It's the heat that gets him every time, all that sweat and hot pumping blood and burning-hot proximity. By this stage in the night his muscles are on fire and that's all right, he's not about to lose his toehold or to crumble in the face of this -- but it's a burn like hard liquor that gets him every time. No more throwing punches.

Fisk's weight on him is all-encompassing, like the inside of a fist, and Matt can feel the blood pounding -- if he struggles any harder against him he'll pop his stitches and the smell of copper is already on the air, it is in Matt's nose and mouth and Fisk is there too in the press of teeth and lips and slippery urgency. The transition from landing blows to mouths on flesh was so sudden, Matt isn't even sure if it happened at all -- if this is another way of making him hurt.

His ears are ringing, and when his hearing throbs back into existence for him the clamor of the city is all but drowned out by the desperate sound of Wilson Fisk's breathing.

Matt groans.

(The shipment in question that he'd come to investigate was an art shipment, some oversized canvas arriving from overseas in a crate, smothered in bubble wrap and scaffolding. And if Matt wasn't so damn busy scampering around the catwalks listening for another smaller heartbeat he would have realized it sooner. Compared to some of Matt's nocturnal patrols, this should have made for a comparatively low-risk assignment, and at the same time a really fucking dangerous one. He'd tried to make a break for it, hadn't gotten far.)

Something about the dull thud of impact -- bruises already rising to the surface, screaming out when Matt twists beneath him, blossoming in pain. Something about the struggle. Fisk's lip is bleeding from a bite, his blood is in between Matt's teeth.

His arms are shaking, more from the pain than from fear, and how does Matt figure that -- otherwise the pain is an anchor, as he feels Fisk shift against him to accommodate his maneuvering. He couldn't tell you what Fisk looks like -- though he has been helpfully informed that Fisk is bald -- but his physicality is unmistakable. A thick sturdy thigh is pressed between his legs, pressing hard enough to hurt even where he's not already battered; the friction is perilously close to too much. It's a lot. Matt grinds his hips in harder, relishing the pain and the hard scrape.

Fisk snarls, and one of those massive hands digs against his hard flat belly, feeling for his belt buckle -- Matt cries out more from surprise than anything, and that just makes it worse. He can feel his own pulse pounding in the pit of his groin. Fisk's hands have found the waistband of his pants, they are perilously close to slipping in and under and down and finding nothing but $60 silicone and gray cotton. Matt wants more, but not like this.

Matt wrenches him away, tossing him against the wall even when it makes his wounded shoulder protest viciously. Fisk does not protest, whether too bewildered or too infuriated by the tables turning; now it's Matt applying strategic force, his narrower shorter body making an inroads on that awful suit. There's a sick appeal in just messing him up, and it's a more discreet way of getting his bearings than asking first.

Matt drops to his knees. He can taste Wilson Fisk's arousal, like salt, like sin, he is breathing copper and crumbling brick and bespoke silk and he likes it. Matt is slipping, spiralling off into the dark. Matt is hungry.

(Not tonight, Matt thinks with deranged clarity, I'm on the rag.)

Matt Murdock has always been more comfortable on his knees. You don't even have to do it in church any more if you don't want to, but it feels more right than the alternatives. Fisk's thumb traces a stripe from his nose to his chin, and almost compulsively Matt licks his lips -- he can taste the sweat from his skin and the keen chemical note of a recently fired gun. He can taste sugar.

It would be easy to unmask him here. It would be easy for Fisk to strike him down, to kill him when he's at his weakest and most shameful, kneeling in the gutter. Fisk does not; he does not even make a motion toward pulling off the mask, more than anything he seems baffled.

Matt buries his face in Fisk's crotch. His arousal would be hugely, thuddingly obvious even without freaky super-senses, but this -- the bulk of it straining against cloth is significant enough to make Matt's bruises ache anew, and the acrid smell of his own sweat mingled with the heavy odor of sex is driving him deeper into something shameful and strange. Wilson Fisk is already half-hard. If Matt had a cock that wasn't at home in a drawer, he'd be much more than half hard.

Fisk groans a little, and he tests out a couple of a couple of deep forceful breaths, like he's trying to soothe himself down -- this should be a warning sign, this should be bad news. The man is a monster, he'd twist Matt's head off if he didn't like what he was doing -- but he's been conspicuously hands-off so far, apart from trying to cop exactly one feel, so who the hell knows.

The press of Matt's lips leaves a smear of saliva on the cloth. Matt mouths at another man's cock and mutters please, please. Please, let me have this. Let it be no more than this. The cool metal of Fisk's belt buckle presses into Matt's cheek, abridged by the lines of the mask. This must look absurd, like a flea trying to attach itself to an elephant.

One of Fisk's heavy warm hands brushes his cheek as he goes to undo his fly, and for Matt it is as good as a caress.

Matt is operating by touch here, the red chaos at close range has turned into one great cataclysmic fire and he has to guide the head of Fisk's cock to his mouth with both hands. His gloves make him clumsy with this kind of operation -- which might be an incentive, given the circumstances. He starts.

Speaking from zero personal experience on the other side of the affair, Murdock is probably not great at giving blowjobs. He's enthusiastic, sure, but not great -- each slippery press and long stroking withdrawal is like torture. It's too much all at once -- too much impossible texture, and novel flavors, and some new and great hoarse noises coming from Fisk in between the sharp wet sounds of his own tongue on his dick. The skin there is so impossibly soft that it's hard not to bite down to try it out, but some of his teeth are still feeling loose in his head from the earlier brawl, so -- better not. But he's hungry for all of it, ready to gag, honestly curious if he will gag -- and Fisk is patient. Matt wants to bother him.

It's very… wet. And protracted. He doesn't know if it's contempt that makes him catalogue every detail of it while the act still goes on, as if it's somebody else sucking cock in a back alley, or just the novelty -- the ache against the back of his mouth, the way his swollen lips catch on his teeth. Fisk's awful hands are on his shoulders, one fingering idly at a slash in his shirt that from the curious sensation has bared a patch of skin. That lights up a little electrified wire of awareness -- Matt does not know what is visible. He only knows what both their bodies will tell him.

He can feel when he's getting closer to the critical moment, and buries the length of him as deep as he can -- his lips and jaw both ache, his eyelids are fluttering beneath the mask. Matt swallows without even thinking about it, and spends the next few moments taking huge shuddering breaths through his nose.

One big hand ghosts down his face, down the mask where it clings to his sweaty forehead, down his cheeks and nose and jaw. The first thought panicked-clear in Matt's mind is that he's memorizing him for later reference, he's trying to get a better look under the mask the same way Murdock would -- by touch. But his fingers hesitate.

No, Fisk is admiring him. A surge of revulsion rises in him like acid, and Matt turns his head.

Fisk helps him up off the ground, in a manner almost kindly apart from his certain grip on Murdock's asphalt-scraped arm. His muscles still burn, the inside of his mouth is scraped raw. He explores it with his tongue, looking for a wound.

Fisk puts out an arm, holding off from any actual contact, but the proximity alone is enough. A little stiff, in a way that can't be helped by the bruises Matt has almost certainly dealt out in turn. Almost -- genteel. His hands are warm, and he expects Matt to clasp on to one, or to guide it where he wants it.

"Let me take care of you. Anything else wouldn't be right." As if they'd gotten together after a dinner date instead of -- whatever the fuck this was, screwing up against a warehouse. The proximity to fine art gave it a veneer of class, at any rate. On the other side of the concrete wall Matt can hear feeble heartbeats, three of them -- unconscious.

No one can see him like this. Nobody. He imagines Fisk groping for something that isn't there, and his ensuing disappointment -- confusion -- wrath -- from there he doesn't know if it'll be disgust or mockery or both, even Matt is disgusted with himself for wanting this so badly and for having so little to work with.

"Fisk, I can't--"

The other man makes a sound of unmistakable concern. "There's no need to undress. The logistics might prove -- bothersome to you. I don't require it."

Like he'd need to take the mask off to fuck? The warmth of Fisk's intonation suggests his concern is for more than Matt's secret identity. Matt practically chokes. What the fuck is this? What the hell is this supposed to be?

Nobody knows the man in the mask is a trans man in a mask. If it were Matt, facing the man in black down, he'd know -- the kind of guilty intrusive detection he wishes he could turn off, he doesn't like the chain of assumptions it's built on within his own mind. Like an algorithm. But if anybody else knew -- it'd be a hell of a lot worse than them finding out Matt's blind.

(Karen doesn't know. Karen doesn't know. Jesus, the list of people in his life who are better off never knowing is about a mile long and at the very top has got to be Wilson fucking Fisk, criminal kingpin of Hell's Kitchen.)

The stammer in his voice is an ugly thing. "You-- you already know what I am--"

Matt suddenly feels really fucking cold. He's ready to run, to fight, to die.

Fisk's voice comes like warm asphalt, a dark low rumble. "You're an honorable man, in your way."

His heartbeat continues steadily in his cavernous chest, like a metronome behind a locked door. He may be excited, but he's not lying. Fisk knows and he doesn't care. It had been a year and a half before he'd brought it up with Foggy -- he'd put off dropping that bombshell as long as possible, and that had been Foggy, he'd been living with him for fuck's sake. Matt does not want to think about Foggy now. What matters is what happens next.

Fisk's voice issues forth again, more gently, almost quizzical -- "Is this alright?"

It's as close to alright as anything in Matt's storied career of crime-fighting is. Matt exhales hard, feeling his lungs rattle, and goes to undo his belt. The cold night air licks at his thighs, the bared strip of skin where his briefs end; every hair on his body is like an aerial, prickling with weird energy.

The brief awkward scuffle for positioning ends with the backs of Matt's legs pressed flush against him -- Fisk towers over him, guiding Matt's hips into alignment with one powerful gripping hand. Matt braces against the wall. If he were sighted, it might put him at a disadvantage, but being as he's not -- it's as convenient a position as any for what they're about to do.

"If you would spit, please," Fisk says, sounding faintly bewildered, and Matt spits against his fingers. If they were doing this on a bed, say, and not in an alleyway, it would be easier. Getting fucked in the ass by a guy he hates.

The smell of his own arousal hits him like a wave. He's already wet, running wet, and the first exploratory press between his thighs comes easy. Matt's mind slips sideways, striking on everything else in existence -- the bubble-pocked texture of the brick pressing through his sleeves, the perfect chevron of scrapes on his left forearm, the strain in the soles of his boots. Across the road, in one of the other warehouses, a portable radio is playing classical music. Across the bridge, a car door slams. There is no one and nothing to disturb them, and maybe it's by design. There are birds nesting in the rafters, and water dripping from an exposed drainpipe at the mouth of the alley, and Fisk is touching him like he hasn't been touched in, God, he doesn't know how long and Matt's body admits it readily.

Fisk's dick is big -- and Matt has a pretty good handle on assessing dick sizes, after one turn too many with the kind of guy who thinks it's funny to pull one over on the poor little blind girl and whose ten inch cock turns out more like three. But Fisk is, um, proportionate -- which makes Matt suck a sharp breath between his teeth as his prick presses against Matt's thigh, between his buttocks. What seemed like an appropriate forfeit while on his knees, slobbering and gagging, is a little more daunting now. And so Fisk pauses, settling a little on his feet. Like a mockery -- like a precaution. "No?"

"Just hurry up and fuck me."

Those fingers slip free from his already-aching hole, and Fisk starts fucking into him raw and slow. Matt's whole frame shudders, every major muscle group protests, and it is an effort to force himself still. He does not need to force himself to enjoy it -- every nerve is on fire, teetering between pain and pleasure.

"You have a fine body," Fisk says against the back of Matt's neck where the mask stops. And then again, like an afterthought, "very powerful. But I'll have you."

(Matt does not feel powerful; he feels like a rag doll. His arms must still be shaking, because Fisk's grip closes over them and slowly, firmly brings them up over his head.)

It hurts -- of course it hurts, but it's not an acute pain like a broken arm, the sensation of being filled is too distinct and too complete. Matt brings himself into it, pressing against every sharp thrust and feeling the hard line of pressure where their bodies make contact -- legs against legs, Fisk's sturdy hips against Matt's ass. His ass has got to be one of his best features -- so Matt's been told, anyway -- and Fisk handles him like a piece of art, palm pressing against bare skin. Matt's so busy, struggling to accommodate so much, that it is not lost on him how easy it would be for Fisk to reach around and fit his fingers against the absence there in front. Well, not a total absence; a relative absence. Matt's clit is impossibly stiff and hell, maybe he would even welcome the touch, but Fisk is -- oh, sweet Jesus, Fisk is trying to be a gentleman. He is trying to accommodate him.

Matt doesn't know how long it goes on. He's too busy trying to ignore the wet little noises his own body makes, the way his own breath is trying to escape his chest with each pressing thrust. His skin is already overloaded from the friction and blood flow, too much. Too much. Too close, too heavy, too hot.

Matt finishes first, gasping; he sees nothing but red. He doesn't know if this is an orgasm -- Matt doesn't know if he's ever had an orgasm, but at some point the tension is too much, an awful self-paced crescendo, and he's too weak to push it further. The relief rips through him like a house of cards, falling; a cry escapes him, like a sigh -- the muscles of his abdomen and thighs slacken a little. Only the pain keeps him from lolling forward bonelessly.

Not long after there's the press and shudder of a final spasm, there's the heat of a climax spilling inside him, and Matt can feel it -- Matt can feel all of it, scalding hot and full and wet. It's good, that much is good.

Fisk lets him go, lets him up, and Matt scrambles, trying to pull up his underwear and his heavy-duty construction pants before it can register that the act happened at all. He's too stiff to make that happen with any expediency. His thighs are painted in come and maybe a little blood. Privately, Matt is very grateful that none of his wounds warrant medical attention, because this would just be too much.

Fisk waits patiently for him to fumble up his belt, and then takes his hand. He closes his grip around it in the humid dark -- and Matt flinches before the snap of bones, flinches before he can wrench it back into a sprain he is too slack and weak to struggle any more against -- and he raises Matt's bleeding fingers to his lips. It is not a generous act. It is an act of possession.

"I'm glad that you enjoyed yourself," he says civilly. "Thank you."

"Thanks," Matt breathes. "Thanks."