door groaned open downstairs. Boots scraped concrete. One flight. Two. Heartbeat steadying as Frank ascended, but the bone-deep weariness still bled through every step, layered now with something smaller, more private: a fractional stutter that only showed up whenever Frank was near Matt.
The rusted key turned in its hole with a small resistance, then the apartment door opened.
Frank shrugged off his coat; it landed against the wall with a sodden slap. Boots kicked aside. Jacket dropped to the floor with a muted thud. Then he filled the bedroom doorway that Matt had left open.
Matt catalogued him without moving: broad shoulders filling the doorway, hair plastered dark and curling at the nape, rain, gunpowder, and three weeks of hard living clinging like smoke. Beneath it all, an unusual scent. The faint, stubborn trace of chocolate—cheap, melted, probably swiped from a gas station counter and immediately regretted. Matt suppressed a smirk.
Frank cleared his throat. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Matt set his dimpling smile free and tossed the book to the floor with a thud.
Frank crossed the room in three long strides and launched into him. Face buried in the crook of Matt’s neck. A deep, shuddering inhale, as though he were trying to pull Matt’s scent into his lungs to replace whatever filth the night had left on him. Arms banded tight around Matt’s ribs, possessive, almost desperate, like the city might still reach in and try to drag him away.
Matt chuckled—soft, startled—and let his hands slide up Frank’s back, mapping the hard knots of tension buried beneath layers of muscle. He felt the smallest tremor in Frank’s shoulders, the way his fingers flexed once against Matt’s ribs before gripping tighter, as though letting go might mean losing something he hadn’t earned back yet.
“Missed you too,” he murmured, voice low against Frank’s damp hair.
Frank answered with a low grunt, the sound vibrating against Matt’s throat. His lips found the hinge of Matt’s jaw—rough, open-mouthed—then slid to his mouth. The kiss began careful, almost cautious, relearning shape and pressure after too long apart. Tongues brushed, retreated, returned. When they parted, foreheads rested together, their breaths mingled in warm, uneven pulls.
Matt lifted one hand, fingertips tracing the hard ridge of Frank’s jaw, the fresh stubble rasping pleasantly. His other arm remained locked around Frank’s waist, anchoring him.
“Everything okay?” he asked quietly.
Frank shook his head once. “Ain’t in the mood for talkin’ and cuddlin’.” He pulled away completely.
The abrupt loss of contact struck like a door slamming. Matt’s brow furrowed, instinctive.
“I mean—fuck. Shower first.” Frank’s voice softened, almost apologetic. “Smell like the goddamn Hudson and worse.”
Matt huffed a laugh, forcing lightness into the sound. “Yeah. You really do.”
“Fuck you.” Frank snorted, rough and low, and lobbed a pillow at him.
He vanished into the bathroom.
Matt tracked him: the hiss of water hitting tile, the way Frank’s breath caught briefly under the spray, shoulders slumping deep as though he were rinsing away more than grime and blood. It was clear that the mission had gone sideways—not fatally, but enough to leave echoes. And Frank blamed himself for it. Matt knew then precisely what Frank needed tonight.
He rose, padded barefoot to the back room where they stored their gear. The Muay Thai ropes lay coiled neatly on his shelf—long strands of worn cotton-hemp, velvet-smooth from years of use, still carrying the faint ghost-scent of resin and sweat and countless hours spent trading blows. Their ropes. History braided into fiber. Matt brought them to his nose and inhaled deeply. The scent still held traces of their last scene a few months ago—salt, heat, trust.
Back on the bed, he settled at the edge and waited.
Frank emerged with a towel slung low on his hips. His heartbeat kicked hard—then stuttered—when he registered the coils resting in Matt’s lap. Arousal flared sudden and bright beneath damp cotton, layered with something quieter: the tiniest exhale, a telltale flutter of relief tangled with guilt.
Matt tilted his head toward him, lips curving. “Think you can be a good sport for me tonight, Frank?”
Frank crossed the room without hurry, each footstep carrying the faint creak of wet sole and the low thrum of his heartbeat drawing nearer. Rough fingers found Matt’s chin—gentle at first, then firmer—tilting it upward. The kiss came deeper now, claiming, hungry, all careful relearning burned away in an instant. When they broke apart, Matt’s voice remained level.
“Strip. Kneel on the bed.”
Frank let the towel fall away. He moved past Matt and settled on his knees in the center of the firm mattress, back ramrod straight, hands loose at his sides. He waited.
Matt licked his lips. His own pulse thundered in his ears. It never stopped flooring him—how this man, forged in violence and loss, who trusted almost no one, chose to place that trust in Matt’s hands like this. He took a few more seconds to gather himself, then climbed into bed and knelt behind Frank.
Matt pressed a soft kiss to the side of Frank’s neck, lips lingering a heartbeat against warm skin. “Hands,” he murmured.
Frank exhaled—a long, slow release that carried the first faint tremor—and surrendered his arms behind his back, wrists crossed just above the dip of his spine.
Matt turned the palms inward and began wrapping. He doubled the first rope, centered the bight at the small of Frank’s back, then drew both ends up and over broad shoulders in slow, deliberate paths. The cotton-hemp rasped pleasantly against still-damp skin as he crossed the strands once beneath Frank’s pecs—framing the scatter of bruises without pressing on the ribs—before pulling the tails back behind. Six tight, overlapping coils around the crossed wrists built a thick, padded cuff. Matt cinched it with a flat knot, leaving a short tail to dangle against Frank’s spine like a promise.
Frank rolled his shoulders once, testing. The bind held without biting. A small sound escaped him—not quite a sigh, more a settling—and his heartbeat eased a fraction, steadying into something deeper, more open. He gave a small nod of approval.
Matt’s fingers lingered a moment beneath the cuff—checking warmth, pulse—feeling the subtle shift from tension to acceptance beneath the skin. Then he moved to the second rope.
“Now spread your knees for me.”
Frank stilled. “You want me tied up like some kinda fuckin’ display?”
“Frank.” Matt hooked two fingers through the wrist binding and pulled backward—slow, unhurried—guiding Frank’s shoulders open, chest lifting, abs drawing taut in a clean arch. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Frank’s pride flared hot behind his ribs, a quick spike of heat Matt could taste in the air, but beneath it came the quieter tell: a single held breath, then release, as though the order itself had unlocked something. He shifted. Knees parted wider on the mattress, thighs straining just enough to hold the upright kneel steady.
“See?” Matt’s voice stayed soft, almost fond. “Not that hard.”
He drew the remaining tail of the first rope downward along the centre of Frank’s spine, threading it between bound wrists to anchor it neatly. Then he took the second length, doubled it, and knelt to wrap Frank’s ankles—four firm coils side by side, cinched snug but not punishing. A short connector rope linked ankles to wrists: just enough tension to remind Frank he couldn’t rise or twist far.
Frank tested the whole arrangement with real force this time—rocking forward once, shoulders rolling, hips shifting. The ropes sang taut; his chest stayed proudly forward, bruises laid bare to the cool air and Matt’s waiting mouth. He couldn’t reach, couldn’t hide anything. A faint tremor ran through Frank’s thighs, not from strain but from the raw exposure. Beautiful. Devastating.
Matt’s mouth went dry as the sudden thickening heat of Frank’s cock registered against his senses—hard, flushed, curving upward in helpless offering. His own erection throbbed in answer, pressing uncomfortably against the soft cotton of his sweats. He adjusted himself once—rough palm dragging over himself through the fabric—and forced a steadying breath.
Pace. They had time.
Frank’s voice came rough, questioning. “Red?”
Matt seized the opening he’d been waiting for. “Don’t move. Be right back.” He slid off the bed.
“Red—what the fuck?”
Matt headed toward the kitchen, poured himself a glass of ice-cold water, and drank it slowly. He listened to Frank swearing under his breath, low growls of frustration, ropes shifting as he tested the bonds again—shoulders rolling against the high wrist cuff, the short connector between ankles and wrists singing taut with each small tug. Beneath the cursing, Frank’s heartbeat had changed: faster, but not panicked—more like anticipation bleeding through the cracks in his control.
“Yeah, go and take your sweet time, why don’t you. Fuckin’ lawyers.” Frank muttered, half to himself.
Matt smirked and counted ten slow Mississippis before refilling the glass and returning. He set it on the nightstand, grabbed the lube from the drawer, and tossed it onto the sheets. Then he circled leisurely to the foot of the bed, facing Frank.
“You gonna stand there eye-fuckin’ me with that radar all night, or you gonna do somethin’ about it?” Frank’s voice came out low and rough, edged with that familiar bite.
Matt tilted his head, lips curving into something slow and dangerous. He stepped closer—close enough that Frank could feel the heat off him, but not close enough to touch—and deliberately moved his focus down Frank’s body: bound, chest open, cock already started to leak against his stomach.
“You’re awfully mouthy for a man who can’t even reach his own dick right now,” Matt said, voice soft, almost thoughtful. “Maybe I’ll just stand here and let you squirm a little longer. Seems only fair.”
Frank’s jaw ticked. A low growl rumbled in his chest. But beneath it, his breathing had deepened—slow, deliberate inhales that spoke of longing more than impatience.
“Get on with it.”
Matt’s smile sharpened. He reached out—slow—trailing one fingertip down the center of Frank’s chest, following the line of damp, coarse hair and rope-shadowed skin, stopping just above the base of Frank’s cock without touching it. Frank’s hips jerked forward instinctively; the ropes sang taut.
“Frank,” Matt murmured, leaning in until his mouth was a breath from Frank’s ear. “Ask me nicely.”
“Strip, asshole.” Frank exhaled hard through his nose, pride warring with want. "Red," his voice dropped, rougher, grudging, “let me see you. Please.”
Matt huffed a quiet, pleased sound—almost a laugh. “There it is.”
Only then did he step back and strip—t-shirt pulled over his head, sweats shoved down and kicked aside. His cock sprang free, hard and beading at the slit. He gave it two lazy tugs, letting Frank watch every deliberate movement.
Frank cursed under his breath. “You’re such a fuckin’ tease.”
Matt chuckled low and crawled onto the bed. “Look at you already,” he murmured, voice soft against Frank’s ear as he fisted the hair at his nape—firm, not cruel. “Leaking for me before I’ve even touched you. Now drop the act… and maybe I’ll let you fuck me later.”
Frank jerked once against the grip, defiance flaring hot through the bunched muscle under Matt’s palm, the motion pulling the prayer-bound wrists higher against his spine and lifting his chest another fraction in offering.
“Frank.” Matt tightened his grip just enough. “Breathe for me.”
Frank inhaled sharply then let out a shuddering breath.
Matt gentled the hold, carded fingers through damp strands in patient, soothing strokes.
Frank closed his eyes and leaned into the touch as much as the ropes allowed—the connector line between wrists and ankles keeping his kneel steady and open. “Kiss me.” His voice barely a whisper.
Matt considered the request. Let the silence stretch just long enough to make the next plea feel almost broken.
“Baby, please.”
The endearment landed like a hand around Matt’s own throat—raw, unguarded. Matt felt the ache bloom sharp behind his chest; he wanted to swallow that sound, give Frank back a piece of himself he’d just handed over. He framed Frank’s face with both hands and kissed him—deep, devouring, all teeth and tongue and three weeks of pent-up, aching want.
The kiss broke gradually, mouths still brushing, unwilling to part, breaths shared in shallow, uneven pulls. Matt didn’t retreat far. He stayed close enough for Frank to feel the heat radiating off him, the faint tension in the air between their bodies that screamed Matt was just as wrecked and hungry for this.
“Red, I’m—” Frank’s chest rose and fell too fast, ribs expanding against the crossed rope beneath his pecs that held his sternum forward, bruises darkening under the pull of each breath.
Matt’s thumb traced the tense line of Frank’s jaw slowly, feeling the rapid flutter beneath skin. He gave Frank some time to arrange his breathing, then murmured, low against Frank’s mouth, “Still want this? We can just—”
Frank’s exhale caught—short, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. He tipped forward a fraction, forehead brushing Matt’s. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice frayed but sure. “Keep goin’.”
He moved behind Frank then, chest flush to scarred back, one arm sliding around Frank’s waist to steady him while the other hand began its slow exploration.
Matt let the pads of his fingers drift—barely there—along the sharp line of Frank’s jaw. Stubble caught on the whorls of his fingerprints like tiny sparks. He continued down the column of throat, feeling the swallow work beneath skin, the faint vibration of an aborted sound. Over the prominent ridge of collarbone—still warm from the shower, carrying the clean bite of soap undercut by the copper-salt of old blood no water could fully erase. Matt paused there, thumb brushing the shallow dip above the bone, then slid lower.
The first new bruise bloomed hot under his touch—fresh, angry purple spreading beneath the skin like spilled ink. Matt sensed the inflammation radiating in soft waves before his fingertips made full contact; capillaries still leaking, tissue swollen and tender. When he ghosted over the edge—light, almost nothing—Frank’s pulse jumped under the touch, a hard, erratic thud that echoed down Matt’s arm.
Matt didn’t retreat. He pressed a fraction harder—not enough to hurt, just enough to let Frank feel the careful attention behind the contact. He traced the outer border of the bruise first, patiently mapping its irregular shape. Oval. Roughly the size of a fist.
Someone had struck Frank hard here, probably a baton or rifle butt; the impact had left a faint imprint of force. No Kevlar.
Matt’s radar painted the damage in cruel clarity: micro-tears in the intercostal muscles, fluid collecting under the skin, the bone beneath still solid but singing with low-grade pain.
He wanted to ask what happened. Wanted to demand the full story. Frank was a tactical fighter. Matt even considered himself to be the more reckless one between them. Was Frank ambushed? Or did Frank simply decide the vest was a hindrance to the mission? Matt needed to know the reason why he took that hit unprotected.
But the words stayed locked behind his teeth. Not now. No time.
Frank tilted his head to Matt’s neck, sensing the sudden mood shift. “Matt—”
Matt’s jaw tightened. A muscle ticked beneath the skin. He could hear the faint rasp of Frank’s exhale, the way it caught, waiting.
“You let someone get close.” He set two fingers over the darkest part of the bruise and leaned his weight in.
Frank’s entire body arched, torso straining against the ropes. A low, broken sound scraped out of his throat.
Matt felt every tremor that tried to ripple through Frank’s frame, every involuntary flex of muscle fighting the vulnerability, fighting the way his touch could hurt worse than the original blow. His own breath hitched once—sharp, involuntary—at the heat pouring off Frank’s skin, at the way Frank’s heartbeat slammed against his palm like it wanted to crawl inside him. His cock ached, heavy and leaking against the small of Frank’s back, but Matt kept his hold steady, arm locked around Frank’s waist to cradle him through the strain.
He moved to the next bruise.
Lower rib cage, left side. Smaller. Knuckle-shaped. Still fresh enough that the skin felt fever-hot. Matt circled it with a single fingertip—agonizingly patient—sensing the way Frank’s abs locked tight, then slowly released, the tension melting under the touch.
Frank’s breath punched out once, ragged; his bound wrists flexed hard against the prayer cuffs.
Matt continued downward, mapping old scars with open-mouthed kisses, then returned to the fresh damage—light licks over purpled skin, then a careful suck that made Frank’s thighs quake and a low “fuck—Red—” scrape out of him.
Frank’s frantic heartbeat began to slow, not from exhaustion but from sinking—deeper, quieter, the fight bleeding out into acceptance. The sharp musk of precome thickened in the air, layered now with the softer, warmer scent of trust.
Matt inhaled like a man starving—salt and iron and raw want—and felt his own pulse stutter in answer. He worked his way across Frank’s torso methodically. Bruise by bruise. Scar by scar. Old ones he already knew by heart—raised ridges of white and pink from knives, bullets, shrapnel—and new ones still raw and weeping heat.
Frank was shaking now—fine, continuous tremors that ran from shoulders to knees. The ropes creaked with every involuntary jerk. Sweat rolled down the center of his chest in slow rivulets, catching in coarse hair, tracing paths over wounds.
Matt slid two fingers under the wrist cuff—quick, checking warmth and pulse—then murmured against Frank’s ear, “Still with me?”
Frank’s exhale was ragged but steady. “You damn well know I am.”
Matt pressed one last kiss to the side of Frank’s neck, then eased out from behind him. He moved to the front and rested his forehead against the space between Frank’s pectorals for a long moment, listening to the heavy, languid thud of his heart—slower now, deeper, the frantic edge worn smooth by the worship earlier.
He kissed Frank’s temple once—soft, lingering—then dragged his open mouth downward in a languid, wet line until he reached the underside of Frank’s jaw and bit lightly, sucked just enough to draw blood to the surface without marking.
Frank’s head tipped back the small distance the ropes allowed, throat working on a sound that wasn’t quite a moan.
Matt’s hands never stopped moving.
They skated over ribs again—lighter now, tracing the outer edges of bruises without pressing into the tender centres. Slid up to collarbones, thumbs brushing the hollows where sweat had begun to gather. Down again—over nipples that stood painfully erect, but not touching them yet. Circling. Skirting. Making Frank chase the contact with tiny, helpless shifts of his torso, the short connector rope giving a faint, taut tug each time he swayed forward.
Frank’s breathing had gone ragged, punched-out. “Red, you’re killin’ me.”
“Good,” Matt whispered, voice rougher than he intended. “Means you’re still here.”
He finally—finally—let his thumbs graze the nipples. Just the barest brush.
Frank jolted so hard the ropes creaked, thighs quaking beneath him.
Matt circled them patiently, feeling them pebble tighter under the attention. The skin around them flushed dark, hypersensitive after so long without touch. He pressed his thumbs down and Frank’s hips snapped forward uselessly, cock smearing precome across his own abdomen in a fresh, shining streak.
Matt leaned in. Replaced one thumb with his mouth.
Frank’s entire frame bowed toward him—forearms flexing hard against the high cuffs, a low tremor running from shoulders down to knees.
Matt flicked his tongue—sharp, precise—and Frank’s curse dissolved into a low, broken moan. “Yeah, like that…”
He continued to suck, unhurried and deep. Tongue swirling around the areola before centering on the nipple itself—firm, wet circles that made Frank’s abs jump. Hard suck. Release. Teeth—just a graze. Soothing licks that drew another ragged “Matt—” from Frank’s throat. Again. Slower. Frank’s bound hands clenched behind him, knuckles whitening; every pass sent fresh shivers through him until precome dripped steadily, pooling on the sheets beneath.
Matt pulled off with a soft, wet sound. Blew across the glistening peak. Felt the way Frank’s whole body strained toward the next touch like a man starving, the connector rope singing once more with the small, helpless rock of his hips.
“Fuck,” Frank rasped. “Red—please—”
Matt kissed the bruised skin below the nipple—soft apology—then dragged his mouth across to the other side. Repeated the assault. Even slower this time. Letting every sensation build: the salt-taste of sweat, the faint flutter of overstimulated muscle beneath his lips, the way Frank’s pulse spiked and stuttered every time teeth grazed just right. Matt’s cock ached with every small sound Frank made, leaking steadily against his own thigh, but he kept the pace patient, savoring the trust in every fine shake that ran through Frank’s frame.
When he finally pulled back, both of them were shaky—Frank from overstimulation, Matt from the sheer force of holding himself in check.
He rested his forehead against the space between Frank’s pectorals again. Listened to the racing heart slowing down. Felt the sweat-slick skin. Breathed him in.
“Seeing you like this… open. Marked. Wanting.” His voice stayed soft, almost careful. “It’s a lot.”
Frank’s voice came hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Do your worst I dare you.”
Matt smiled—small, dangerous—against Frank’s skin. He kissed the sternum once more. Then began to move lower, tracing the trail of hair at the center of Frank’s chest with wet kisses, tasting and teasing in small licks.
Frank’s abs fluttered under Matt’s mouth, a fine tremor running through the muscle as though every inch lower pulled another thread of control loose. Matt paused there, lips brushing the lowest dark line of hair, feeling the quick rise and fall of Frank’s breathing against his cheek—shallow now, almost reverent. Only when that rhythm steadied into something deliberately slow did he continue downward.
Matt’s mouth hovered just above the base of Frank’s cock. Breath fanning hot across sensitive skin. He could taste the salt concentrated here, stronger, mixed with the faint musk that always bloomed low on Frank’s body when he was this close to breaking. Matt inhaled deliberately, nose brushing skin, drawing the scent deep into his lungs: iron, clean soap, arousal sharp enough to cut.
Frank’s hips twitched forward, seeking, finding nothing. The ropes held him exactly where Matt wanted him: exposed, straining, unable to chase.
Matt made no move to touch Frank. He simply let his warm breath ghost over Frank’s balls, over the root of his cock, feeling the entire length twitch in helpless response.
Frank’s voice came wrecked already. “Matt.” Low warning.
In response, Matt dragged his nails—blunt, careful—along Frank’s inner thighs, upwards to the divots of his hips. Just enough scratch to raise gooseflesh.
Frank hissed. “Red, fuckin’ untie me if you’re gonna keep teasin’ like this.”
Matt let out a soft, fond sound, almost a laugh. “You asked so nicely.”
He took Frank into his mouth without warning—unhurried, deep, lips stretching around the girth.
Frank’s entire frame locked for a heartbeat, then shuddered violently forward; a raw, punched-out groan tore from his throat, shoulders rolling hard against the high prayer cuffs, forearms flexing uselessly as the connector rope gave a faint, protesting creak.
Matt’s tongue swirled under the ridge, pressing flat against the underside on the downstroke. Sucked hard on the upstroke—hollowing his cheeks, pulling wetly—until Frank’s hips snapped forward as far as the ropes allowed, thighs quaking beneath him, a fresh bead of sweat tracing a slow path down the carved line of his abs.
Frank’s breathing fractured into short, desperate bursts through his nose. His head tipped back the small distance the position granted, throat working on another broken sound—half curse, half plea.
Matt felt the pulse hammering against his tongue, the way Frank’s cock thickened further in his mouth, leaking steadily now. He pulled back just enough to let the head rest heavy on his tongue, then sank down again—slower this time—taking him to the root until his nose brushed coarse hair and Frank’s abs fluttered hard against his forehead.
“Matt—shit—” Frank’s voice splintered, words dissolving into ragged exhales. His bound hands clenched behind him, knuckles whitening; every shallow rock of his hips tugged the connector rope taut, reminding him how little control remained.
Matt hummed low around him—the vibration traveling straight through Frank’s length—and felt the answering tremor ripple down Frank’s thighs. He bobbed in a steady rhythm, sucking hard, tongue dragging along the sensitive vein on every retreat.
Frank’s moans turned deeper, more animal; precome coated Matt’s tongue in thick pulses, salt and heat and raw need.
Matt took him deeper still until the head nudged the back of his throat, then replaced lips with hand, firm strokes while he goaded Frank.
“Listen to yourself. You want to come, don’t you, Frank? Want to spill all over my tongue, paint my face, mark me up the way I’ve marked you.”
Frank’s voice frayed completely—reduced to fragments.
“Matt—please—let me—let me—”
The plea scraped out raw, Frank’s chest still heaving in uneven pulls.
Matt stayed low for one more heartbeat, forehead pressed to Frank’s abdomen, listening to the slow thunder beneath. Then he rose slowly to his feet, the mattress dipping deep under his weight before steadying again.
Frank’s head tilted instinctively toward the shift in air, toward the sudden heat of Matt standing over him—swollen lips, chest beaded with sweat, cock flushed dark and leaking against his stomach.
Matt reached down. Fingers threaded into the damp hair at the top, then closed. He tugged once, deliberate, tilting Frank’s face upward until the angle opened his throat in a long, vulnerable line.
Frank’s breath caught audibly, a rough hitch that vibrated against Matt’s knuckles. His lips parted on instinct, tongue flicking out to wet them once, quick and hungry. His heartbeat, already heavy from the long unraveling, thudded slower now—deep, rolling, anchored in surrender.
“Let me taste you,” Frank rasped, voice wrecked but steady.
Matt exhaled sharply at the words—raw, direct, stripped of games. He wrapped his other hand around the base of his own cock—aching from holding back so long—and guided the head to Frank’s mouth. He brushed it across the lower lip first, slow, letting Frank feel the heat, the weight, the bead of precome smearing there.
Frank didn’t wait for permission. His tongue darted out, flat and broad, lapping at the slit in one eager stroke. A low, pleased rumble vibrated in his throat. Matt’s grip tightened fractionally in Frank’s hair; his own breath punched out soft and uneven.
He pushed the head past Frank’s lips—slow, controlled—feeling the way Frank’s mouth stretched around him, cheeks hollowing on the first gentle suck. Frank hummed around the intrusion, the sound traveling straight down Matt’s spine, and Matt’s thighs tensed at the wet heat enveloping him.
He rocked forward—shallow, measured thrusts at first, letting Frank adjust, letting him taste. Frank took it eagerly, tongue swirling under the ridge on every retreat, lips sealing tight on the upstroke. His bound forearms flexed behind him, shoulders drawing tight against the high prayer cuffs; the short connector rope tugged once with each small sway of his torso, but there was no chase anymore—only focused, hungry service.
Matt kept the rhythm steady, one hand cradling the back of Frank’s skull now, thumb stroking along the tense line of jaw, the other braced on Frank’s shoulder for balance. He felt the faint tremor in Frank’s jaw muscles ease, the way his breathing deepened through his nose on every withdrawal—steady, controlled, almost meditative.
Frank pushed forward—determined, relentless—until his nose brushed the coarse hair at Matt’s base and his lips sealed around the root. Matt’s whole body locked. A low, broken groan tore out of him; his fingers clenched hard in Frank’s hair, holding him there for one long, shuddering second while Frank’s throat fluttered around him, swallowing again and again in hungry pulses.
Control frayed.
Matt’s hips snapped forward—once, twice—short, sharp thrusts into that tight, wet heat. Frank moaned around him, the vibration ripping another curse from Matt’s throat. Precome leaked steadily now; Frank drank it down like he was starving, tongue pressing flat against the underside, urging Matt deeper. Matt’s thighs trembled, abs carving tight; his breathing turned ragged, punched-out.
“Frank—”
Frank answered by relaxing his throat further, taking him all the way, nose buried, throat working in rhythmic pulls that dragged Matt right to the edge. Matt’s hand in Frank’s hair shook; his other fist clenched at his side, nails biting into palm. He could feel it building—hot, unstoppable—coiling low in his gut, ready to spill down Frank’s throat.
“I’m gonna—Frank—”
Frank’s only response was a muffled, hungry hum and another deep swallow—devoted, possessive, proving he could take it all.
Matt yanked him off—hard, sudden—fingers twisting in hair to pull Frank’s mouth free with a wet, obscene pop. Frank’s head jerked back; a thin string of spit connected his swollen lips to the glistening head of Matt’s cock for a heartbeat before it snapped. Frank gasped once, lungs heaving, then exhaled slow and shaky, the fight long gone from his frame. His heartbeat rolled heavy and even against Matt’s palm where it rested on his chest—deep surrender, quiet pride in having brought Matt so close.
Matt stood there panting, chest rising and falling too fast, cock throbbing angrily in the cool air. He released his grip on Frank’s hair and traced down; thumb brushed once—almost tender—along the corner of Frank’s mouth, wiping away the spit and precome smeared there.
“So fucking good,” He managed, voice hoarse, raw with awe and want.
Frank’s lips curved—just a fraction, wrecked and soft at once. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough. “For you.”
Matt exhaled—long, shaky—then leaned down and kissed him, hard and claiming, tasting himself on Frank’s tongue. When he pulled back their foreheads rested together for a long moment. Matt closed his eyes, and simply listened.
Frank’s heart hammered so loud it drowned out the city.
Matt let the frantic rhythm wash over him. Let it remind him that Frank had come back. That he was here. That the bruises were temporary and the heartbeat was not.
“Red.” Frank’s voice cracked on his name. His bound forearms strained behind him, knuckles whitening against the prayer cuffs, shoulders drawing tight as though he could snap the ropes and haul Matt in.
Matt lifted his head just enough to speak against skin. “I got this." He moved to straddle Frank’s thighs. Kissed him again—deep, filthy, sharing the taste of precome and desperation. His hand reached back as their tongues tangled, fingers working the ankle ties loose with quick, practiced pulls.
Frank exhaled hard through his nose, then leaned backward—slow at first, using the strength in his core and the grip of his legs around Matt’s waist to lower himself to the mattress. He settled flat, shoulders rolling once against the ropes as he adjusted. Immediately he hooked his heels tighter into the small of Matt’s back, grinding up hard—cock sliding against Matt’s, slick and desperate.
A low groan tore from both of them. Both were wrecked—sweat-slick, leaking, shaking.
Matt reached for the lube—fingers brushing the cool plastic bottle on the sheets. He squeezed a generous amount into his palm, rubbed his hands together to warm it. The gel turned slippery and hot between his fingers almost instantly.
Frank’s heartbeat kicked harder beneath him—sharp, anticipatory, like the man could already feel what was coming.
Matt shifted higher on Frank’s thighs, knees bracketing waist, weight balanced so he could arch back without losing contact. He let one hand brace on Frank’s chest—right over the sternum where the skin still burned from earlier worship, nipples dark and swollen, heartbeat thundering against his palm. The other hand disappeared between his own legs.
Matt’s voice came low, edged with that familiar teasing lilt. “Look at you, all patient now. After everything you took for me earlier… guess you earned a front-row seat.”
Frank’s breath stuttered at the words, hips jerking up once in helpless response.
Matt started slow.
Fingertip circled his rim—light, teasing pressure that made his own breath catch. The muscle fluttered under the touch, already sensitive from weeks of nothing but his own hand and the memory of Frank filling him. Matt exhaled shakily, head tipping back until the ends of his hair brushed his shoulders. He pressed one finger in. A low sound slipped out of him, unfiltered—half moan, half sigh.
Frank cursed under him, voice gravel-rough but cracked open with something softer. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Red…”
Matt didn’t answer. He rocked down onto that single finger, letting it sink deeper, curling just enough to graze the spot that made his thighs tense. His free hand flexed on Frank’s chest—nails digging in slightly, grounding himself in the solid heat of scarred skin.
Frank’s cock jerked against Matt’s inner thigh, smearing precome in a hot stripe across skin.
Matt added a second finger.
The stretch bloomed sharp and sweet—enough burn to make him hiss through his teeth, enough fullness to make his cock twitch against his own stomach in anticipation. He scissored patiently, feeling the ring of muscle soften and yield. His hips rolled in lazy circles—small, filthy motions that dragged his fingers over every sensitive place inside. Breath punched out of him on every downstroke.
Frank watched—Matt could feel the focus like a physical weight. Frank’s breathing had gone shallow, ragged; every time Matt moaned, Frank’s pulse stuttered beneath his palm. The ropes creaked as his bound wrists flexed uselessly behind him, shoulders straining against the high cuffs, forearms drawing tight in helpless want.
“Fuck…” Frank rasped, voice thick with awe. “Look at you.”
Third finger.
Matt worked it in carefully—patient, attentive—feeling the stretch turn exquisite, almost too much. A long, low moan tore out of him, shameless. Hips rocked down harder, taking all three to the last knuckle. The wet sounds were obscene—slick slide of fingers, the faint squelch every time he thrust deep. Matt’s free hand slid up Frank’s chest, thumb brushing one abused nipple, then higher—fingers clutching on Frank’s shoulder, holding on.
Frank’s cock throbbed hard against the inside of Matt’s thigh—thick, leaking, straining like it couldn’t wait another second. His voice cracked, raw with awe and hunger. “You’re gonna come untouched like that? All over me, Red?”
Matt shook his head—jerky, desperate. “No—want you inside me.”
Frank’s words turned hoarse, reverent. “Been thinkin’ about this—comin’ home to you open and ready for me.”
Home.
Matt’s rhythm faltered—hips stuttering as the word sank in. He leaned down, mouth finding Frank’s in a messy, open kiss—tongue sliding against tongue, sharing breath and spit and raw longing.
When they broke apart, Frank’s voice was raw. “Need you. Please—”
Matt withdrew his fingers gradually—slow enough that Frank felt every inch of retreat, heard the wet sound of it. He reached for more lube, coated his palm thick, then slicked Frank’s cock in long, firm strokes—root to tip, twisting over the head until Frank’s hips jerked up into the touch.
He lined them up.
Head of Frank’s cock pressed against his rim—hot, blunt, promising. Matt exhaled long and slow, then sank down.
Inch by inch.
The stretch was brutal—perfect. Frank’s cock felt fever-hot inside him, thick enough to make every nerve sing, the steady pulse of it thudding against his walls like a second heartbeat.
Matt groaned low in his throat, head dropping back in relief of finally being filled.
Frank’s breath punched out like he’d been hit; a string of curses spilled from him, broken and reverent. “Fuck—so tight—missed this so much—”
Matt bottomed out—hips flush to Frank’s, cock buried to the hilt. They stayed like that for a long heartbeat—joined, still, breathing each other in.
Frank’s heartbeat thundered against Matt’s inner thighs; Matt felt it echo through every point of contact, steady and alive.
“Missed this,” he rasped, voice low and cracked. “Been too fuckin’ long, Red.”
Matt’s throat tightened. He leaned down, mouth finding Frank’s in a slow, deep kiss—unhurried but hungry, tongues sliding together like they were memorizing the taste after three weeks apart.
When they parted, Matt didn’t pull away fully. Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in warm, uneven pulls. One hand came up to cup Frank’s jaw, thumb tracing the swollen curve of his lower lip—gentle, steady, as though sealing the confession into skin. Frank puckered his lips and kissed the pad of Matt’s thumb—soft, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make the touch feel like a promise.
Only then did Matt straighten, palms braced on Frank’s shoulders. He lifted his hips—unhurried drag upward—feeling the slick slide of Frank leaving him, the sudden emptiness that made his rim flutter desperately.
When only the head remained inside, Matt paused—teasing them both—then sank back down in one smooth, controlled motion.
They groaned in perfect unison.
The rhythm started slow—Matt rising and falling in long, patient strokes that let them both feel every inch of connection. Each downward grind pressed Frank’s cock hard against his prostate; each lift pulled a fresh spark of friction over every nerve along his walls. Matt’s hands roamed—sliding up Frank’s chest, thumbs brushing over swollen nipples, then higher to cradle Frank’s jaw, fingers threading into sweat-damp stubble that had grown a bit long.
Frank met him on the next downstroke—shallow upward snap of hips that drove him deeper. The ropes creaked as his bound wrists flexed for leverage behind him, shoulders rolling against the high cuffs. “Harder,” he rasped.
Matt’s lips curved. “Bossy.”
He obeyed and began to move with purpose. Faster and harder now—a sharp rhythm that bottomed out with a wet slap of skin on skin.
Frank matched him thrust for thrust—powerful rolls of his hips that used the tension in the ropes to lever himself upward, burying himself to the hilt on every pass. The pace built steadily: languid grinds turning into hard snaps, the bedframe creaking beneath them, the hemp singing with every strain.
Matt’s senses narrowed to points of contact.
Frank’s heartbeat thundered through every place they touched—sternum, wrists, cock buried deep. Salt-musk-sweat filled his lungs with every inhale. The texture of scars under his palms—rough ridges, smooth dips—ground against his skin as he braced himself. The wet, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting echoed in the room: slick slide, skin slapping, punched-out breaths.
Frank’s growled directions filtered through the haze—“Deeper—yeah, like that—”
Matt wrapped one hand around his own cock—slick with precome—and stroked in time with the punishing rhythm. The dual sensation—fullness inside, friction outside—made his thighs shake, made his rhythm falter for a heartbeat before he redoubled it.
Frank’s voice came ragged, quieter now—almost reverent beneath the gravel. “Baby, with me?”
Matt leaned down—foreheads pressed, mouths brushing without quite kissing. “I’m with you,” he whispered against Frank’s lips.
Frank’s next thrust was brutal—hips snapping up hard, burying himself as deep as the ropes allowed. Matt ground down in answer—circling his hips, clenching tight around the base—and the edge rushed up to meet them both.
Climax hit like a tidal wave.
Frank arched—ropes biting deep into wrists—and came with a broken, guttural sound. Hot pulses flooded Matt—thick, endless—triggering his own release.
Matt spilled between them in heavy ropes, painting Frank’s stomach and chest, catching in dark hair.
Aftershocks rolled through them in waves: Frank’s cock twitching inside him, Matt’s walls fluttering around the sudden burst of heat, small jerks of hips that dragged fresh sparks from oversensitive nerves.
Matt collapsed forward—still joined—chest heaving against Frank’s. Their breaths synced slowly—harsh, then ragged, then soft.
Frank’s bound arms strained once more, uselessly reaching; Matt felt the tremor in them and pressed a kiss to the corner of Frank’s mouth.
Matt reached around—fingers finding the knots at Frank’s wrists—and began to work them loose. One loop at a time. The hemp gave way slowly across chafed skin. When the last coil fell away, Frank’s arms came around him immediately—tight, possessive—pulling Matt down until their bodies aligned completely, chest to chest, thighs slotted together.
“Stay,” Frank muttered, voice rough with exhaustion and something softer. “Just… a minute.”
Matt hummed in agreement. He lifted Frank’s wrist to his mouth and pressed open lips to the center of one mark. Tongue traced the raised line—patient, soothing. Frank’s pulse jumped under the touch, still racing but beginning to settle. Matt moved to the next welt, then the next, kissing each one like a quiet claim.
“Let me get the vaseline,” Matt murmured against Frank’s skin. He started to ease upward—hips lifting just enough for the slow, slick slide of separation—when Frank’s arms locked tighter around his waist at once, face burying deeper into the crook of Matt’s neck with a rough inhale. “Don’t you fuckin’ move.”
Matt let out a quiet huff of laughter against damp hair. “Not going anywhere.”
They stayed like that—sweat cooling, heartbeats slowing in tandem, the city’s distant roar fading to white noise.
Eventually Frank relaxed his hold and Matt lifted just enough to ease Frank out—careful, attentive—both of them hissing softly at the oversensitive drag. .
Matt settled sideways then, tucking himself against Frank’s side, one leg thrown over Frank’s thigh. Frank pulled the blanket over them without a word, heavy and warm across their hips.
Silence stretched—comfortable, easy.
Matt waited until Frank’s breathing deepened toward sleep—until the arm across his back went heavy and lax. Only then did he tried a second attempt at getting them properly cleaned up.
Frank stirred at the mattress shift, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. Fingers flexed once against Matt’s hip—don’t go—before loosening.
“I’ll be right back,” Matt murmured, lips brushing Frank’s ear. “Stay put.”
Frank huffed but let his hand fall to the sheets.
Matt padded to the bathroom, ran hot water until steam rose. He cleaned himself quickly—efficient strokes of the washcloth over his own thighs and stomach, wiping away the cooling stickiness. For a heartbeat he paused, fingers resting against the edge of the sink, feeling the faint tremor in his palms starting to echo the way Frank’s pulse had finally evened out against his chest only minutes ago. The night had been long, raw, necessary. He exhaled once, splashed cool water on his face, and turned back to the task. Wet a fresh soft washcloth, wrung it damp and warm. Grabbed the Vaseline from the shelf.
Back in the bedroom, Frank hadn’t moved—still sprawled on his back, blanket slipped to his hips. Rope marks bloomed vivid on wrists and ankles, come dried in trails across his stomach and chest.
Matt committed the view through his radar, climbed onto the mattress and settled between Frank’s legs.
Frank’s eyes cracked open. “Thought you were gonna make me wait all night.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Matt said softly, fond exasperation curling the edges.
He draped the warm cloth over Frank’s stomach—broad palm pressing heat into skin, lifting dried spend and sweat in gentle sweeps. Frank exhaled long and low, muscles loosening. Matt worked upward over the sternum, then down the happy trail, careful around sensitive skin. Frank’s breath hitched once over a fresh bruise along the lower ribs—Matt paused, thumb brushing the edge in silent apology, then continued lighter.
When the front was clean, Matt nudged Frank’s thigh. “Roll a little.”
Frank turned onto his side without protest. Matt wiped sweat from the dip of his spine, the small of his back, every curve the ropes had pulled against. Frank let out a rough, contented sound. “Feels good.”
Matt set the cloth aside and squeezed Vaseline into his palm—warmed it between his hands—then started at Frank’s wrists. Slick fingertips circled the reddest welts with feather-light pressure. Frank’s pulse jumped under the touch; Matt followed it with his thumb, grounding them both. Moved to the next mark, then the next, until the skin gleamed faintly.
Frank watched through half-lidded eyes. “Don’t have to baby me, y’know.”
“I’m not.” Matt’s voice stayed quiet, steady.
Frank swallowed once—audible in the silence. “Feels… not terrible.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “High praise. I’ll take it.”
He moved to the ankles next—same careful ritual. The balm slicked over rope-bitten skin, massaged in lightly. Frank’s foot flexed once; toes curled against Matt’s thigh. Matt kissed the arch—soft, open-mouthed—then continued upward, rubbing tension from calves and thighs.
When he finished, he wiped his hands and slid back up the bed. Settled against Frank’s side—chest to back—arm draped over Frank’s waist, palm flat over his heart.
Frank caught Matt’s wrist, brought the hand to his mouth, kissed the knuckles—rough, grateful—then tucked it against his chest.
“Clean yourself too,” Frank muttered. “You hate feelin’ sticky.”
Matt huffed a quiet laugh. “Already did.”
Frank grunted approval. Turned his head just enough for a slow, lazy kiss that tasted of exhaustion and trust.
“Thought you said you didn’t want to cuddle tonight,” Matt teased.
Frank huffed. “Shut up, Red.”
Matt wrapped him tighter. Thumb traced one languid circle over Frank’s sternum—where the heartbeat still hadn’t fully settled. Then he spoke, soft but edged with the thing he’d filed away earlier.
“Why didn’t you wear the vest?”
Frank tensed for one second. The lazy strokes along Matt’s forearm stopped. Breathing deepened, bracing.
Matt kept his voice even, palm still flat over Frank’s heart. “I felt the imprint. Rifle stock? Clean hit. No Kevlar.”
Frank exhaled sharp through his nose—frustrated. “Wasn’t on purpose. Shit happens.”
Matt’s jaw tightened. He could hear the flat truth in it, the math Frank always ran faster than anyone. But it didn’t cool the knot in his chest.
“It could’ve ended badly.”
“Yeah.” Frank’s hand closed over Matt’s, squeezing once—hard. “Could’ve. Didn’t.”
Matt exhaled—long, shaky. Leaned down and kissed him—patient, deep, less anger now and more ache. Frank kissed back like he was saying the rest without words: still here.
When they parted, foreheads resting together, Matt whispered against Frank’s mouth, “You’re such an asshole, Frank. You know that?”
“Yeah, I know.” Frank’s thumb brushed Matt’s cheek—gentle in a way only these hours allowed. “I’m your asshole, though.”
Matt huffed a small, broken laugh. Settled back against Frank’s side, arm locking around him tighter. Frank pulled the blanket higher without being asked, tucking it around Matt’s shoulders.
Eventually Frank’s breathing evened out—deeper this time, true sleep creeping in.
Matt pressed his lips to the nape of Frank’s neck. Whispered against skin so low it was almost thought:
“Welcome home.”
Frank’s hand found Matt’s—squeezed once, hard—then relaxed completely.
Outside, the city kept its restless rhythm.
Inside, the night finally went still.