(no subject)
Title: Ignorant
Author: stupidmuse_hate
Pairing: John McClane/Matt Farrell SLASH
Summary: Matt really likes routines. It makes it easier to ignore things.
Warnings: Hmm...a handjob? 0.o And cursing. Lol.
Rating: Uhmm...*shrugs* more than pg-13 I guess. But surely not NC-17 or M. So I have no idea...
Length: 3,563
Matt refuses to think about the connotations that possibly exist about his agreement with McClane. He cleans, he designs web pages, and he shops for groceries.
Such is his life.
His routine has changed drastically since those first two weeks, in some ways, and in others not at all. He wakes, McClane helps him stretch his leg then cooks breakfast. Matt checks his business email, then he does the dishes. Ten to noon is for web page writing, noon is for his three block walk to Samm's Lounge for lunch and his daily walk. Two to four is when he cleans or does laundry; he switches every other day.
Five o'clock McClane arrives home to stretch Matt and cook dinner. Afterwords they watch t.v. then Matt retreats to his room and computer and McClane does whatever he does in the living room.
Matt never checks.
He could, he supposes. He could drape himself in the armchair next to McClane sprawled on the couch and see what shows he watches, He could harangue McClane about watching the news, or make fun of the sports channel, or even watch a movie with the cop.
But instead, Matt's door stays closed.
His room is dark, and he stares at his laptop's screen like a moth to flame: he just can't look away. His room has changed a lot, too. The bed has been shoved against the wall to surround it on two sides and to give space for his long folding table. It's got all sorts of things piled on it and McClane always shakes his head when he sees the monster tangle of cords draped across its broad top. McClane has almost convinced the FBI to let him have a real p.c. so he has one gutted and half put-together on the end of his "desk" in anticipation of the day he can bring it online.
The wretched guest coverlet has been gone for four months now. McClane insisted upon storing it for guests, but one of these days Matt is going to make sure it disappears, he swears it. McClane helped him install thick curtains that can roll up, if he wants, to keep the sun off his machines.
Sunlight rarely hits his room.
But he can never bring himself to block the narrow strip of light that leaks under the door from the living room. Vaguely, he likes knowing when McClane shuts the lights off and goes to bed. Every night the cop pauses next to Matt's door, shadow creeping across the jamb, and rumbles, "Goodnight, Kid."
Matt never says it back, but he always stops typing and looks at the door, not breathing until McClane moves on and shuts his bedroom door with a click. Only then does Matt resume with tapping the keys on his laptop.
John McClane is a force. Collapsed on his bed in his dark room with the window cracked, so early that all he hears is distant sirens and cats yowling in the alley, he thinks about McClane, the man. He's forceful, and only quiet at home. He's gentle, but pushy. He never lets up on Matt's stretches and calls every day to make sure Matt goes on his walk.
Matt will never admit that some days that five minute phone call is the only thing that gets him out that front door.
Three a.m. his clock proclaims in bright red numbers when his eyes flutter shut in true sleep, McClane's face plastered to the back of his eyelids.
"Beep....Beep....Beep..." the alarm buzzes in his ear and Matt's arm shoots out to smack it. Instead his hand slam into the wall with a thunk. He groans and throws out his left arm instead, grappling with the clock for the off button.
"Up and at'em, kid." McClane growls through the door.
Groaning into his now quiet room, he rolls over and hides under his pillow, desperately grasping for the warmth of dreamland. Rattling knocks on his door jar his hopes, and his head, sleep banished fully.
He grits his teeth and jams the pillow tighter on his head, eyes clenched.
"Kid?" McClane knocks again.
With a sigh, Matt rolls straight off the bed to the floor with a thunk that knocks the breath out if him. He rolls off his aching knees and scraped hands and sits up, muscles straining, back popping.
Grinding his knuckles into his eyes, he stumbles out the door to the bathroom, shirtless, sleep pants clinging to his legs. His hair is plastered sweatily to his forehead and in the mirror he sees that it’s squished on one side and sticking up on another. He leans closer to the glass, rubbing his eyes until they water and his eyelashes cling together no longer. He wriggles a finger next to his nose to rescue some gunk and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger until it disappears.
The corners of his lips are white and sticky so he swipes the back of his hand across them, rubbing a knuckle back and forth a few times. He splashes cold water onto his face to banish the drowsiness, but it only makes his skin feel tight and awake, not his brain. His eyes itch so he gets them with some water too, then he pisses noisily into the toilet.
He closes his eyes to the tinkling, takes a deep breath, shakes, and tucks himself back away.
He pauses only a moment in front of the mirror, this time, in an attempt to organize his hair. Matt gives up after about 3 seconds of tousling and patting with a sigh.
He opens the door, steps out, and ends up burying his nose in a warm, musky, man-shirt.
“Ready to stretch, kid?”
McClane’s voice rumbles right up his sensitive nose and seems to melt his brain. His breath warms his face against McClane’s shirt in hot little puffs. The cop smells good. He’s musty with sleep and a lingering scent from last night’s shower. McClane’s chest rises and falls steadily like a jogger’s pumping legs, but slow, even. Matt’s is dreamy, punctuated by little sniffs, until he comes to his senses and pulls back reluctantly. Without looking up at the man, who seems to be standing oddly still, he turns firmly away to gather himself.
“Yeah,” Matt says quietly, almost breathless. “I’m ready.”
McClane’s hands are large, Matt notes as they run gently up and down his leg. Large and tender, his fingers dance gently across Matt’s tense muscles, relaxing them notch by notch.
Matt moans and the heavenly hands stop, cradling his leg gently.
“Don’t stop…” he pleads.
His leg is set on the floor but Matt doesn’t open his eyes, holding his breath nervously. Warmth hovers all along his body, and warm breath caresses his face.
“Open your eyes, Matty-boy.”
McClane’s electric green eyes bore deeply into Matt’s and pin him to the floor like a dead butterfly.
“Breath,” the cop puffs into his face.
Matt’s lungs gasp for air and his fingers scrabble at the carpet.
“Good boy,”
“Unnh!”
Matt’s brain has just fled the building.
McClane laughs a deep chuckle that rumbles from the bottom of his chest, and lowers himself onto Matt.
The weight on top of the hacker crushes his chest, making his head light and his extremities tingle. But it feels fabulous. His toes and fingers twitch and his head tosses side to side, his hair flopping.
“Be still.”
Eyes clenches shut, he freezes under the heavier man and takes in sharp, short breaths.
McClane’s weight drops onto him more fully, forcing air out.
“Nnn”
“Relax.”
They stay on the floor for a while, an eternity, just lying there, and Matt’s sure McClane can feel his heart pitter pattering frantically against his ribcage.
A feather light touch flutters against his cheek, then everything is gone and he is left gasping on the carpet. Hands grab his wrists, yanking Matt upright, and catch him as he wobbles unsteadily. Leading him by the elbows Mcclane guides him into the kitchen and sets him in a chair. When he’s bonelessly settled the cop tousles his hair, then steps back.
“All right, kid?”
Eyelashes fluttering, mind rather numb, he watches McClane puttering around the kitchen.
“Didja catch the plate number of that truck that just ran me over?”
Startled, McClane pauses in his clanging and banging of kitchenware, then laughs loudly, jovially, resuming his puttering around the kitchen.
Matt smiles.
That odd maneuver of McClane’s is the first of many odd things. Over the next week, he nearly drives Matt mad with soft fingers dragged across the back of his neck, deliberate jostles, and intense eyes.
It’s 2 a.m. and Matt Farrel can’t sleep. The t.v. has been shut off for a while; the blue glow no longer seeps under his door. And of course, this is when Matt suddenly wants McClane’s company.
Almost holding his breath, the hacker pads out of his bedroom, barefoot and only wearing p.j. pants. They brush softly against his bare legs, making him pause and shiver in remembrance of McClane’s work-roughened hands on his skin. Matt stands in the silence of the hall, toes caressing the worn wooden floor. McClane’s corner apartment has windows in both bedrooms, the kitchen, and at the end of the hall. Occasionally the glass is lit by flashes of headlights passing, but mostly it bleaches the hall with a spotlight from a nearby streetlamp.
Light licking his toes, Matt inches down the hall. When his toes touch carpet, he doesn’t see anyone there. The air wooshes out of his lungs in disappointment, and hisses a single word, “Damn”.
Reluctantly, he steps towards the empty couch and sits on it gingerly. He bounces a little on the soft cushions and lets his hands wander the plush, grasping for pieces of McClane. His fingers trip across a cashmere pillow and he drags it to his chest, wrapping his arms around it and burying his nose in the soft musky folds. Wriggling, Matt pulls his legs onto the couch and curls on his side. The pillow warms his face and tickles his arms, leaving his bare side prickling in the chilly night air. He closes his eyes and breathes, taking comfort in his McClane substitute. The darkness is timeless, his breaths the only sound breaking the silence.
A siren screams by, wailing into the distance and throwing flickering lights down the hall. Matt pushes the pillow away, ignoring the soft ‘whump’ it makes when it hits the floor, and flops onto his stomach, burying his head into the seat cushion and moaning quietly.
“Gotcha,” a voice breathes into the air, before dangerous fingertips descend upon his spine.
“Urgh!” Matt arches, bucking from the couch but digging hands drive him back down. A growl rises from the powerful cop, winding up Matt’s spine, sizzling nerves, to fizzle his brain out.
He whimpers.
McClane’s hands dig into his back muscles, attacking and grappling with each knot they come across. Proprietorially he swings a leg over to sit on Matt’s upper thighs. His knees cinch tighter, gripping Matt’s hips and waist, and the hacker knows he’s been caught.
“What you doin’?” he gasps out, embarrassed at the high-pitched whine of his voice.
McClane’s hands pause and he lets up some of his weight from Matt’s back.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“That’s not what I-“
“Do you want me to stop?” His voice, deep, demanding, slices through Matt’s panic and cuts him to the quick.
“No…” he allows, feeling weak for wanting the man atop him. “I…”
“Say it.” Some of his weight drops down, compressing Matt’s chest and sending him flying.
Gathering himself, he steps off the proverbial cliff. “I don’t want you to stop,” Matt whispers, defeated and anxious at the same time.
It is like a powerful wave crashes down on top of Matt. The large hands tear in him, attacking and gripping viciously. The hacker gasps, trying to writhe, but can’t under the cop’s crushing weight. His hands scrabble at the edge of the couch cushion above his head, but he doesn’t manage to wriggle anywhere. A hand slides into his hair and his head is wrenched back.
Matt yelps.
“My boy,” McClane growls into his ear, hot breath causing shivers to ripple down Matt’s spine. “My Matty-boy.” A hand slides soothingly down his shivering flank from chest to thigh before snagging a nipple and twisting it.
“Ayee!”
The hand disengages from Matt’s hair and slides around his face, cupping his mouth and muffling any further sounds. He chuckles straight into a velvety ear, his five o’clock shadow prickling Matt’s sensitive neck and causing him to jerk.
“Mmmrgh!”
Matt’s skin is rippling, nerves are firing, and he’s gasping muffled moans into McClane’s warm hand.
McClane drops Matt’s head and yanks his hips back with both hands so that he’s on his knees. His arms limp, Matt’s head drops, his face jammed into the cushions. McClane strokes his broad hands across Matt’s shivering back.
“Are you my boy, Matthew?”
His voice rumbles through his hands and up Matt’s spine.
“Mmph,” Matt tells the pillow.
The hands pause, warm and steady on my back.
“Will you be my boy?”
‘My’ jolts right up Matt’s nerve endings, sending him arching and writhing under the cop.
“Urgh!”
The fingers dig into his lean sides, sure to leave bruises in the morning.
“Matt,” McClane warns.
“Yesss!” Matt cries into the cushions.
A hand releases, reaching around Matt and shoving into his pants.
“Come,” McClane commands when his hand wraps around Matt’s cock.
Matt screams, seized and clawing at the couch, vision dimming. Then he collapses.
The hands that moments ago were breaking Matt apart now caress him with flat palms. They skim up and down his sides and smooth firmly across his back and shoulders. Matt shudders a breath, exhausted, and wonders how much more he can relax under the Brooklyn Cop.
“Whatcha doin’?” he grumbles.
McClane leans over Matt, ghosting his breath over Matt’s neck and splaying his powerful fingers across Matt’s rippling flesh.
“I’m touchin’ ya, boy.” He huffs his hot breath onto the hackers neck and coaxes an exhausted shiver out of him. “Gotta problem with that?”
“Nuuuuh...”
The strong presence behind him slides off the couch onto heavy feet attached to large hands that manhandle Matt into rolling off the couch into the cop’s arms. He stands with a grunt, but effortlessly strides to the hall heedless of the hacker’s weight.
“Wassatgooferoo?”
McClane cuddles Matt closer to his chest, the younger man’s head now cradles against his shoulder as he toes his door open.
“What was that, kid?”
“Mmmm...Smellgood.” Matt snuffles sleepily.
“Kid?”
“Oh, uh.” He hides his face a bit as the cop stands still, awaiting his answer. “What that good for you too?”
The man’s arms tighten, and his sandpaper face descends to Matt’s, lips peppering kisses to his boy’s face. “Don’t need to come to enjoy myself, kid,” he rumbles, nuzzling with his face. Gently he lays Matt on his bed, stepping briskly away.
The hacker lays there, limbs splayed uncomfortably, and tries to convince himself to shift. A haze is settled over his mind, though, so he just lets his eyes fall shut.
Limply, he can only moan a bit when McClane returns and tugs his shorts off. A warm cloth wipes away his pleasure and draws another moan from his slack lips. The same hands that wrenched his pleasure from him clean him and tug him under the sheets. Matt floats as McClane putters around but rolls onto his side when the bed dips under the cops weight. An arm extends and rolls Matt the rest of the way until his cheek is on McClane’s chest.
“Night, kid.”
“Mmmmnnn...” Matt snuffles the other man’s shirt with a dopey smile then quickly slips off into sleep.
The first thing Matt notices upon waking, is that he has an urgent need to piss. The second is that when he tries to roll out of bed to take care of said need, an arm tightens around his waist like iron.
Then he realizes that he’s half on top of his roommate, his cheek in the hollow of McClane’s neck and his left leg resting between both of the cop’s. He finds that his left hand is clutching McClane’s shirt and releases it to smooth his hand across the other man’s barrel chest.
“McClane,” he murmurs.
The arm around his middle tightens in reply.
Matt wriggles. “McClane!”
“Don’t move,” McClane grumbles.
“I gotta piss!” Matt hisses.
But McClane only uses his chin to nudge Matt’s head up and catch soft lips in a gentle and all consuming kiss. Matt lets the older man lead and returns each motion hesitantly. When a tongue touches his lips, though, he recoils.
“What?” Blinking dazedly down at McClane he wonders what panicked the man enough to tighten his arm around Matt’s waist so painfully. “What’s the tongue for?”
The wariness slides off of McClane’s face and is replaced by amused interest. “Haven’t you ever been kissed before?”
Matt blushes and turns away. “Couple of times. Can’t I piss now?” he whines.
With a light smack to the ass he’s released and wriggles off the bed to trudge to the bathroom. With another blush, he realizes that he’s not wearing his pants anymore. The silence of the early morning makes his urine sound deafening in the small room. He looks around impatiently, waiting until he can shake. Briskly rubbing his hands under the faucet he multi-tasks by peering at himself in the mirror.
Shaggy sleep ruffled hair, large doe eyes, long lashes clinging together, too wide of a mouth... “What in the world is he seeing?”
He dries his hands just as briskly on the hand-towel then approaches the bathroom door. It seems to loom in from of him like a towering firewall and causes his hand to shake as he slowly grasps the door knob. His damp hand slips a bit on the stubborn and stiff mechanism, but it releases with a thunk and swings open smoothly. His sweaty feet slap and stick to the wooden floor but he knows he hasn’t a chance of sneaking up on McClane anyways.
Or sneaking away.
For when he has the courage to look at the cop’s door, there McClane stands, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame with his arms crossed. Intense eyes lock with his and Matt can feel his heart stutter a bit.
“...That’s a bad sign,” he mutters.
“What’s that, kid?”
“Well, I...” Matt’s shoulders rise and fall and he looks away from the intimidating man standing mere feet away from him. “I dunno. I mean. You’re standing there,” he gestures with flapping hands, “As though I might sneak off...” He chances a glace up but his eyes skitter away. “But I hadn’t even...well I...” He swallows and takes a hesitant step forward while speaking quietly. “I hadn’t even though about it.”
In the gray twilight of the early dawn, the two men stand so close, but Matt feels so apart. Another small step puts him in range, and McClane’s arm shoots out like lightning to grab one of Matt’s arms and yanks him his last few steps forward. He feels ungainly, and wonders if his embarrassed flush trails along his whole body as McClane gathers him close and runs a proprietary hand over his ass up to the small of his back to press him forwards. Another hand cradles his head as Matt presses his nose into the crook of McClane’s neck. He can feel the fingers of that hand petting his hair.
A rumble starts low in McClane’s chest and Matt involuntarily clutches closer, a shiver running its way up his spine.
“I’m glad, boy. Thought you’d hare off like a startled rabbit.”
Matt jerks back to glare, affronted, at the cop. “I’m not a coward!”
McClane stares back implacably.
Matt falters. “Well, maybe sometimes. But I have honor!”
His affronted exclamation is rewarded by laughter and a huge bear hug.
“Hey!” He grapples a bit with steel arms and a stolid torso. “Don’t laugh at me! I’m a white hat! A good guy! I said I was yours, didn’t I?”
An arm snakes around his waist, pulls him up, and next think he knows Matt is holding desperately onto McClane’s shoulders as the cop pours laughter into him, mouth to mouth. Air forced out of him by the strong arm holding him on tippy-toes, his mouth drops open and is immediately plundered by a hot and sleep-soured tongue.
Wrenching his head back, Matt exclaims “Knee, knee!” Then he’s suddenly in midair.
“Hey! I’m not a blushing bride!”
But his arms slide up around McClane’s neck, nonetheless, as he’s swung through the door to the bedroom.
“Well,” the cop says with a ferocious grin in his voice. “I guess we’ll just have to change that.”
END