FIC: "A Year in the Life" (Live Free or Die Hard, McClane/Farrell, NC-17)
Title: A Year in the Life
Author: Miss Priss (miss_pryss)
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Pairing: John McClane/Matthew Farrell
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content
Archiving: Ask permission first
Spoilers: For Live Free or Die Hard and very mild spoilers for the rest of the Die Hard franchise
Word Count: ~4,000 words
Summary: One year later, Matt takes John McClane out for a drink.
Note: This story is now also archived at Archive of Our Own.
After the dust settled, Matt took a job with a think tank in D.C. It was a good situation: they gave him a budget and an assistant and pretty much left him alone. Bowman and the NSA kept an unobtrusive but easily detected eye on him -- apparently he would never not be on that list -- but things weren't too bad.
Pretty early on, Matt brought a rat home from the pet store and named it Gabriel. The plan was to wait until he really needed a pick-me-up and then feed it to the neighbor's boa, but even when things got really bad, he didn't. And then when they got better, he found he'd gotten sort of attached to the little guy.
* * *
Every now and then Matt drives up to visit Warlock. He always brings Warlock's mom a little present. She's warming up to him.
Things are looking up. Matt's knee feels a lot better, and he doesn't wake up crying anymore.
* * *
A year after he first met McClane, Matt finds himself in New York. He thinks it over for about two seconds before phoning the precinct house where McClane is stationed.
"I'm just, I'm here on business," Matt says. "And I was thinking, how about you let me buy you a drink?"
"If you're paying," McClane answers mildly, "I am at your goddamned disposal. I'll see you at nine."
Matt finds himself smiling as he hangs up. It feels unfamiliar on his face.
They meet at a bar near Matt's hotel on Union Square. New York in July is nearly as hot and humid as D.C., and Matt's grateful for the air conditioning in the bar. It's awkward, at first. McClane looks naked and unfamiliar without the blood and dirt and gore, and Matt wonders if they're going to have anything to talk about.
They order a round, and the waitress gives Matt a disinterested once-over. Her eyes linger on McClane's arms, though.
"So, kid, how's life treating you?" McClane looks genuinely interested -- or at least friendly enough to fake it.
"I got a job, sort of security policy stuff," Matt explains. "Like what Gabriel was trying to do, uh, except in the private sector. And, you know, without the massive embezzlement part. Or the killing people."
"Yeah, good move, not killing people," McClane says. "Also, not stealing cars or hacking computers." He gives Matt a mildly warning look, half serious.
Matt ducks his head and smiles, but he feels a little uncomfortable. They're sort of teetering between where they left it and where they started it, and Matt would rather be McClane's friend -- or even his side-kick -- than the criminal to McClane's cop, the geek to his bully. He wants to be worth McClane's time.
He wonders how much McClane has found out about his unsavory past.
"Don't worry. I'm strictly legit now," he says. "I've got too many people watching me not to be."
McClane smiles, and Matt relaxes a little.
"You're not going to believe this, but--" Matt leans forward across the table, grinning slyly. One of McClane's eyebrows goes up. "I have a secretary now."
"Is she hot?"
"He's okay," Matt says, with a wink. McClane laughs out loud. It's a nice sound.
Their beers arrive. They clink the glasses together and drink in silence.
Matt watches McClane drain his pint. The man looks tired; the manic gleam that lit his features during most of their -- adventure -- is tamped down. But there's still a sense of power lurking just under the surface. Matt finds it isn't so hard to reconcile this world-weary cop with the man who saved his life a year ago.
* * *
Things got pretty bad for Matt, around February. He wasn't sleeping much, and some days he couldn't leave the house. He almost called McClane a bunch of times, but he couldn't figure out what he wanted to say.
"So, how's it going?" wouldn't cut it if he was crying while he said it, but "I think I'm going crazy and I'm afraid to get out of bed" just sounded too pathetic, even if it was true.
"I hacked into your performance records and found out you're an even bigger hero than I thought and I was wondering how you get through the night without flying apart after the stuff you've seen and done" was honest but Matt wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer.
So Matt didn't call, and didn't sleep, and eventually Warlock's mom drove her sister's 1988 Cadillac down to D.C. and bullied Matt into the psych ward at Providence.
He got a formal diagnosis of delayed-onset PTSD, a script for Zoloft, and a month of intensive cognitive therapy, during the course of which he discovered some unexpected things about himself.
He almost called McClane a bunch of times after he got out of the hospital, but "It turns out I'm sort of in love with you" didn't sound much better than the stuff about being afraid to get out of bed, and "I'd really like you to push me around a little bit, you know, in a sexy kind of way" was even worse.
* * *
They're on their third round when Matt casually suggests they move the party back to his hotel room, where he has a really terrific bottle of scotch stashed away. McClane agrees easily enough. Matt can't tell if McClane even realizes he's being hit on.
Matt concentrates on walking naturally when they emerge from the bar. He's a little drunker than he had meant to get. He watches McClane pause to light a cigarette. The night air feels nice. Matt feels nice.
He steps into the street and then there's a sudden jerk, and a squeal of tires, and now Matt is back on the curb somehow, McClane's grip iron-tight around his wrist. Matt's head spins, and he staggers into McClane's broad chest.
"Watch where you're going, retard!" McClane yells after the cab, sounding less angry than resigned. Matt can't help but smile, even though at this range he can smell John McClane, leather and smoke and booze and sweat making it hard for him to think. His heart is beating too fast.
McClane steps back and his grip gentles, but he doesn't let go of Matt's wrist. "You okay?" he asks, the words indistinct around the cigarette. He takes a drag. Matt nods shortly. He feels himself flushing. McClane's expression is impossible to read, but the other man doesn't let go of him for a long moment.
Eventually, McClane snorts softly and lets Matt's arm drop. Smoke pours out of his nostrils.
"Come on, Princess," McClane says, "let's get you back to your nice, safe hotel room." But his expression is kind, and Matt's too busy trying to behave like a normal human being to feel embarrassed, anyway.
* * *
May was a good month for Matt, at least compared to the months before it, so he treated himself to a few luxuries. He expanded Gabriel's cage into a full-on habitrail-style warren with wheels of multiple sizes and lots of interesting things to chew on. He re-watched all of Babylon 5. He bought seven new computers, two of them not yet on the market.
And he got laid.
It took a few tries at a few different bars, but it was worth it when a big bald guy with a hooked nose returned Matt's increasingly interested glances with a sardonic smile. Matt gulped down another drink, brought the guy home with him, and let himself get fucked. It wasn't really like what he'd expected, but it was still pretty good. And the guy was very understanding about Matt gasping "John! John!" towards the end.
The guy, whose name was actually Harold, stayed the night, and in the morning they ate Kix and watched Melrose Place reruns on the couch. Harold gave Matt his phone number when he left, but Matt never called him.
* * *
Matt locks the door behind them, tosses his jacket on the bed, and goes into the bathroom to pee. He washes his hands after, and looks carefully at the familiar face in the mirror. He can't tell if he's handsome or not. Is this a face Matt would want to have sex with if it wasn't his?
When he steps back into the room, Matt finds McClane standing at a window, looking down at the lights of the city below. McClane stands very still, massive and silent. His expression is remote.
Matt takes a deep breath. Suddenly he feels like a fool.
McClane is almost certainly straight, and in any case he's twice Matt's age, divorced, a father, and a cop. To him, Matt is a kid -- a geeky, lonely kid who McClane probably thinks is looking for a father figure or something.
A headache starts up a dull throb behind Matt's eyes. He feels tired and drunk and unexpectedly sad. He'd sort of like to go to bed, but McClane is still here, and the silence is getting awkward. So. Onwards.
"Scotch?" he asks, trying for a normal tone. He grabs the bottle out of his bag.
McClane turns around, but he doesn't say anything. This is the part where he figures out why I invited him up, Matt thinks grimly. He stares at the floor and fiddles with the bottle, feeling awkward and miserable.
He stares at the floor until McClane's shoes came into his field of vision, then he looks up and whoa, McClane is right there.
Matt takes an involuntary step back. His shoulders hit the wall, and McClane closes the distance between them, his expression still unreadable. Matt breathes in sharply, almost a gasp.
Warm, rough fingers pull the bottle out of Matt's hand. He hears a soft thunk as McClane sets it on top of the dresser. And then McClane is crowding him against the wall, so close Matt can feel heat all along his thighs, his belly, the insides of his elbows.
"Oh, God..." Matt says, every nerve ending singing in response to McClane's proximity. His pulse races erratically under his suddenly too-hot skin.
McClane moves his head in next to Matt's. His mouth brushes Matt's ear.
"This is what you wanted, right?" McClane asks softly. His husky tenor and warm breath send a violent shiver down Matt's spine. His mouth drifts down to Matt's throat, teeth brushing against the skin.
"Y-yes," Matt manages. One of his hands has come up involuntarily to McClane's side. He can feel wonder growing in him like a bubble in his chest. This is what he wanted. And he's getting it.
McClane pulls back a bit. "I thought so," he says. His mouth crooks up, amused, but his eyes are hot.
He drags his thumb across Matt's mouth, his lower lip, not especially gently. Then he pushes harder and his thumb slips inside, pressing against his teeth, the pad sliding against his tongue, the nail gently scraping the roof of his mouth. His thumb feels huge in Matt's mouth, obscene. McClane cocks his head and stares at him intently. "You like this?" he asks.
Matt groans and sucks, thrusting involuntarily against McClane's solid heat. The man is so big, and so fucking hard, not a soft inch on him. He's all muscle and bulk and caged menace, and it is so hot, so hot, so hot that Matt almost comes when McClane bites his ear, hard, and says, "Did you want to suck my cock, too?"
Matt whines around McClane's thumb. McClane grins, sharp and heated, and pulls it out, smearing saliva across Matt's cheek.
"Well?" he prompts. He moves his hand into Matt's hair. His grip tightens.
"Yeah," Matt pants helplessly, his hips still working against McClane's. He feels stupid, drugged with desire.
McClane tightens his fingers, tugging sharply at Matt's hair. Matt melts into the pressure and tilts his head back, baring his throat. He swallows, his throat working with a dry click.
"Yeah, yeah, John," he says, his voice husky and unfamiliar to his own ears. He licks his lips. "I want to suck you. I want to, God I want it. Please let me, let me--"
"Shut up," John groans, and Matt breaks off with a gasp. John's free hand is tracing up and down Matt's arched neck, wrapping briefly around his throat. Matt wonders what it would be like if John McClane had him in a real choke-hold, utterly at his mercy and seeing stars, gasping helplessly. The thought of it has Matt talking again, babbling helplessly.
"Oh, oh, God, make me do it, John, fucking make me--"
"You better shut the fuck up or this is going to be over a lot sooner than you want," John grits out. Matt bucks and grinds his cock into John's belly. He's breathing hard now, panting.
"Down," John says. He changes his grip on Matt's hair, pushing his head down.
Matt pretty much falls to his knees, graceless and eager. He fumbles John's belt open, zipper down, cock out. With his hands spread across John's strong thighs, Matt lets the big, warm hand guide his head. He opens his mouth around the tip of John's cock, hot and hard and already slick.
"Fuck, yeah," John says softly, tightening his hand in Matt's hair briefly. Matt slides his mouth further down the shaft, drooling a little. John's cock is firm and heavy against his tongue, filling his mouth. He sucks hard, and John gasps and bucks.
Matt works his mouth up and down John's cock, hard and fast. One hand slips down to fumble with his own fly, and his fingers wrap around his own cock. He's got the rhythm of his hand matched to the rhythm of his mouth on John's cock, and it's so good--
"I want you to take it all the way," John says, his voice strained, "can you do that?"
Matt has no idea if he can or not -- he's never tried -- but the idea of it is so hot. He pulls his head back and grins up at John. "Make me," he says.
John rolls his eyes. "Fucking punk," he says. "Try to relax, all right?" And then he's pushing Matt's head all the way down on his cock, his hand like iron on Matt's head.
Matt holds his breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and tugs hard on his balls so he won't come. His nose is pressed into the coarse hair of John's groin, and John is cursing softly above him, his cock rock-hard and twitching in Matt's throat.
Just when Matt's starting to see stars, John pulls him all the way off his cock, panting roughly. Matt kneels, a thread of saliva still connecting his lip to the tip of John's cock. His mouth feels strange and hot, used. His throat is sore. He looks up.
"I've got other plans for you," John says. "Why don't you get naked and get on the bed?"
When Matt tries to stand, his knees won't unbend. Finally, John reaches down and hauls him bodily upright, pinning him against the wall again.
"You okay there, sweetheart?" John asks. He looks amused, but his hands are gentle, sliding restlessly up and down Matt's arms, across his chest and down to his waist, spreading heat.
Matt tries for a flip comeback, but when he opens his mouth all he can say is, "John. John." His voice sounds lost and helpless to his own ears, like a stranger's.
A flicker of something ghosts across John's face--
And then John is kissing him, lips rough and hot against his. After a moment of frozen shock -- somehow he didn't expect this to involve any kissing -- Matt moans into it, opens up. John's mouth is hot and demanding, and when John's tongue slides against his, it's perfect: hard and dirty and sweet.
Matt grabs at John's shirt and pulls him in closer, as close as he can get. Suddenly he is so fucking happy he thinks he might die of it. John's big warm hand is cradling the back of his head, tilting him at just the right angle for the kiss; John's mouth is opening him up and taking and taking, and it is so good.
Eventually John pulls away, and Matt lets his head fall back against the wall with a thump. A smile spreads across his face. He feels hot and lightheaded, dizzy with joy and lust.
"Look at you," John says, his own grin wavering across his craggy face. His voice is rough with desire. "So fucking sweet." John buries his face in Matt's neck, licks at the sweat there. "I'm going to take care of you," he whispers into Matt's ear.
Matt shivers. "Yeah, John, please," he says.
* * *
The truth is, Matt isn't in town on business. He was supposed to be, but the meeting got cancelled a month ago.
* * *
"Have you ever done this before?" John strokes one broad, hard hand down Matt's back until it rests on his ass. He's got Matt lying on his stomach on the big, soft hotel bed. They're both naked.
"Sure," Matt says breathlessly. "Uh, you know, once or twice. Okay, once."
There's a short silence, and then John says heavily, "Matt, are you sure you want this?"
"Wait, what?"
"You could do a lot better. I'm no fucking prize. I'm not even nice."
Incredulous, Matt turns over and sits up. "You saved my life," he says.
"I've saved a bunch of people's lives. It doesn't make me better than what I am."
"But--"
"You don't owe me anything."
"You think that's why I'm here?" Matt says carefully. "Gratitude?"
"Yes."
"John, I haven't been able to get you out of my head for the last year." Matt looks down at the bedspread. "Trust me on this one. I'm pretty fucked up, but I know what I want."
John studies him for a few moments and then exhales softly. He leans in and kisses Matt on the lips. It's brief and soft, but when he pulls back, Matt's heart is pounding furiously.
"Lube?"
"In my bag."
John gets up, lumbers over to Matt's suitcase. Matt stares unashamedly.
John is all power, naked. His muscled body is scarred and unlovely, but he moves with the grace of someone whose strength is ingrained and functional, a stark contrast to Harold's gym-sculpted body. That memory is a faded whisp now, in the face of this overwhelming reality.
"Came prepared, didn't you?" John looks amused as he digs out the lube and a strip of condoms.
"A guy can hope." Matt agrees, turning himself back over onto his stomach.
And then the mattress is dipping under John's weight and a blunt, slick finger is pushing against Matt's asshole. He gasps, and feels heat rush into his face.
"Shhh." John wraps one bracing hand around Matt's hip and pushes, slow and implacable, until he's in all the way and the backs of his other fingers are brushing against Matt's balls. He crooks his finger and pumps gently.
A shock of pleasure courses through Matt's body. "Oh," Matt says softly. "Oh, that's--"
John firms his grip on Matt's hip. A second finger joins the first, and Matt bucks back against it.
"So fucking tight," John says roughly.
"Yeah," Matt moans. "Give me another one."
John adds a third finger, and by then Matt's lost some control and is writhing and bucking against John's hand.
"Fuck me, John, God, do it for real--"
John hooks his arm around Matt's stomach and heaves him up onto his hands and knees. The thick fingers slide out of him, and there's the sound of foil and the smell of latex, and then something blunt and hot is pushing at his opening. John's cock.
In one steady, powerful motion, John thrusts all the way into Matt's body.
Matt's mouth opens but no sound comes out -- he feels like he's had the breath knocked out of him. It's overwhelming -- it's too much -- he can't--
He can't--
"Shhh," John says. "Relax." He's holding Matt still with both his arms, and his cock feels like an iron bar in Matt's ass. Matt almost laughs, but that would require breath.
Instead, he focuses on John's harsh breathing and struggles to relax.
Bit by bit, the overwhelming strangeness of it fades, along with the last of the discomfort, and then Matt is pressing back against John, and John mutters, "finally,"--
And then John starts moving, in and out and in and out, gently at first and then harder and faster until Matt's hands have lost their grip on the bedspread and his knees have given out and John is pounding him, fucking pounding him into the mattress.
Just as Matt's starting to spiral up ("Oh God, I think I'm gonna--"), John stills and pulls out of him.
"What?" Matt moans, but before he can turn to see what the hell is going on, John's hands are back on him and the world lurches crazily around, and then Matt's on his back, and John is pressing his knees up into his shoulders and sliding back into him, easy and slick.
For a moment Matt feels terrifyingly exposed. He turns his face and closes his eyes, but then John makes an impatient noise and slams into him and Matt's eyes fly open again in surprise. John is right there, looking down at him, and Matt realizes he can't -- doesn't even really want to -- hide anything from John McClane. From this man who has seen him at his weakest, his most afraid, and also at his very best.
John's face is flushed, his eyes intent and heavy-lidded, his lips parted. Matt stares up helplessly, his breath coming hard and fast, hitching in his throat in little gasps that turn into cries as John speeds up his pace. John's eyes fall shut and his head tilts back and his hands tighten on Matt's hips. And then he's groaning, pushing himself deeper still into Matt and -- this, Matt realizes distantly, is what John McClane looks like when he's coming.
John's cock hasn't even stopped twitching in Matt's ass before he pulls out, shifts down the bed, replaces his cock with four fingers and swallows Matt whole.
"Fuck!" Matt yells, arching up into John's hot fucking furnace of a mouth, and then back onto his fingers, which are stretching him even further open, hard and rough and slick. Matt gets two good thrusts in before his vision whites out and his spine arches and then he's coming in John's mouth, pulsing into him, his ass tightening around John's fingers, the pressure and pleasure of it driving him higher--
Until he collapses, spent and sweaty, barely aware of John moving off the bed. Matt drifts, half-listening to the distant sound of John spitting in the sink and water running. Then John's back with a washcloth in one hand and a lighted cigarette in his mouth.
John cleans them both up with efficient motions, and tosses the washcloth in the corner. He flops back on the bed next to Matt and makes a satisfied noise. Matt turns his head and looks at John's profile. He's got a cigarette slouching out of his lips, bobbing as he drags on it. He looks as relaxed as Matt has ever seen him. He looks... smug.
Matt can't help it -- he giggles. His heart is still racing, even as post-coital sleepiness sets in. He can't believe he just got fucked by John McClane.
"I can't believe I just got fucked by John McClane."
Oops. Matt groans and rolls over to hide his face.
"My condolences, kid," John says. "Maybe you can start a support group."
"Shut up," Matt mutters into the pillow.
"Whatever. I'm going to sleep." There's a click, and the room is dark. John shifts over, and the last thing Matt is aware of before he drifts into the deepest, sweetest sleep he's had in a year is John's hand settling familiarly on his ass.
Author: Miss Priss (miss_pryss)
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Pairing: John McClane/Matthew Farrell
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content
Archiving: Ask permission first
Spoilers: For Live Free or Die Hard and very mild spoilers for the rest of the Die Hard franchise
Word Count: ~4,000 words
Summary: One year later, Matt takes John McClane out for a drink.
Note: This story is now also archived at Archive of Our Own.
After the dust settled, Matt took a job with a think tank in D.C. It was a good situation: they gave him a budget and an assistant and pretty much left him alone. Bowman and the NSA kept an unobtrusive but easily detected eye on him -- apparently he would never not be on that list -- but things weren't too bad.
Pretty early on, Matt brought a rat home from the pet store and named it Gabriel. The plan was to wait until he really needed a pick-me-up and then feed it to the neighbor's boa, but even when things got really bad, he didn't. And then when they got better, he found he'd gotten sort of attached to the little guy.
* * *
Every now and then Matt drives up to visit Warlock. He always brings Warlock's mom a little present. She's warming up to him.
Things are looking up. Matt's knee feels a lot better, and he doesn't wake up crying anymore.
* * *
A year after he first met McClane, Matt finds himself in New York. He thinks it over for about two seconds before phoning the precinct house where McClane is stationed.
"I'm just, I'm here on business," Matt says. "And I was thinking, how about you let me buy you a drink?"
"If you're paying," McClane answers mildly, "I am at your goddamned disposal. I'll see you at nine."
Matt finds himself smiling as he hangs up. It feels unfamiliar on his face.
They meet at a bar near Matt's hotel on Union Square. New York in July is nearly as hot and humid as D.C., and Matt's grateful for the air conditioning in the bar. It's awkward, at first. McClane looks naked and unfamiliar without the blood and dirt and gore, and Matt wonders if they're going to have anything to talk about.
They order a round, and the waitress gives Matt a disinterested once-over. Her eyes linger on McClane's arms, though.
"So, kid, how's life treating you?" McClane looks genuinely interested -- or at least friendly enough to fake it.
"I got a job, sort of security policy stuff," Matt explains. "Like what Gabriel was trying to do, uh, except in the private sector. And, you know, without the massive embezzlement part. Or the killing people."
"Yeah, good move, not killing people," McClane says. "Also, not stealing cars or hacking computers." He gives Matt a mildly warning look, half serious.
Matt ducks his head and smiles, but he feels a little uncomfortable. They're sort of teetering between where they left it and where they started it, and Matt would rather be McClane's friend -- or even his side-kick -- than the criminal to McClane's cop, the geek to his bully. He wants to be worth McClane's time.
He wonders how much McClane has found out about his unsavory past.
"Don't worry. I'm strictly legit now," he says. "I've got too many people watching me not to be."
McClane smiles, and Matt relaxes a little.
"You're not going to believe this, but--" Matt leans forward across the table, grinning slyly. One of McClane's eyebrows goes up. "I have a secretary now."
"Is she hot?"
"He's okay," Matt says, with a wink. McClane laughs out loud. It's a nice sound.
Their beers arrive. They clink the glasses together and drink in silence.
Matt watches McClane drain his pint. The man looks tired; the manic gleam that lit his features during most of their -- adventure -- is tamped down. But there's still a sense of power lurking just under the surface. Matt finds it isn't so hard to reconcile this world-weary cop with the man who saved his life a year ago.
* * *
Things got pretty bad for Matt, around February. He wasn't sleeping much, and some days he couldn't leave the house. He almost called McClane a bunch of times, but he couldn't figure out what he wanted to say.
"So, how's it going?" wouldn't cut it if he was crying while he said it, but "I think I'm going crazy and I'm afraid to get out of bed" just sounded too pathetic, even if it was true.
"I hacked into your performance records and found out you're an even bigger hero than I thought and I was wondering how you get through the night without flying apart after the stuff you've seen and done" was honest but Matt wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer.
So Matt didn't call, and didn't sleep, and eventually Warlock's mom drove her sister's 1988 Cadillac down to D.C. and bullied Matt into the psych ward at Providence.
He got a formal diagnosis of delayed-onset PTSD, a script for Zoloft, and a month of intensive cognitive therapy, during the course of which he discovered some unexpected things about himself.
He almost called McClane a bunch of times after he got out of the hospital, but "It turns out I'm sort of in love with you" didn't sound much better than the stuff about being afraid to get out of bed, and "I'd really like you to push me around a little bit, you know, in a sexy kind of way" was even worse.
* * *
They're on their third round when Matt casually suggests they move the party back to his hotel room, where he has a really terrific bottle of scotch stashed away. McClane agrees easily enough. Matt can't tell if McClane even realizes he's being hit on.
Matt concentrates on walking naturally when they emerge from the bar. He's a little drunker than he had meant to get. He watches McClane pause to light a cigarette. The night air feels nice. Matt feels nice.
He steps into the street and then there's a sudden jerk, and a squeal of tires, and now Matt is back on the curb somehow, McClane's grip iron-tight around his wrist. Matt's head spins, and he staggers into McClane's broad chest.
"Watch where you're going, retard!" McClane yells after the cab, sounding less angry than resigned. Matt can't help but smile, even though at this range he can smell John McClane, leather and smoke and booze and sweat making it hard for him to think. His heart is beating too fast.
McClane steps back and his grip gentles, but he doesn't let go of Matt's wrist. "You okay?" he asks, the words indistinct around the cigarette. He takes a drag. Matt nods shortly. He feels himself flushing. McClane's expression is impossible to read, but the other man doesn't let go of him for a long moment.
Eventually, McClane snorts softly and lets Matt's arm drop. Smoke pours out of his nostrils.
"Come on, Princess," McClane says, "let's get you back to your nice, safe hotel room." But his expression is kind, and Matt's too busy trying to behave like a normal human being to feel embarrassed, anyway.
* * *
May was a good month for Matt, at least compared to the months before it, so he treated himself to a few luxuries. He expanded Gabriel's cage into a full-on habitrail-style warren with wheels of multiple sizes and lots of interesting things to chew on. He re-watched all of Babylon 5. He bought seven new computers, two of them not yet on the market.
And he got laid.
It took a few tries at a few different bars, but it was worth it when a big bald guy with a hooked nose returned Matt's increasingly interested glances with a sardonic smile. Matt gulped down another drink, brought the guy home with him, and let himself get fucked. It wasn't really like what he'd expected, but it was still pretty good. And the guy was very understanding about Matt gasping "John! John!" towards the end.
The guy, whose name was actually Harold, stayed the night, and in the morning they ate Kix and watched Melrose Place reruns on the couch. Harold gave Matt his phone number when he left, but Matt never called him.
* * *
Matt locks the door behind them, tosses his jacket on the bed, and goes into the bathroom to pee. He washes his hands after, and looks carefully at the familiar face in the mirror. He can't tell if he's handsome or not. Is this a face Matt would want to have sex with if it wasn't his?
When he steps back into the room, Matt finds McClane standing at a window, looking down at the lights of the city below. McClane stands very still, massive and silent. His expression is remote.
Matt takes a deep breath. Suddenly he feels like a fool.
McClane is almost certainly straight, and in any case he's twice Matt's age, divorced, a father, and a cop. To him, Matt is a kid -- a geeky, lonely kid who McClane probably thinks is looking for a father figure or something.
A headache starts up a dull throb behind Matt's eyes. He feels tired and drunk and unexpectedly sad. He'd sort of like to go to bed, but McClane is still here, and the silence is getting awkward. So. Onwards.
"Scotch?" he asks, trying for a normal tone. He grabs the bottle out of his bag.
McClane turns around, but he doesn't say anything. This is the part where he figures out why I invited him up, Matt thinks grimly. He stares at the floor and fiddles with the bottle, feeling awkward and miserable.
He stares at the floor until McClane's shoes came into his field of vision, then he looks up and whoa, McClane is right there.
Matt takes an involuntary step back. His shoulders hit the wall, and McClane closes the distance between them, his expression still unreadable. Matt breathes in sharply, almost a gasp.
Warm, rough fingers pull the bottle out of Matt's hand. He hears a soft thunk as McClane sets it on top of the dresser. And then McClane is crowding him against the wall, so close Matt can feel heat all along his thighs, his belly, the insides of his elbows.
"Oh, God..." Matt says, every nerve ending singing in response to McClane's proximity. His pulse races erratically under his suddenly too-hot skin.
McClane moves his head in next to Matt's. His mouth brushes Matt's ear.
"This is what you wanted, right?" McClane asks softly. His husky tenor and warm breath send a violent shiver down Matt's spine. His mouth drifts down to Matt's throat, teeth brushing against the skin.
"Y-yes," Matt manages. One of his hands has come up involuntarily to McClane's side. He can feel wonder growing in him like a bubble in his chest. This is what he wanted. And he's getting it.
McClane pulls back a bit. "I thought so," he says. His mouth crooks up, amused, but his eyes are hot.
He drags his thumb across Matt's mouth, his lower lip, not especially gently. Then he pushes harder and his thumb slips inside, pressing against his teeth, the pad sliding against his tongue, the nail gently scraping the roof of his mouth. His thumb feels huge in Matt's mouth, obscene. McClane cocks his head and stares at him intently. "You like this?" he asks.
Matt groans and sucks, thrusting involuntarily against McClane's solid heat. The man is so big, and so fucking hard, not a soft inch on him. He's all muscle and bulk and caged menace, and it is so hot, so hot, so hot that Matt almost comes when McClane bites his ear, hard, and says, "Did you want to suck my cock, too?"
Matt whines around McClane's thumb. McClane grins, sharp and heated, and pulls it out, smearing saliva across Matt's cheek.
"Well?" he prompts. He moves his hand into Matt's hair. His grip tightens.
"Yeah," Matt pants helplessly, his hips still working against McClane's. He feels stupid, drugged with desire.
McClane tightens his fingers, tugging sharply at Matt's hair. Matt melts into the pressure and tilts his head back, baring his throat. He swallows, his throat working with a dry click.
"Yeah, yeah, John," he says, his voice husky and unfamiliar to his own ears. He licks his lips. "I want to suck you. I want to, God I want it. Please let me, let me--"
"Shut up," John groans, and Matt breaks off with a gasp. John's free hand is tracing up and down Matt's arched neck, wrapping briefly around his throat. Matt wonders what it would be like if John McClane had him in a real choke-hold, utterly at his mercy and seeing stars, gasping helplessly. The thought of it has Matt talking again, babbling helplessly.
"Oh, oh, God, make me do it, John, fucking make me--"
"You better shut the fuck up or this is going to be over a lot sooner than you want," John grits out. Matt bucks and grinds his cock into John's belly. He's breathing hard now, panting.
"Down," John says. He changes his grip on Matt's hair, pushing his head down.
Matt pretty much falls to his knees, graceless and eager. He fumbles John's belt open, zipper down, cock out. With his hands spread across John's strong thighs, Matt lets the big, warm hand guide his head. He opens his mouth around the tip of John's cock, hot and hard and already slick.
"Fuck, yeah," John says softly, tightening his hand in Matt's hair briefly. Matt slides his mouth further down the shaft, drooling a little. John's cock is firm and heavy against his tongue, filling his mouth. He sucks hard, and John gasps and bucks.
Matt works his mouth up and down John's cock, hard and fast. One hand slips down to fumble with his own fly, and his fingers wrap around his own cock. He's got the rhythm of his hand matched to the rhythm of his mouth on John's cock, and it's so good--
"I want you to take it all the way," John says, his voice strained, "can you do that?"
Matt has no idea if he can or not -- he's never tried -- but the idea of it is so hot. He pulls his head back and grins up at John. "Make me," he says.
John rolls his eyes. "Fucking punk," he says. "Try to relax, all right?" And then he's pushing Matt's head all the way down on his cock, his hand like iron on Matt's head.
Matt holds his breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and tugs hard on his balls so he won't come. His nose is pressed into the coarse hair of John's groin, and John is cursing softly above him, his cock rock-hard and twitching in Matt's throat.
Just when Matt's starting to see stars, John pulls him all the way off his cock, panting roughly. Matt kneels, a thread of saliva still connecting his lip to the tip of John's cock. His mouth feels strange and hot, used. His throat is sore. He looks up.
"I've got other plans for you," John says. "Why don't you get naked and get on the bed?"
When Matt tries to stand, his knees won't unbend. Finally, John reaches down and hauls him bodily upright, pinning him against the wall again.
"You okay there, sweetheart?" John asks. He looks amused, but his hands are gentle, sliding restlessly up and down Matt's arms, across his chest and down to his waist, spreading heat.
Matt tries for a flip comeback, but when he opens his mouth all he can say is, "John. John." His voice sounds lost and helpless to his own ears, like a stranger's.
A flicker of something ghosts across John's face--
And then John is kissing him, lips rough and hot against his. After a moment of frozen shock -- somehow he didn't expect this to involve any kissing -- Matt moans into it, opens up. John's mouth is hot and demanding, and when John's tongue slides against his, it's perfect: hard and dirty and sweet.
Matt grabs at John's shirt and pulls him in closer, as close as he can get. Suddenly he is so fucking happy he thinks he might die of it. John's big warm hand is cradling the back of his head, tilting him at just the right angle for the kiss; John's mouth is opening him up and taking and taking, and it is so good.
Eventually John pulls away, and Matt lets his head fall back against the wall with a thump. A smile spreads across his face. He feels hot and lightheaded, dizzy with joy and lust.
"Look at you," John says, his own grin wavering across his craggy face. His voice is rough with desire. "So fucking sweet." John buries his face in Matt's neck, licks at the sweat there. "I'm going to take care of you," he whispers into Matt's ear.
Matt shivers. "Yeah, John, please," he says.
* * *
The truth is, Matt isn't in town on business. He was supposed to be, but the meeting got cancelled a month ago.
* * *
"Have you ever done this before?" John strokes one broad, hard hand down Matt's back until it rests on his ass. He's got Matt lying on his stomach on the big, soft hotel bed. They're both naked.
"Sure," Matt says breathlessly. "Uh, you know, once or twice. Okay, once."
There's a short silence, and then John says heavily, "Matt, are you sure you want this?"
"Wait, what?"
"You could do a lot better. I'm no fucking prize. I'm not even nice."
Incredulous, Matt turns over and sits up. "You saved my life," he says.
"I've saved a bunch of people's lives. It doesn't make me better than what I am."
"But--"
"You don't owe me anything."
"You think that's why I'm here?" Matt says carefully. "Gratitude?"
"Yes."
"John, I haven't been able to get you out of my head for the last year." Matt looks down at the bedspread. "Trust me on this one. I'm pretty fucked up, but I know what I want."
John studies him for a few moments and then exhales softly. He leans in and kisses Matt on the lips. It's brief and soft, but when he pulls back, Matt's heart is pounding furiously.
"Lube?"
"In my bag."
John gets up, lumbers over to Matt's suitcase. Matt stares unashamedly.
John is all power, naked. His muscled body is scarred and unlovely, but he moves with the grace of someone whose strength is ingrained and functional, a stark contrast to Harold's gym-sculpted body. That memory is a faded whisp now, in the face of this overwhelming reality.
"Came prepared, didn't you?" John looks amused as he digs out the lube and a strip of condoms.
"A guy can hope." Matt agrees, turning himself back over onto his stomach.
And then the mattress is dipping under John's weight and a blunt, slick finger is pushing against Matt's asshole. He gasps, and feels heat rush into his face.
"Shhh." John wraps one bracing hand around Matt's hip and pushes, slow and implacable, until he's in all the way and the backs of his other fingers are brushing against Matt's balls. He crooks his finger and pumps gently.
A shock of pleasure courses through Matt's body. "Oh," Matt says softly. "Oh, that's--"
John firms his grip on Matt's hip. A second finger joins the first, and Matt bucks back against it.
"So fucking tight," John says roughly.
"Yeah," Matt moans. "Give me another one."
John adds a third finger, and by then Matt's lost some control and is writhing and bucking against John's hand.
"Fuck me, John, God, do it for real--"
John hooks his arm around Matt's stomach and heaves him up onto his hands and knees. The thick fingers slide out of him, and there's the sound of foil and the smell of latex, and then something blunt and hot is pushing at his opening. John's cock.
In one steady, powerful motion, John thrusts all the way into Matt's body.
Matt's mouth opens but no sound comes out -- he feels like he's had the breath knocked out of him. It's overwhelming -- it's too much -- he can't--
He can't--
"Shhh," John says. "Relax." He's holding Matt still with both his arms, and his cock feels like an iron bar in Matt's ass. Matt almost laughs, but that would require breath.
Instead, he focuses on John's harsh breathing and struggles to relax.
Bit by bit, the overwhelming strangeness of it fades, along with the last of the discomfort, and then Matt is pressing back against John, and John mutters, "finally,"--
And then John starts moving, in and out and in and out, gently at first and then harder and faster until Matt's hands have lost their grip on the bedspread and his knees have given out and John is pounding him, fucking pounding him into the mattress.
Just as Matt's starting to spiral up ("Oh God, I think I'm gonna--"), John stills and pulls out of him.
"What?" Matt moans, but before he can turn to see what the hell is going on, John's hands are back on him and the world lurches crazily around, and then Matt's on his back, and John is pressing his knees up into his shoulders and sliding back into him, easy and slick.
For a moment Matt feels terrifyingly exposed. He turns his face and closes his eyes, but then John makes an impatient noise and slams into him and Matt's eyes fly open again in surprise. John is right there, looking down at him, and Matt realizes he can't -- doesn't even really want to -- hide anything from John McClane. From this man who has seen him at his weakest, his most afraid, and also at his very best.
John's face is flushed, his eyes intent and heavy-lidded, his lips parted. Matt stares up helplessly, his breath coming hard and fast, hitching in his throat in little gasps that turn into cries as John speeds up his pace. John's eyes fall shut and his head tilts back and his hands tighten on Matt's hips. And then he's groaning, pushing himself deeper still into Matt and -- this, Matt realizes distantly, is what John McClane looks like when he's coming.
John's cock hasn't even stopped twitching in Matt's ass before he pulls out, shifts down the bed, replaces his cock with four fingers and swallows Matt whole.
"Fuck!" Matt yells, arching up into John's hot fucking furnace of a mouth, and then back onto his fingers, which are stretching him even further open, hard and rough and slick. Matt gets two good thrusts in before his vision whites out and his spine arches and then he's coming in John's mouth, pulsing into him, his ass tightening around John's fingers, the pressure and pleasure of it driving him higher--
Until he collapses, spent and sweaty, barely aware of John moving off the bed. Matt drifts, half-listening to the distant sound of John spitting in the sink and water running. Then John's back with a washcloth in one hand and a lighted cigarette in his mouth.
John cleans them both up with efficient motions, and tosses the washcloth in the corner. He flops back on the bed next to Matt and makes a satisfied noise. Matt turns his head and looks at John's profile. He's got a cigarette slouching out of his lips, bobbing as he drags on it. He looks as relaxed as Matt has ever seen him. He looks... smug.
Matt can't help it -- he giggles. His heart is still racing, even as post-coital sleepiness sets in. He can't believe he just got fucked by John McClane.
"I can't believe I just got fucked by John McClane."
Oops. Matt groans and rolls over to hide his face.
"My condolences, kid," John says. "Maybe you can start a support group."
"Shut up," Matt mutters into the pillow.
"Whatever. I'm going to sleep." There's a click, and the room is dark. John shifts over, and the last thing Matt is aware of before he drifts into the deepest, sweetest sleep he's had in a year is John's hand settling familiarly on his ass.