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18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isnât). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol
summary: your friendâs reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you heâs actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know đ)
a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts âforeheads pressed against each otherâ + âtwo fingers against a pulse point,â then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, mattâs guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. thatâs it⌠enjoy my filthâŚ
âNo fucking way.âÂ
Itâs ridiculous: Mattâs desk isnât made for two. Not even close. Itâs for this reason that youâve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isnât pressed to his.Â
And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, youâd be a liar, and a bad one at that.Â
Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Mattâs visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred.Â
The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, youâve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. Itâs an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossipâand Foggyâs colorful commentaryâis concerned. Itâs also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.
Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. Itâs your conviction heâs on a much different playing field than youâhis revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you werenât even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him.Â
Besides, itâs not that you like to wallow. Youâd like to believe youâre fairly attractive yourself, thank you very muchâbut thereâs much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Mattâs face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and heâs so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious itâs only natural heâd be surrounded by people just like him.Â
Not like you.
So, rash girl that you are, you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.
âYouâre telling me,â you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, âthat you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?â
His lips twitch at the corners, amused. âIs that so hard to believe?â
âWhat the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quoteââhe was really goodâ? You giving them confession or something?â
Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, âWho knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.âÂ
Your silence must clue him to the fact that youâre gaping.Â
âWhat? Girls love him!â he says, grinning wide. You canât argue with that, at least, that much is true. âBesides, itâs a question of semantics. For one, what the word âvirginâ even entails whenââ
âJust strangle me if youâre going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. Youâre a virgin or youâre not.â
Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully.Â
âWell, then, enlighten me.â
Enlighten me.
Youâre being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding canât hold its own waterâembarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone youâre wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, âAlright, Iâll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.â
You have to hope youâre doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesnât send your blood pressure skyrocketing.
Calm as ever, he continues, âOne would define a virgin as someone whoâs never had sexual intercourse.â
One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like heâs in a debate.
âYeah,â you manage.
âSexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?â
âOh, stop it, Matt,â you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.
âWellâyes?â
âOkay. Yes.â
âOkay.â He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. âIf penetration has to be the only metricâthen yes, Iâm a virgin. Again, if it has to be.â
As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. âYeah, yeah.â Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. âHas to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?â
âWell,â he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, heâs enjoying thisââdo you think sex is just penetration?â
It takes you a second.
To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lipsâŚÂ
Oh.
âOh my God,â you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. âOh my God.â
Jesus. Of course heâd eat pussy like a champ.
âWhat? What?â His voice has gone high and incredulous.
âShut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.â
Heâs grinning wide. âBecause?âÂ
âBecause!â Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. âIâm pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. Itâs one thing to brag about being good at sex, yâknow, theâuhâuhâŚp..âÂ
Just say the word, goddammit! Youâre giving yourself away!
âCâmon,â he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. âYou can do it. P-p-pââ
âPenetration,â you spit. âUgh, Matt!âÂ
You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, youâll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan.Â
âYou are such an asshole. Anywayâbeing good at that is one thing, but youâre saying all that praise was for oral? Thatâs even worse.â
âWorse? How is that worse?â
âYou canât really coast onâ on mutual friction with that. You gotta⌠um⌠actually be good at it.âÂ
Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently youâre now picturing Mattâs face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that arenât yours.
A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing youâve ever done to yourself.
Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. âThey said it, not me. I donât kiss and tell.â
âSure. Right.â Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself canât even make form of. Jealous, though youâd sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are. In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Lifeâand Christ take yours now, youâre praying. Mattâs lucky enough he canât see the withering look youâre leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, âThatâs all fiction anyway.â
His head tilts fractionally.Â
âSorry?â
âItâs all fiction.â
âBeing good at oral is fiction?â
âYes.âÂ
âAs in, not real?â
âYes.âÂ
Where youâre going with this, you donât know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.
Thereâs a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful.Â
âSo in the entire span of human existenceâthrough all of timeâyouâre telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?â
âYes!â You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. âBecause Iâm horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Orâfeel, sorry. So as far as Iâm concerned, no, it has not existed.â
A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why canât you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!
âThatâs a terrible worldview,â Matt says at last.
âYouâre welcome to leave,â you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.
âMm. Fiction,â he drawls, mouthing the word again like heâs testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know youâve made a mistake: heâs got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.
âI donât know,â he muses, âit seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women youâre currently calling liars.â
You roll your eyes hard enough youâre sure you can see your brain.
âNo, Iâm serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agencyââ
âOh God.â
ââbut youâre also insinuating I wasâ What? Pity-praised?â Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. âYou think it was pity praise for the blind guy?â
âWhat?! No! I thinkââ You reel back, flailing, face hotter than itâs ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if thatâll help. âMatt, fuck you for real.â
Mattâs grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you canât bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.
âChrist. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.â
âYeah, you did,â Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. âI hope thatâs not from experience.â He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. âIs it?â
âI- Iâ Well.â You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.
So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage:Â
âWho I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.â
Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, youâd roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream werenât currently on fire.
âDuly noted,â he says coolly. âAnd who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.â
You blink. Fuck.
Heâs right. Youâre unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse thatâs technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that youâre the asshole for slut-shaming him when really youâre justâŚÂ
A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous�
âIâ umâ shitâŚâ you answer brilliantly. âUm⌠Shit⌠Okay-youâreright-Iâmsorry.â
But Matt doesnât have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You canât see much of his face like thisâonly his mouth twitching in a tight line.
Heâs⌠crying.Â
That made him cry?
No way. Youâve never seen him cry before.Â
No, no. Heâs wheezing.Â
From laughter.
âHa!â he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. âGot you!â
âOh fuck OFF, Matt!â you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. âI thought you were crying! Thatâs notâ!â
âYou walked into that one again.â
âThatâs not funny!â
.
Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though.Â
Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he werenât currently fighting for his goddamn life, heâd have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that⌠what even is it?Â
That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.
Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if heâs being generous.
An indulgent part of him wants to believe itâs jealousy.
But why would it be? Youâve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that youâd think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest.Â
The kind of person whoâd never waste time on someone who canât keep his dick in his pants.Â
Which is clearly how you see him.
So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good⌠For lack of a better expression, heâs not blind to the fact that youâre disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, heâs certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmationâsince anything deeper would be too much.Â
Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if heâs honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like heâs supposed to.Â
Still, itâs not so easy, especially not like this. Itâs not so easy now when heâs in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he canât even begin to dissect.Â
He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help himâjust from this stupid conversation, heâs already hard.Â
Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.
Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.
âFine,â he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. âI plead guilty. The rumors are true.â
Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what heâs risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. âThe nuns at the orphanage, theyâd say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.â Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, âIâm not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If thatâs what youâre thinking.â
The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak.Â
âItâs justâŚâ voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesnât even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows thatâs too much to hope for. âI havenât found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with theââhe waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumbleââthe words⌠in my head, and all.â
âWhat?â Your brow furrows. âWhat words?â
He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. âNothing.â
âWhat?!â Before you can even finish talking youâre laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you donât have his senses or youâd know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch.Â
âWhat words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?â
He huffs. âI think itâs called a conscience, sweetheart.â
Sweetheart.Â
For a secondâjust a secondâyour heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, itâd be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, itâs a useful gift, one thatâs gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girlsâ jeans that heâd expect. Only itâs not like that with you. Heâs long learned that youâre anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.
âDonât call me sweetheart.â
Just as heâd expected, itâs annoyance. Not interest.
Matt glances away, smile wavering. âAh. Sorry.â
But like itâs nothing youâre already chuckling and saying, more quietly, âAll that repression, Matt. Mâstarting to believe your rumors now.â
Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. Thereâs not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if itâs suddenly become fascinating. But for him, itâs less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in⌠Anticipation?
Erratic, like a caught moth, like youâve found something to say thatâs titillating, or inappropriate.Â
He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.
No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Donât.
Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.
âOkay,â you finally eke out, mouselike. âMy turn.â
Matt tilts his head.
âIâm a virgin too.â
Oh?
Thatâs not what he expected, and heâs not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when heâs attempting to buy himself time.
Of course, thereâs nothing wrong with your admission. Itâs not a big deal; it shouldnât even be one at all. Only, itâs sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet itâs for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else heâs spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it.Â
He canât afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.
âOkay,â Matt says gently. âThat makes two of us then.â
You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you.Â
âUgh. Actually, Iâm like half a virgin too or something. Arenât you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.â
âNo, not at all. Iâm deeply moved by your honesty, actually.â
âDick.â
He smiles.
You sigh, scratching at your temple. âI know thereâs more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that thatâs a thing. Like, I donât give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?â
Matt nods solemnly, though the smileâs still tugging at his mouth. âNo flaws in logic there.â
You swat at him again, but itâs lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.
âItâs not even about the sex,â you continue. âA lot of stuff makes me feel like itâs a lot more important than it actually isââ
âHey.â He cuts you off, soft and steady, âYou donât have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.â
You nod, shoulders relaxing. Youâd gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.
âThanks. Sorry.â You pause for a bit, thinking. âIâd just⌠Iâd like it to be with someone I like. Doesnât even have to be someone I loveâ I think Iâd actually prefer that, just so it isnât that big a deal. Just⌠not some random asshole.â
Right.
Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.
He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.
âMm,â he says, noncommittal. âYeah, I know.â
âJust do it onceâthen itâs over.â
âThen itâs over,â he agrees helpfully.Â
âStop repeating my sentences!â You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch heâs a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.
âRight,â Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back inâa futile effort, heâs unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his earsâand swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.
The issue, of course, is that heâs hard.Â
Hard and sweating and stuck.Â
If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. Heâd take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he wonât. He knows itâs just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now.Â
Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.
Youâre murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he canât hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then youâre leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your topâs brushing his arm. You donât realize how much heâs shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breathâs fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like heâs bracing for impact.
âYou okay?â you murmur.
He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. âJust trying to focus.â
âOh, sorry.â You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, âI can moveââ
âNo, no.â Mattâs hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. âStay. I like it when youâre close.â
Something in your chest flutters, and Mattâs more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.
Christ, Matt. This how you do it?
Heâs so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and heâs listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove itâs more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking.Â
But he canât take it anymore. He canât care anymore.
His thumb strokes your side.
âAlright,â Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, âIâm gonna kiss you, okay?â
You nod before your brain can even catch up.
ââŚOkay.â
For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowlyâalmost painfully so, like heâs giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heartâs ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.
And then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a soundâa little hum, surprised at yourselfâand thatâs all it takes for him to deepen it. Heâs clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.
Thereâs the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwiâno matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he canât help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back itâs only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of itâbefore you can even think about what youâve ruined, what youâve just begunâyouâre already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful.Â
Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as youâre shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and thenâ
It jerks, slipping sideways.
You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Mattâs faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.
âI got you,â he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that youâre straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure.Â
Itâs then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing itâs impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.
âShould weâŚâ you start, unsure what it is youâre even asking.
âYeah,â Matt says shakily, âBed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.â
You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you againâarms looping around you without effortâand then heâs standing, lifting you against him like itâs nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. Thereâs a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certaintyâexactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not toâdonât ruin this, donât rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment.Â
Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time itâs worlds away from the one beforeâitâs deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
âCan Iâ?â he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below.Â
Jesus.Â
But you donât get to ogle him as long as youâd likeâitâs your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Mattâs an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.
âGoodbye, Nick Cave,â you murmur solemnly.
Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roamâsliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. Youâre tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Mattâs hand covering yours to help.Â
Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Mattâs still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.
âIâm sorry,â he mutters into your mouth.
âFor what?â you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.
He hesitates. âI just⌠didnât know if you wanted to keep going.â
âAre you kidding?â you whisper. âI was about to ask you that.â
A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. âThis feels good,â he mumbles against your lips.
âYeah?â you breathe.
âYeah. Yeah.â His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. âFuckâsorryâcanâtââ
âLet me,â you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.
Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like heâs starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you canât steal enough of his warmth to be sated.Â
His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then heâs at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think youâre already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.
âWait. Waitââ
He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like heâd been caught mid-word. ââŚWhat?â
âI donâtââ The words knot in your mortified throat, and you canât find the nerve to look at him directly. âUmâI justââ
Itâs a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if youâre disappointing, what if youâre not worth it, if every rumor youâve pretended not to care about has been true after all and youâre nothing compared to themâ
âWhatâs this, then?â His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, âGonna keep pretending itâs fiction?â
You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. âShut up. Next time, okay?â
His brow quirks. ââNext time,ââ he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like itâs proof youâll never get away from him now.Â
âUgh, Mattâjust come hereââ Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like thisâlying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgottenâand youâre melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.
Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. Whatâs left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precomeâs already leaked through.
You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. âThis okay?â
His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. âYeah. Please.â
Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because heâs beautiful, Christ, heâs so hard, and heâs already twitching.Â
You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.
Itâs everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Mattâs hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.
âTheseâŚâ he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, âdescribe them to me.â
For a beat youâre not even sure you heard him right. âWhat?â you manage, though itâs hardly more than a whisper.
That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. âTell me what they look like.â
At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. Youâre not sure whether itâs that or simply the love-addled lens youâre viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because heâs waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely.Â
âTheyâre⌠white,â you begin, voice faltering as though youâre confessing something forbidden, âcotton. Lace at the sides.â
And because this is Matt, you canât seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.
Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. âMm. Fancy?â
âNot really.â
âThey expensive?âÂ
âWhat? Jesus. No, you perv.â
âGood.â His toneâs dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdictâ his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply.Â
RRRIPâ!
Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though theyâre paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until youâre bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum.Â
âCouldnât wait,â Matt pants, âSorry.â
âYouâre not sorry.â
âNo, Iâm not.â His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. âNot even a little.â
âYouâre gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.â
His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once moreâ âThis is okay, right? Youâre okay with this?â
âYeah. God, yes. Ohââ Yet despite thinking youâve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. âWait, Matt. Are we gonnaâ I mean, is thisâ?â
Christ, you donât even need to finish. He knows what youâre asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, itâs not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Mattâs will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that itâs you. Youâre the one offering, wanting, needing. Heâs the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop.Â
But how the fuck can he stop, when youâre whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?
The thought of whether this is the line heâll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt canât bring himself to say it out loud, canât let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.
He should stop.
âCâmon,â you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. âAs long as it doesnât go in, itâs okay. Right? For you?â
Mattâs breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you donât understand, and then heâs nodding, rendered helpless by the way youâve said it.
âJesus,â he mutters, breaking. âYeah. Okay. Yeah.â
Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like heâs about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts.Â
Youâre wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.
And Mattâs losing it.
Heâs not even inside you and already he feels like heâs going to break.
His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you heâs holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft itâs cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until youâre breathless, gasping, toes curling.
You donât realize youâre whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, âMine.â
His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.
And itâs true. Youâre his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him.Â
You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like heâs the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.
It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking goodâall of it, all of itâall building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: itâs not nearly enough.Â
âI want more,â you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, âWant you.â
âI know,â Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. âMe too. But we canât.â
As if a spoiled child, you whine, âWhy not?â high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.
Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because Iâm an asshole.
âPlease,â you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. âPlease, it wonât change anything. Weâre still friends, right? Right?â
And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.
The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.
The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds youâjust that sliver of him breaching you, and youâre undone.
Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor.Â
Matt doesnât move, shouldnât, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what youâre pleading for.
âFuckâmâsorry,â he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. Heâs shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. âSorry, sorry, I didnât mean toâI didnâtâYouâre just so wet, fuck, Iâm sorryââ
And if your hand causes you to sinâŚ
âItâs o-okayââ Youâre trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you.Â
Singular and decisive: you canât stop now.
âMatt,â you whisper, sordid with want, âwhat ifâwhat if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. Itâs not enough. It wonât even count.â
You sound like youâre begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.
Mattâs hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, âDonât tease.â
âIâm not,â you plead, âSâlong as⌠sâlong as itâs not fully in, it doesnât count, right?â
âFuckââ Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience.Â
He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.
Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.
But how can he refuse you?
âFuck. Okay. Are you sure?â
You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. âI need you to tell me youâre sure.â His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.
You do no such thing.Â
âFuck, Iâm sure,â your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if heâs the only thing keeping you alive. âI need you, Matt.â
Need you, Matt.
He squeezes his eyes shut. âFuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?â
You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief.Â
God can forgive him if itâs just the tip. It doesnât even count. Heâll be forgiven.Â
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your abilityâŚ
Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what heâs about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.
Then heâs pushing forward.
Just the tipâbarely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.
âMmffââ the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. âFuckâthatâs tight. You okay?â
You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.
âY-yeah,â you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, âit just⌠hurts. A little.â
Hurts.
Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.
If heâs looking for a sign, this is it. Heâs hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this neverâ
But your body wonât allow him to believe it. Not with the way youâre squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his wordâjust the tip. So he doesnât move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat thatâs clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.
The moment heâs lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadnât begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that youâve had it, thereâs no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.
As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.
Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal youâre drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldnât be doing this. He really shouldnât. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All heâd need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle youâre writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.
âUnfair,â you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.
âWhatâs unfair?âÂ
Jesus. Heâs so hoarse he canât even recognize his own voice.
âYou get toââ your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, ââget to jerk yourself off while Iâwhile I canât evenââ Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks youâre going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. âI canât even take it all.â
Christ.Â
Matt swallows.
This girl is gonna be the death of me.
âSânotââ he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess youâre making all over him. Youâre so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles.Â
âNo, noâ seeââ As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.
âSee?â he rasps, eyes wild. âSee? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.â
Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.
âFuckââ his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, âfuck, sweetheart, I canâtââ
The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.
âIâm not gonna move,â he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, âIâm not gonnaâfuckââÂ
But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.
The truth is, Matt doesnât know what the fuck heâs doing. A live wire embodied, heâs guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.
âShitâsorryâsorryââ he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like heâs being wound too tight, like heâd snap if he stopped.
âMattââ you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. âMore. Please. More.â
âI canât,â he says hoarsely, but he doesnât stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. âI shouldnât.â
But your bodyâs melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.
He shouldnât, but Christ, itâs you.
You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.
âFuckââ the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, âYouâreâChrist, youâre so good to me, my girlââÂ
Sweatâs beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeperâjust a fraction, just a millimeter more. Itâs not conscious, not yet, but his cockâs greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.
His mouth is everywhereâkissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until heâs slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.
You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.
âItâs alright,â Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. âItâs just a bit, just a little, itâs okay, right? Sâokay? Sorry, sorry, shitââ
Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.
And then suddenly, inevitably, heâs in all the way.
Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He canât breathe, canât think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.
Knowledge with self-control⌠self-control with steadfastness⌠steadfastness with godlinessâŚ
Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. Heâs not praying anymoreâheâs fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good.Â
âMatt,â you whimper, soft and urgent. âMove. Please.â
He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and thenâhesitantly, testingâhe slides his cock out.
Itâs too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.
âFuck, so tight,â he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.
He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.
And then he does it again.
And again.
And again.
Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch himâwatch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly heâs splitting you open.
âOh my God,â you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. âMatt.â
As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouthâand almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makesâthe wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around himânearly unspools him.
âFucking hell,â he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. âYouâre soâso fucking tight, sweetheart.â
Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you canât stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.
One moment heâs easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next heâs simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, heâs resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feralâs taken hold of him. Heâs sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesnât need finesse, and when someoneâs fucking you like thisâdriving into you hard, desperate, needyâthe result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like youâll die if he stops.
âFuckâfuckââ Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. Heâs greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skinâyour neck, your jaw, your shoulderâpressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.
The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. Thereâs no space left between you at all; heâs smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and youâre drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though heâs swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.
âMatt,â you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, âMatt, Matt, MattâŚâ with the same fervent rhythm heâd once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.
He canât get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he canât stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, âSo fucking tightâChrist, youâre so tightââ before his handâs sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.
Knowing you so well, thatâs all it takesâyour whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.
By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussyâs gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way youâre still trembling and panting his name like itâs salvationâ
He canât.
Heâs not thinking anymore. Just fucking.
And the bedâs tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and thereâs nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and heâs laughing nowâbreathless, manicâbetween thrusts.
âŚThat each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honorâŚÂ
It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenlyâbut instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that youâve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesnât stop to think, finding himself unable to.
âŚnot in the passion of lust.
Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?
Heâll be forgiven. Heâll be forgiven.
As long as he doesnât come inside you.Â
Thatâs the line. Thatâs the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good heâs dazed with it.
But he wasnât supposed to go this far, so whatâs a little farther?Â
He doesnât believe in halfway sins. If heâs going to hell, then heâll make it worth everything.
âIâll pull out,â Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. âIâll pull out, I swearâjust a little longer, justâfuckââ
But âa little longerâ turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like heâs being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, âMine.â
And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, âYours,â clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he canât take it, canât fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.
âOh fuckâfuckââ he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.
It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.
And all you can do is take itâtake every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until thereâs nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.
Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.
Afterwards, thereâs nothing but silence.
Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. Youâre trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what youâve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.
Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. Itâs not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely.Â
His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, donât drift away from me.
The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Mattâs hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where itâs fallen between you.
ââŚJesus Christ,â you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.
âYeah.â
Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. âThat was intense.â
The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and youâre aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: âYou okay?â
âYeah.â You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, heâs going to tell you he wishes it hadnât happened. â...I was about to ask you.â
Oblivious as you usually might be, you know youâre feeling each other out, testing the waters.Â
âYeah. Iâm okay,â he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, âbut youâre not⌠freaking out?â
âNo,â you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, âI liked it.â
âYeah. Me too.â
Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughterâhalf relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment youâre content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling.Â
Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. âDonât.â
âI shouldâI should get you cleaned up.â
âLater,â you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. âLet me have this, Matt.â
Thereâs no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be whatâs ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck.Â
A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. âWhat?â
âI think my brainâs finally coming back online,â you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.
âAw, tragic,â Matt drones, âYou were so agreeable when it was melted.â
You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.
âWe should probably get back to studying.â
âSpeak for yourself. Youâre the one who said you were behind.â
âYouâre the one who made me more behind!â
His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. âFive more minutes, then.â
You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.
For once, you donât care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.
The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet sheâs been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But heâd been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what heâd had planned all along.
âThey better not hook up,â she mutters idly.Â
âYou might as well just pay up now,â Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesnât even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. âI told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.â
Marci glares at him. âHow the hell do you even know?â
âIâve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,â Foggy says, matter-of-fact. âBesides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. Heâs toast.â
Thereâs a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.
âYou guys are so weird. And disgusting.â
âYes we are,â Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. âTo young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.â
Hi! Gosh Iâm so sorry I hope Iâm not late to this but I just found your profile today and thought this was the most fun thing ever.
⢠What is your ideal date setting?
My ideal date setting would be probably going out to an amusement park/ arcade and then top it off with going to a cafe afterwards.
⢠What is your favorite song?
My favorite songs differs a lot depending on the mood but right now itâs âBe Like A Womanâ by Chris Rainbow
⢠Which movie brings you comfort?
My comfort movie is 10 Things I Hate About You or any 90s/2000s rom com
⢠Which fandom would you want your date to be from? (Choose a # from the list below)
5 or 6 (the wizarding world or stranger things)
⢠What is your favorite snack/dessert?
My favorite dessert is cheesecake or cake
⢠Is there a specific gender you prefer to be paired with?
Male
I hope Iâm not too late to submit this but if I am the I totally understand! Thanks!
Thank you @d1lf-loverrr for your submission to be set up on a blind date.
Based on your responses, Cupid is pairing you with Eddie Munson!
Getting a summer job at the local arcade wasn't how your pictured spending your summer. However, you also didn't picture that you'd be shooting baskets at the hoop toss game with Eddie Munson. For someone who was the basketball team's biggest enemy, he really knew ball. That still didn't answer your question as to why he kept coming here every other day when he clearly wasn't the type of person to hang around in an arcade. Unless...
It wasn't until he asked you to join him for a slice of cake at the cafĂŠ after your shift that your suspicions were confirmed. As you ate a slice of cheesecake, and he enjoyed some devil's food cake, you realize that this summer hadn't been a bust after all. Sure chasing after middle schoolers at the arcade wasn't what you envisioned, but without that job you wouldn't have had the opportunity to spend time with Eddie. As he smiled and shared his favorite songs, you knew that this was simply meant to be.
Thank you for your submission! Eddie is such a fun character to write for, and I hope you liked this piece!
being in love with steve harrington, who can't see a life beyond nancy wheeler, is incredibly difficult
steve harrington x fem!reader (s2 era)
word count | 2.4k
be warned! | general sad themes, unrequited love...?, steve is an unintentional dick, angst, fluff, jonathan byers being a good friend, no nancy hate, upside down is canon, ambiguous-ish ending maybe for a part two, not proof-read!!
notes | I haven't written in literal ages (thanks, school!) so if this one sucks.. then I didn't post it! But I love Steve and I'm super excited to post for him. I've been a Stranger Things fan since 2016. Genuinely. Big moment for little me. Hope you enjoy!
If you would have thought that you'd be spending your Friday night curled in your sheets, tucked under your duvet, crying like a kid, you would've at least brought yourself a snack to comfort you. Maybe a water to calm your raw throat.
But this was an unexpected rush of emotions, brought on by none other than Steve Harrington himself.
The problem was, you didnât even have the dignity of being mad at him. Because Steve Harrington didnât try to hurt people. Well, maybe Jonathan Byers, or Billy Hargrove if he was being a dick, but never someone innocent. Never you.
He was a storm that only ever noticed the damage once everything was already wet and ruined and wrecked.
Your face was damp, your pillowcase stuck to your cheek. Your throat felt like youâd swallowed sand. Your hair was a mess, some pieces stuck in your tear-streaked face.
You stared at the ceiling long enough for the darkness to start moving in your peripheral, for the shadows to look like something crawling. Something stretching its arms across your bedroom walls like the Upside Down had figured out where you lived.
It didn't. Not tonight, at least.
Tonight, it was just the dull ache in your heart and the sound of Steve's voice rolling around in your brain.
Your eyes stung when you blinked. Your chest kept doing that stupid thing, that tight, breathless ache like your body couldnât decide if it wanted to sob or vomit.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your mouth to keep quiet. To contain the sobs that tried to escape past your lips and echo off your walls. To try and contain your own feelings, just for one more minute.
The worst part about what Steve had said wasn't that he said it. No, Steve didn't really think before he spoke. It was how easy it was for him to say, how naturally it came.
Youâd been talking about nothing. Literally nothing. The kind of conversation you had when you wanted the time to pass a little quicker. The kind of conversation most people would run from. Just small talk.
Youâd said something about how boring Hawkins felt lately.
Steve had scoffed, soft and fond, like youâd just said the funniest thing in the world.
"Yeah," heâd said, smile tugging at his mouth, eyes drifting somewhere far away. "I donât know. It wasnât always like this."
Your stomach had fluttered, stupidly hopeful. "What changed?"
Heâd shrugged. And then, like it was a confession heâd been carrying in his mouth all day:
"Nancy."
Just her name. Nothing else. Like that was the beginning and the end of it. Your smile had stayed on your face out of pure muscle memory.
"Oh," youâd said, trying to conceal whatever disappointment you felt. Like it didn't feel like swallowing a piece of glass.
Steve had laughed a little, like he hadnât even noticed the shift in your voice. "I mean--not, like, now, you know," heâd added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just.. I donât know. It was.. different. When it was her."
Nancy Wheeler was perfect.
You couldn't even deny it. She was a perfect student, a great daughter, insanely pretty, incredibly and obnoxiously loyal, strong and resilient. Nancy Wheeler might've been proof God had favorites.
Stomach riddled with knots, you nodded anyways. Because you were good at being the person people talked to when they couldnât have what they wanted.
Steve Harrington liked Nancy Wheeler like she was the air he breathed.
A creek from your window caught your attention suddenly, the sound unusual for a window that stayed closed unless it was summer. You froze for half a second, heart jumping like youâd been caught doing something illegal.
The window opened, and to your surprise, Jonathan Byers poked his head in.
"Hey," Jonathanâs voice came through, careful. "You awake?"
"No," you replied, wiping your tears away with your pillowcase before Jonathan could spot them.
His reply came quick. "Can I come in anyways?"
You didnât answer. Didnât need to. The door pushed open a little more and Jonathan stepped in like he didnât want to startle you. He didnât turn on the light. He didnât do that overly bright whatâs wrong? voice that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.
"You left school early," Jonathan noted. Because of course he noticed. Jonathan was too observant for his own damn good. "You feeling okay?"
You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might give you an answer if you stared long enough.
"Yeah," you lied again, because lying was easier than saying Steve Harrington broke me in half and didnât even notice that he did anything wrong.
Jonathan didnât move for a moment. You could feel him standing there in the dark, the weight of his attention steady and quiet.
"Okay," he said finally.
The word didnât sound like he believed you. It sounded like he was letting you have the lie without punishing you for it. You heard the soft shift of him sitting on the edge of your bed. The mattress dipped slightly from the weight of him sitting.
"Iâm not here to interrogate you," Jonathan added, voice low. "I just⌠wanted to check on you." You blinked rapidly, trying to force the sting away. "Steve was worried when you didn't show up in last period."
Even the sound of someone saying his name made you feel like you were going to faint. "I bet."
The tone in your voice was enough to tell Jonathan something had happened with Steve to make you leave. He just knew you that well, the way someone knew another person when they've grown up together.
"What'd he do?" Jonathan's voice held a hint of something angrier than worry. In some ways, Jonathan wasn't fully trusting of Steve still.
Which, yeah. Fair.
"He was talking about.. her," you said, and even the word tasted bitter. "Nancy."
Jonathan didnât flinch. He didnât defend her. He didnât insult her. He didnât turn it into some dumb rivalry just because he got the girl in the end. He just listened.
You let out a small, shaky breath. "He said her name like.." you struggled, blinking away tears that refused to stop. "Like it was the only one that mattered."
Jonathan didn't push you to go on. He waited, shifted a little, but stayed patient, eyes trained on your face like he was watching your every miniscule movement.
You turned your head slightly, staring into the darkness until you could barely make out Jonathanâs outline.
"I think Iâm in love with him," you whispered, the words stinging your tongue.
"Yeah," Jonathan said gently. "I figured."
Your eyes snapped open, horrified. "You--you knew?"
Jonathan made a small sound that mightâve been a shrug. "Youâre not that subtle."
"I thought I was subtle," you croaked, mortified.
"No," Jonathan said, almost fond. "Youâre.. obvious. In a way thatâs kind of painful to watch."
You let out a broken laugh that immediately dissolved into a sob. "Oh my God. Does-Does Steve.."
Shaking his head, Jonathan replied with a chuckle, "No. I don't think he has a clue."
"I hate it," you said, voice shaking harder now. "Because heâs--heâs nice to me. Heâs sweet, and he makes me laugh, and he looks at me like I matter sometimes, and then he talks about Nancy like sheâs the whole world and I feel like--"
"You're the second option when she's not around."
You blinked, staring at Jonathan with wide eyes. He'd just read your mind perfectly. It was a little bit jarring.
"Yeah," you softly said, "like I'm his backup when Nancy's not around."
"Steveâs a.. good guy," he said, and the way he said it wasnât worshipful. It was careful. Honest, even if he hated that it was. "But heâs not careful with people. Not always. Not in the way you are."
Your kindness transcended life itself. The way you cared for everything and everyone, even if it was stupid Tommy Hagan or one of the kids. The way you thought about each word carefully before you spoke. The way you held yourself softly and gently.
"What do I do?" Jonathan turned to you like he didn't quite expect those words.
He thought for a moment, taking a slow, deep breath in. "Give yourself time. Give yourself space. You're more than whatever Steve makes of you. And he's just a stupid boy." You laughed at that, sniffling at the end. "Let yourself feel what you're feeling. Then pick yourself back up and be better. Not for him, for you."
"When'd you get so wise?"
"Probably when I learned there's a whole world under our own." He paused. "Listening to Nancy rant will also do that, too."
"Thank you," you whispered. "You're a good friend."
Jonathanâs eyes softened in the dark, like your words hit him somewhere he didnât talk about.
He didnât smile the way Steve smiled; big and easy and careless. Jonathan smiled like it was a privilege.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Well.. Iâm trying."
Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasnât grief that flooded you. It was gratitude. The kind that made you feel a little pathetic, because it shouldnât have been this rare to be treated gently.
Jonathan stood up slowly, like he didnât want to jostle the air. He hovered for a second, awkward in that way he always was when things got too tender. "Just get some sleep, okay? Nancy said she wants you to come over tomorrow to make sure youâre feeling better."
"Tell her Iâll use the door like a normal person," you teased, feeling a bit lighter. Jonathan chuckled, still deciding to exit out your window.
It shut behind him, and the room was quiet again. But it didnât feel as empty.
Saturday morning came like a punishment.
You woke up with your throat still raw, your eyes swollen, and your stomach hollow like youâd been starved for years. The house felt too normal and bright. It made you want to scream.
You managed to wash your face and brush your teeth without looking too closely at yourself in the mirror, because the girl staring back just didnât quite feel like your normal self.
Downstairs, you barely tasted breakfast. You barely heard your parents talking. You just moved like a shadow, pulling on your shoes, grabbing your jacket, stepping outside into the cold.
The air was sharp enough to wake you up fully.
Unfortunately.
Hawkins didnât give you the luxury of staying in bed forever. Neither did the Wheelerâsâ front porch, where you found yourself standing, trying to use your jacket to shield you from the nip in the air.
You lifted your hand to knock, but the door opened before you even could.
Nancy Wheeler stood there in a sweater and jeans, hair pulled back, eyes alert like sheâd been waiting for something terrible to happen. When she saw you, her gaze flicked over your face with that same sharp observation Jonathan had.
Something in her expression softened.
"Hey, Iâm glad you felt up to come by," she smiled softly. "Come on in."
You hesitated for half a second, then walked in slowly, wiping your palms against your jeans like you could scrub the nerves away.
Then you saw him. Steve Harrington. The one person your heart yearned for, yet broke for. It was awfully poetic. It was also really, really bad timing.
He looked up when you walked in. And his face--his stupid face--lit up with relief? Or maybe a touch of warmth?
"Hey," Steve said, voice bright. "There you are."
Your chest tightened so suddenly it almost stole your breath.
There you are. Like you belonged to him. Like you were something he could count on.
Your mouth went dry. Nancyâs eyes flicked to Steve for a fraction of a second. Then back to you. It was no secret Jonathan had shared your words from last night with her. It was also obvious he did not tell Steve.
Steve took a few steps closer, brows drawing together in a look of confusion.
"Are you okay?" he asked, quieter now. "You werenât at school yesterday. Jonathan said you--"
Your stomach sank at your name on Jonathanâs tongue, like it had passed through other mouths and become something public. You knew he wouldn't do that, but it still made you anxious. "Iâm fine," you said automatically, then stopped yourself.
No. Jonathan told you not to do that.
You swallowed, forcing the truth out in a more real way. "I wasnât feeling good," you said. "Thatâs all."
Steveâs face shifted, concern deepening. "Okay," he said. "Well.. Iâm glad youâre here now."
The words shouldnât have hurt. They did anyway. Because being glad you were here didnât mean he wanted you. It just meant he liked having you near. And that was the problem. You didnât want to just be near, you wanted to be everywhere he was. To invade his space like a parasite that he would welcome.
Nancy cleared her throat, stepping forward slightly like she was giving you an exit. "We were just going over everything again," she said. "Making sure weâre ready if.. anything happens."
Her voice didnât tremble when she said it. But her eyes flicked to the windows, to the shadows beyond them. And you remembered, suddenly, that your heartbreak didnât exist in a bubble.
There was an entire other world beneath yours. A place that didnât care about Steve Harringtonâs feelings. Or yours.
Jonathan appeared in the hallway, hair still messy, expression unreadable until his eyes landed on you. Then, subtly, he softened. Like he was proud you came anyway.
"You okay?" he asked again, but this time it wasnât about Steve.
You nodded once, barely. "Yeah," you whispered. "Iâm okay."
Jonathan held your gaze for a beat, like he was reminding you: Give yourself time. Give yourself space. Be better--for you.
Steve shifted beside you, glancing between you and Jonathan like he could feel the tension but didnât know why. Then he did the thing that made your heart do something awful. He smiled. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping like it was a secret meant only for you.
"Hey," Steve murmured, almost shy. "Did I do something?"
Your breath caught. You just stood there, frozen, because the truth was a loaded gun in your throat. Because the answer was yes.
Yes, Steve.
You did.
But you didnât do it on purpose. That almost made it worse.
You swallowed hard, forcing your face to stay neutral. "No," you said softly. "Just.. really donât feel the best still."
Steveâs shoulders eased immediately, relief washing over him so fast it was insulting.
"Okay," he breathed out, smiling again like youâd just saved him from something. "Cool. Cool."
You hated yourself a little, because part of you was still happy to be the one who made him feel better.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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a steve harrington x fem!hopper!reader stranger things rewrite - season 1 - 5
synopsis: y/n hopper has had a rough life, the loss of her sister, a dead beat mother and now an alcoholic father. when william byers goes missing and her and the kids she babysits start to uncover things her life finds meaning; friends, love and family.
warnings!: slow burner, enemies to lovers, exâs to lovers, grief, death, violence, gore, smut, near death experiences, alcohol, smoking, reader is hopperâs daughter but there is no mention of being biologically related so she could be adopted, suicidal thoughts⌠more to be added.
particular warnings will be at the start of each chapter!
authors note: i hope you all enjoy this, ive planned a lot of it and am very excited! this is a slow burner, so youâll have to wait awhile for anything real to happen but i think itâll be worth the wait :)
if you want to be added to the tag list please comment on the most recently posted chapter, it just makes it easier for me to find!
Fools: Steve would be a Republican! Steve would be a patriot!
Me, someone with a working brain: Steve would be fucking disgusted by the bigotry, hatred, warmongering and cruelty that modern day America is full of
Steve became Captain America to fight against antisemites, homophobes, racists, misogynists and warmongering fascists...he would view America's government and those who support it as EVERYTHING he utterly loathes
being able to play songs in your head is cool and all but not really if you can't control what and when it plays so this is a visualization of me trying to concentrate while angel of music plays in my head
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Pairing: Clark Kent (Superman 2025) x cashier!reader
Synopsis: Youâre a recent college grad that just moved in with your best friend Jimmy Olsen and found a job as a cashier running a late night corner store in Metropolis. When a tall, blue eyed stranger stumbles in at 3 am and threatens to turn your life around, the lines blur between you and you find yourself wanting more.
cw: meet-cute-ish, being down bad, cocky-ish! clark, sexual tension, horrible flirting, overthinking, roommates with Jimmy, reference to sexual content? (eventually will have smut but we're not there yet), cigarettes are cool, is this a situationship who's to say, no proofreading for this sorry
---
You donât know how it starts. Seriously. You had only just started working at this cafe? Bodega? You werenât sure what to call it. Under EMPLOYEES WANTED, it was marketed as, âa cross between a coffeeshop, gas station, and a barâ, but you found it had none of the perks and more of the hassle. I mean you guys didnât even sell gas or good coffee. All you knew is that you were Metropolisâ one stop shop for late night ice cream, or cheap wine, or booze when they were fresh out of a breakup or, hell, even a minion themed band-aid if they scraped their knee. Whatever, they wanted, you definitely had, probably on some obscure high shelf, or tucked away under the cash register (like your cigarettes when the nights dragged wayyy too long, which was often).Â
Not that you were complaining. You had volunteered for the late shifts â although it was more of an assignment â but from what you had experienced so far, usually there werenât too many late night visitors. You werenât exactly the expert on most things in Metropolis, as you had just moved in with your friend Jimmy to get away from living with your parents postgrad, so you didnât really have an idea of the clientele in this part of the city. All you knew was count the change fast, make sales even faster, and lock up the store in the morning. Cool. No questions asked.Â
Until, you were sitting behind the register, playing The Mighty Crabjoys in your earbuds and singing at the top of your lungs at approximately 3:36 in the morning, picking at the gum stuck to the sole of your shoe with the pen you used to write receipts, when you glanced up for a second just to see a giant man slouching in front of you, smiling, but scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.Â
âJESUS CHRISTâ you yelled startled and at full volume, almost falling out of your chair, and knocking off the origami crane army you had made from gum wrappers, âYou scared the shit out of me!â.
Pulling your earbuds out quickly, you manage an embarrassed smile, cheeks flushed, and try to apologize at the very second the stranger tried to speak.Â
âSorry?â, you tried again, grabbing your phone and turning down the volume still blasting from your discarded earbuds, as you glanced up to his eyes for the first time.Â
God. The second you glanced up it felt like being shocked by a million electric eels. His eyes were startlingly blue and lit up, and his face was clearly amused. He was extremely good-looking, with dark curls falling in his eyes, and dimples peeking out, and a snug t-shirt. He had glasses that were large and slipping down his nose and he pushed them up nervously as you gaped at him.Â
âOh. I just said I love that songâ, he nodded, setting his items down on the counter in front of you.Â
You were at a loss for words. You glanced across the items he put down, cataloging them and trying to remember how much they all cost. A million thoughts ran through your mind. I like your face, you thought. You come here often? Why are you awake at this hour? What are you doing right now? What are you doing after this? Do you have a girlfriend?
Instead, you settled on something equally clever that sounded like, âiâm-uhhhh-really???â.
He cleared his throat, âuh yeah. Theyâre my favorite band, you know. Just super punk rock". He shuffled in place, gesturing to the counter, âhow much will this cost, by the way?â
You shook your head slightly like an Etch-a-Sketch, trying to rustle your thoughts back into place and get some normality in your body. Jesus. Youâre acting like a teenager. To be fair, you hadnât had much luck with guys recently. You were still getting to know the ins and outs of the Metropolis bar scene, and you were trying your best out there, but as of this moment you had spent most of your time wing-womaning for Jimmy. And you hadnât met that many guys that you thought were attractive. None had beautiful eyes, and dimples, and curly hair that was begging to be touched.
Speaking of dimples, the man cleared his throat again, jarring you back to attention. Ok, think, you told yourself. You glanced over his items, a box of bandages, an icy-hot patch, a tide stain remover pen, and a gatorade. Seriously?Â
âUh thatâll be $10.35â you said, your voice squeaking, as you grabbed a bag and began placing the items inside, just to give your hands and eyes something to do. You were pretty sure if you made eye contact again, you would probably combust. Or something.Â
At the same time, in your periphery, you watched as he reached his arm, to his back pocket, to pull out his wallet.Â
âGot some insane injuries or something?â you tried, pathetically.Â
He chuckled, âyeah something like thatâ, as he continued glancing down to count the change in his palm. You followed his gaze down to look at his gigantic hands. Goddamn. You were ogling this guy like a monster.Â
âYou know we also have superman themed band-aids if youâre interested in that sort of thingâ, you blurted out. âJust got them in this week and theyâre on saleâ.
Mentally, you cursed yourself. Wow. Really cool conversation right here. Number one, at flirting in the entire world. Casually, the most handsome man youâve ever seen in your entire life, and youâre bringing up Superman band-aids.Â
He reached out to hand you the cash, and his fingers brushed your palm. âHaha, I think Iâll have to get those next timeâ. You stared dumbly at the cash and pushed the paper bag towards him with your other hand.Â
âUh do you want a receipt?â you asked quickly, glancing up. He surveyed your face and you swore he looked at your lips. Or maybe, that was you hopeful thinking. Hopeful praying, more like.Â
âNah, I think Iâll manageâ, he responded. âHave a good nightâ he called back as he began walking to the door. You watched his broad shoulders move away from you gradually. As he pulled the door open, he hesitated for a moment, and then turned back.Â
âI liked your singingâ, he said, and then stepped into the night, bag swinging in his arm as he disappeared around the corner and out of your sight.Â
â
A few days had passed since that late night and you were still â embarrassingly so â thinking about it. You hadnât even told Jimmy because 1) he worked during the day when you slept so you hadnât run into him yet and 2) you couldnât bring yourself to bring it up. What was there really to say? Hey Jimmy, I saw the hottest man in my entire life and I forgot how to speak and talk and he also likes my music taste and singing. There wasnât too much to mention.Â
So instead, you find yourself back behind the counter and itâs late at night again, lacing a cigarette between your fingers, and trying not to think about him. But you are. Youâre rehearsing and trying to think of clever things to say. This wasnât you. Usually, you were pretty nonchalant around guys. At least that was what you are trying to convince yourself.Â
During this mental war waging in your brain, the door jangled, knocking you out of your stupor and forcing you to look up. It was him. All 6â4 of him, loitering in the aisle, and scanning the shelves, and probably feeling your gaze burning into the side of his neck. You force yourself to look down and blink, seeing his perfectly curled hair behind your eyelids. Great. You try to focus on your cigarette and stop your hands from shaking.Â
Eventually, he comes to stand in front of the counter, dropping his items down and offering a muted greeting.Â
Youâre mentally calculating the total of the 3 oranges, bundle of bananas, and microwavable meal, when he interrupts your train of thought,
âYou know those things are bad for your lungsâ, he said, nodding towards your cigarette.Â
You scoff. âThis is probably worse for your bodyâ, you say, holding up the microwavable meal and waving it in front of him. âDonât you know how to cook?â, you joke.Â
He scoffs in return. âI do actually. It just happens to be 3:48 in the morning and I was working late and I didnât quite feel like Paul Hollywood.âÂ
You nod solemnly. âFew get that privilege. One could only wish to achieve his masterful baking. Your total is $9.64.â
He hands you the money. âNo singing tonight?âÂ
The tips of your ears go pink. You manage a laugh. âYouâll have to pay extra for that from now on, Iâm afraid. Iâm unfortunately not in the habit of singing for strangersâ.Â
âWell, Iâm Clark, Clark Kent. So now weâre not strangers. And how much extra?â, he inquires. âLike $3-4 more or?â he says trailing off.
You act mock hurt. âMy singing is only worth $3 to you? Iâm hurt honestly.â
He laughs at that and meets your eyes. âOk, fine. Iâd pay $20. But youâd have to throw in the Superman band-aids as wellâ
That gets a real laugh out of you. âYou drive a hard bargain. Iâll have to think about it.â
He nods at this. Then, flicking his eyes down to the cigarette in your hand, he says quietly and drawn out, âYou know, Iâve never smoked before.â His eyes are unreadable as they lock onto yours.Â
You feel like you canât breathe. You hold the cigarette out towards him, trying to still your arm and act casual. âDo you want to try?â. You donât know whatâs come over you.Â
Without responding or breaking eye contact, he reaches out and his warm hand envelops your wrist. His hands are massive and easily cover the skin there. Your pulse jumps and youâre certain he can feel it. Slowly, he leans down and puts the cigarette between his lips. He closes his eyes and slowly breathes in. You feel like all the air is sucked from your chest. Like youâre in a vacuum. Your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest and you feel the blood rushing in your ears. He opens his eyes slowly and breathes out, releasing his hold on your wrist.
âHuhâ you stumble out, watching him.Â
âWhat?â he asks, looking self-conscious now, and shyer. Is he blushing? Heâs still leaning down close to you.Â
You put the cigarette to your own lips, breathing in, and lean across the counter on your tip toes. Instinctively, his hand cups the side of your face. With your lips barely brushing his, you breathe the smoke into his mouth and then barely lean back, so you can search his face for a reaction.Â
His eyes seem impossible dark as he takes in the smoke. You can barely see the blue in his eyes as his pupils are dilated. His hand still holds your face, his thumb brushing your temple. Your stomach flips. You bite your lip and try to think of something to say, but youâre speechless. He breathes out.Â
At that moment, someone steps into the shop and the door jingles. Clark jerks back and grips the bag of items. He clears his throat and nods at you, backing away slowly as if he just realized what heâs been doing.Â
âIt was great to see you again,â he says, his voice low. Had it always been that low? Youâre not sure. It feels like it rumbles through your chest.Â
You nod in response but your mind is spinning. âHave a good night, Clarkâ you manage to say, as he steps into the night.Â
â
It begins your routine. He comes in on random late nights, looking extremely tired and winded like he just worked out for 5 hours. And he buys random items. He flirts with you over the counter. And you act like you donât like his flirting. Which you do like it. A lot. Obviously.Â
And you learn about him. You learn he really likes eating frozen dumplings. You learn he drinks lots of coffee. You learn he works as a reporter and he loves to write and he does lots of it. You learn he likes baking pies and sweets. On the rare occasion you have other customers and he swings by, heâll leave cookies and a post-it note. You learn heâs a farmer midwestern boy from Smallville and he was on the debate team. Heâs always debating with you about something.Â
And he learns about you too. He finds out you scribble doodles across any paper you can find and get ink stained fingers. He finds out that you wear a certain hat when your hair gets greasy. He learns that you like when your nail polish gets chipped and you twist your rings around your fingers when you get nervous. He finds out you listen to too much Radiohead and you love blowing bubbles when you chew gum and you like singing but you hate karaoke.Â
And you donât tell Jimmy. Even when he bothers you about it when you go out. Like last Saturday night, when you found yourself wedged between Jimmy and his friend Lois Lane. Apparently, there was another friend from work but he couldnât make it. Jimmy was disappointed. âHeâs perfect for youâ, he insisted. âIâll set up the blind dateâ. But you refused. But how could you explain it? I have a crush on this guy who comes and buys way too many random groceries at 3 am and who I have weird sexual chemistry with. It was crazy when you thought about it. And if you tried to explain it? No way.Â
You keep Clark to yourself. Sometimes he stays at the counter for so long, bantering with you, or sharing your cigarettes (if you share it then you both get less of a chance of lung cancer). Heâs caring like that.Â
Like last night when he stepped in and you couldnât help but tease him.
âSeriously, Kent?â you tease, âYouâre a reporter, arenât you supposed to be getting your beauty sleep right now? Donât you want to look your best when youâre interviewing Superman tomorrow?â.
He pretends to look annoyed, but you can see the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eye roll is totally unconvincing. He has too much caring behind his eyes to mask.Â
âI actually thought Iâd work some overtime and do some secret investigating on local cornershops. What do you think of the headline, âLocal girl terrorizes handsome man for wanting a late night box of cerealâ?â
âHmmm. Needs some workâ, you reply, âAnd handsome is really generous. Maybe you try Midwestern corn muncher harasses hardworking middle class individual. Seems more accurateâ.Â
At this, he puts both his hands on the counter and leans down to look at you. The flannel heâs wearing is rolled up to his biceps and the top two buttons are undone giving you the slightest look at his toned chest. You can smell his cologne from this close. And his toothpaste. And maybe his mouthwash. And his glasses are slightly askew.
He keeps looking at you and youâre looking at him and trying not to stare at his big dumb pouty lips. You feel your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.Â
You want to kiss him so bad. You donât think you can stop yourself. But, just as you lean in slightly enough to break the space between you, he smirks.Â
âI thought you said I wasnât handsomeâ, he murmurs.Â
That damn counter is your prison. The physical manifestation of the line between you and Clark, as you keep flirting but never crossing into anything real. You think youâre doomed to probably die behind this desk, thinking about Clark Kent.Â
So naturally, you pretend like the routine is fine, that youâre okay with seeing Clark Kent, maybe once a week, twice if youâre lucky and swallow the idea that he could want more with you. You pretend like you donât think of him, especially when you get home from work and Jimmy is already asleep and youâre slipping your fingers beneath the waistline of your shorts. And you pretend itâs not his name on your lips when you get off and youâre not picturing his smirk or his dimples or his biceps. Youâre good at pretending. Right?
â
Until one night, when it isnât Clark that stumbles into the shop, itâs Superman.Â
âYou alright there, Smallville?â you joke, barely glancing up until the man doesnât respond.Â
Looking up, you realize itâs not Clark. How could you think it was him? Hunching over and holding his abdomen is Superman, covered in his blue and red, and complete with the cape billowing behind him from the gust of wind that slams the door shut and ushers him in.Â
Superman, who you only know from seeing on the news on your TV or from the Daily Planet newspapers that Jimmy leaves on your dining room table that you glance at in passing, is here in this shop. Youâre used to seeing him as this symbol of strength and hope, either caught mid-flight or propping up a building. But now, he seems too real. Rather than the Man of Steel, Kryptonâs mightiest hero, heâs here in the flesh, entering your shop just like any other customer, looking for something after a long night.Â
He stumbles now, barely able to stand, hairs sweatily smashed against his forehead.Â
âOh my god? Superman? Are you okay?â, you say, abandoning your usual position behind the counter and rushing towards him to catch his body before he slumps to the floor.Â
He doesnât respond, his eyes barely open and his mouth barely pushes out a groan. Youâre in shock. You scan the shelves just above his head for the bandages. Your apartment is just a few blocks from here, so you could definitely nurse him back to health there. And Jimmy was probably asleep â not that he would mind. Heâd probably be overjoyed at the thought of having Superman in his apartment. The only problem is making it there.Â
You hastily grab as many healthcare items you can off the shelves and pack a bag. Leaning down to Superman you drape his arm around your shoulder and attempt to lift him. Jesus.Â
âYouâre gonna have to help me hereâ, you whisper, scanning his face.Â
He manages to hear this and stands with intense effort. Heâs leaning a good amount of his weight on you and youâre trying your best not to teeter over.
Ok this is Superman and I can do this, you mutter under your breath and move towards the door. Once you step into the street and manage to lock the door of the shop behind you, after fumbling with your keys from the adrenaline, you begin the walk to your apartment with the bag clenched in your hand and Superman in tow.Â
---
This is Part 1 of some garbage I wanted to write. Also! This is my first time writing something so sorry if it sucks.
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