In This City

BY : Prentice
Category: Marvel Verse TV > no category yet
Dragon prints: 1273
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Written for a masturbation prompt on the daredevil kink meme and as a response to the Merry Month of Masturbation challenge. Pre-slash. Matt/Foggy.


It’s the exhaustion pulling at him that finally makes Foggy take a break. It’s the exhaustion and the stress and the ugly hollow feeling that’s been building in his chest for weeks now, ever since he’d found out about Matt. At least, that’s what he tells himself – will tell himself – later – when the fog clears and he’s not running on toxic levels of ineffective caffeine and the greasy churros they sell two blocks over from their office. (Matt is not a fan and, honestly, that really hadn’t made sense until recently because those churros were greasy deliciousness.)

For now, though, the exhaustion and the stress and the hollow feeling – it all wins out. He can’t take it anymore, won’t take it anymore, because he’s been working twice – no, three times – as hard as he used to because they might actually, possibly, have clients now. Good clients, reliable clients, clients who actually pay their bills on time and expect actual real world results for it.

And, it’s not that he’s blaming Matt. Well, he kind of is because it would be nice if his best friend actually pulled a few more all-nighters like Foggy has been instead of putting on that ridiculous suit – (horns, Matt, really?) – and patrolling the seedy streets of Hell’s Kitchen but he gets it. Kind of, anyway.

It’s something that Matt has to do – feels compelled to do – and Foggy has known Matt long enough to know that there’s nothing he can do to stop him (no matter how much he want to). So, yes, all-nighters, paying clients, and Matt’s growing list of reoccurring (not to mention hard to explain to Karen) injuries have all led up to this. This – whatever this is – because Foggy is just…

He’s tired, man. He’s tired and he’s tired of feeling tired. It’s a shitty feeling, a shitty emotional state, and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to change any time soon because they’ve actually got a caseload and it’s like he’s living in this fucking office and Karen is starting to look concerned and Matt…

Matt is – he’s part of the problem. The main part, really, because everything and nothing between them has changed and it’s kind of killing Foggy right now and he doesn’t even know why. Or, well, maybe he does, he doesn’t even know anymore.

All he does know is that sometimes, especially these days, it hurts to look at Matt. It hurts to see him, whether it’s in the office or on the street or in his apartment, battered and bruised and just a little broken. It hurts and it aches, throbs sometimes when he least expects it, and the exhaustion that’s been clawing at his chest isn’t helping because he’s not at all clear headed and he’s in the office and this is so fucking unprofessional but…

It feels good to touch himself. To rub the heel of his palm into the swell of his groin through the tent of his trousers. To let the exhaustion, the sleepy-pull of the dim office light, and the fact that he’s alone in his and Matt’s (and Karen’s) shared space lull him into some kind of sleep fueled fugue where masturbating  to fragmented images of your best friend seems like a really good idea.

Like, a really good idea. So good, in fact, that the fact that he could easily kick your ass all over Hell’s Kitchen and will very likely know what you’ve been doing in your shared office spacethe next time he sticks his head in (which is in like three hours; how the fuck did it get so late?) doesn’t really phase you. It’s that good, that great, because that thing with Marci didn’t work out (again) and it’s been a while since you’ve got to do this (fucking Matt and his freaky senses) and it’s just – it’s – really, really what you needed.

And, okay, yes, it would be better with someone there to assist (or, you know, lend a hand) but somehow this feels just this side of perfect to Foggy because even in his exhausted-stressed-out-hollowed-out state, he knows that he’s crossing some sort of invisible line inside his head (and heart) that might just have something to do with things he’s been trying not to think about since college. Only, he’s really not thinking about that now. He’s really not thinking about much of anything.

Just the slide of his hand over his dick through his trousers, the too-loud sound of his zipper as he slowly pulls it down, and the nearly inaudible groan he makes when he pulls it from his pants, cool air wrapping around it before his palm does.

It feels good – so good, fuck, why did he wait so long to do this – as he strokes himself, semi-hard cock twitching into fullness as his sleepy consciousness pulls up the memory of Matty huffing out a quiet laugh, lips quirking at one of Foggy’s awesome(ly lame) jokes. It’s a good memory to work with, a perfect memory, because Foggy loves Matt’s laugh, loves his smile, loves his stupid fucking face, and he’s tired enough – alone enough – right now to not have a problem admitting that. He loves Matt – god, he loves him, why does that have to hurt so much– and his hand might not feel like Matty’s (not enough callouses) but it still feels so fucking good around his cock.

Good enough that he has to groan, has to lean back further in his chair, and rock his hips in unsteady rhythm. And, you know, so what if his chair is squeaking in creaky counterpoint or that he’s making more noise than is probably strictly necessary. He’s alone in the building, alone with his thoughts, and other than Matt – Matt, jesus, Matty – no one will ever know what he’s doing.

Even the thought of how fucking embarrassing it’ll be when Matt finds out (and he will, Foggy knows, because he’s got freaky ninja senses that are apparently finely tuned into Foggyland) isn’t enough to stop him from fucking himself into his own hand. The shape of Matt’s name tripping off his tongue, and god, yes, pre-come and good old-fashioned spit is starting to slick the way for an easier glide and if he squeezes here and tightens there it almost feels like – he can almost imagine –

Matt’s always been good with his hands. Always been dexterous. Foggy doesn’t know if it’s the blindness (fiery blindness?) or the stress-boxing (and crime fighting) but he’s great with his hands.

It’s something that Foggy’s admired (dreamed about) for a while now and he always imagined that if Matty was doing this (definitely a dream) that he’d be a little rough with Foggy. Not painfully so, not enough to bruise or anything, but not gentle either. He’d want Foggy to feel it – he likes to think so anyway – and so he drags his palm just a little bit harder and tighter against himself.

Jerks himself off with a sweet sort of ruthlessness so he can imagine just for a minute, just for a second, that it’s Matt’s hand instead of his own. That the images in his head and the raspy sound of his own breath is something more than it really is. That Matty’s fingers instead of his own are teasing the weepy head of his cock and that the orgasm that’s tightening in his stomach won’t be his alone.

When he finally comes, his breath trips out of him in a stutter, Matt’s name on his lips like a prayer. His back arches, his stomach aches (god it’s been a long time) and everything, including the exhaustion, fades into an unimportant background buzz that only eases its way back in once the afterglow fades. Which it does, rather sooner than he hopes it would.

Eyes blinking drowsily around a yawn, Foggy slumps further in his seat, the pleasant lassitude of a long overdue orgasm humming in his veins. He’ll have to get back to work soon. Have to try to pull together his notes and paperwork for the Martinez case in the morning.

For now, though, he’ll just rest here for a minute. Enjoy the pleasant ache inside his limbs, the silence that stretches through the office. The long-pull of exhaustion and the –

Heart jumping in his throat, Foggy blinks hard around the tiredness, clean hand lifting to rub against his forhead as he stares hard into the darkness of the outer office. Because he could have sworn – might have seen – the shadows, they had shifted – but – but no. That isn’t possible.

He’s alone here. He knows he is. He’d sent Karen home hours ago and Matt – he’s out vigilante-ing (or whatever it is they’re calling going out to beat the fuck out of the bad elements in the city). He would have heard if one of them had come in. He would have, he’s – he’s sure of it.

Oh please god, let him be alone.

“H-hello? Karen? Oh shit, shit, uhm – Matt?”

“…Foggy.”

Shit.

Oh, shit.

Matt.



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