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The apartment was draped in the soft hush of midnight in New York, the city’s chaotic heartbeat reduced to a distant thrum against the windowpanes. Inside, the air smelled of rain-damp wool, and the sharp, clean scent of the soap Dex used; a scent that usually acted as a tether for Matt, grounding him in the presence of the man who was as much a storm as he was a sanctuary.
Dex was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to Matt. He had shed his shirt moments ago, his shoulders tight, a coiled spring of tension that Matt could feel vibrating through the very air between them.
Moving closer, Matt kept his movements fluid and deliberate. He didn't need sight to map the contours of the man before him; he had the heat of Dex’s skin, the current sharpness of his breathing, and the way the air shifted around his body. He reached out, his fingers grazing the smooth skin of Dex’s shoulder, and then sliding down, tracing the long, lean muscles of his back.
It wasn't a smooth descent. Instead, Matt’s touch slowly slid down a landscape of raised tissue, thick but even; a line of traumatic calligraphy etched directly into the spine. These scars were remnants of a desperate last Hail Mary experimental attempt to knit a shattered body back together.
Dex flinched violently, a harsh intake of breath hissing through his teeth. He lunged forward, nearly slipping off the bed in his haste to put distance between them, his voice cracking with a sudden edge that tried to conceal emotions that leaked through anyway.
"Don't," Dex snapped, his voice a low growl that trembled with an insecurity he hated. "Don't look at it. Or touch it. Just..... don't."
He tried to pull away, the instinct to hide his 'brokenness' overriding everything else. To Dex, those scars were a map of his failure, a permanent reminder of the moment Fisk had stripped him of his autonomy and left him a puppet of flesh and broken bones.
But Matt was faster.
Not with strength, but with a terrifyingly gentle persistence. He stepped into Dex’s space, his hand sliding from the shoulder to the nape of Dex’s neck, his thumb brushing the hairline in a soothing, rhythmic arc.
"I'm not looking for something damaged, Dex," Matt whispered, his voice a soft caress that seemed to wrap around Dex like a blanket. "I'm just feeling you."
"It's ugly," Dex spat, though he had stopped retreating. He was frozen now, caught between the urge to flee so he could pull his fractured armor back together and the desperate, starving need to be touched. "It's a mess. It's not..... it's not right."
"Right is a matter of perspective," Matt murmured. He shifted, moving his hand back down; not rushing, letting Dex feel every single millimeter of his intent. When his fingers found the ridges of the scarring again, he didn't recoil or hesitate. Instead, he began to trace the paths of the scars with an agonizing slowness, as if he were reading a precious, ancient text.
Dex let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders dropping an inch. "Why aren't you disgusted?"
"Because I can feel the strength it took to survive this," Matt replied, his voice dipping lower, becoming an intimate vibration that Dex could feel in his own chest due to the other man’s proximity. "I can feel how your body fought to stay whole. It’s not a mess, Dex. It’s a testament."
Matt leaned in more, the heat of his body now pressing against Dex’s back, his lips brushing the shell of the blond’s ear. He let his fingertips linger on the most prominent of the scarring, his touch so light it was barely there, erasing the shame with a tenderness that felt almost rebellious.
"You're so beautiful in your complexity," Matt breathed, his other hand sliding down to Dex's hip, pulling him firmly against Matt's body. "Every line, every ridge..... it’s all part of the man I want."
The fight finally drained out of Dex and he slumped back against Matt. A broken sob caught in his throat as he let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since the surgery. He turned his head slightly, his eyes searching Matt’s sightless ones, and finding no pity as he expected, but a fierce, unwavering devotion.
"You're insane," Dex whispered, though he was leaning into the touch now, his own hand reaching back to grip Matt’s forearm, anchoring himself to the only man who had ever looked at his ruins and seen something worth having. Something worth saving.
"Perhaps," Matt smiled, his fingers continuing their slow, worshipful dance across the scarred skin. "But I've always had a penchant for the things the world considers broken."
THE END