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the catastrophe of tomorrow morning đč aerion targaryen
aerion offers improved behavior and basic human decency in exchange for you canceling your family visit. there are many things he can endure. spending four days away from you is apparently not one of them.
the hour is far too late for this sort of catastrophe.
the castle has long since quieted into the stillness of night, servants retired to their quarters, torches dimmed low along the corridors beyond your chambers. a fire crackles softly nearby, warm enough that the heavy curtains have been drawn back to let the cooler night air drift through the windows.
you sit comfortably atop the bed surrounded by neatly folded garments, carefully arranging what you intend to bring for the short visit ahead while aerion lingers nearby removing rings from his fingers with the weary slowness of a man finally settling after a long day.
he is only half paying attention to you, stretched carelessly across the cushioned chair near the hearth, until you speak in that calm, absentminded tone that changes everything.
"i shall leave after breakfast," you say simply, smoothing a crease from one of your dresses before setting it aside. "i should arrive by nightfall if the roads remain clear."
your voice is so casual, so entirely unconcerned, that for a moment the words do not even seem to register properly with him. then the sound of metal abruptly striking wood echoes through the room as one of his rings slips from suddenly still fingers.
the silence that follows is immediate and unnatural, so heavy that you finally glance up from your packing. aerion is staring at you in complete disbelief.
"you shall what?" he asks carefully, every word measured with the quiet horror of a man being informed of an approaching execution rather than a routine family visit.
his expression remains perfectly still, though only in the dangerous way storms pause before breaking apart the sky. even seated, there is something sharp about the way his shoulders straighten, violet eyes fixed entirely upon you.
you blink once at him, mildly startled by the intensity of the reaction already forming. "to visit my family," you repeat carefully, beginning to suspect you may have made a terrible mistake in timing. "only for a few days."
the words worsen everything.
"a few days," aerion echoes faintly, rising from the chair as though sitting has suddenly become impossible. he repeats it again under his breath like someone attempting to comprehend profound suffering.
"and you neglected to inform me of this before tonight?" there is genuine betrayal in his voice, affront written plainly across every sharp line of his face. one would think you had secretly arranged your own disappearance from the realm itself rather than planned a short visit.
he looks at you as though trust itself has been shattered within these chambers. you stare at him for a long moment, entirely unimpressed by the dramatics already unfolding before you.
"aerionâ"
"no," he interrupts immediately, lifting one hand with startling urgency as he begins pacing before the bed. "do not attempt to soften the matter now."
the silver of his hair catches the firelight as he moves, every bit the distressed prince from some overly dramatic tale sung by traveling musicians.
"tomorrow?" he repeats incredulously, turning toward you again with fresh disbelief. "tomorrow?" his hand drags down his face slowly, physically burdened by this revelation.
"you intended to vanish from this castle and only informed me mere hours beforehand. had i not wandered into these chambers tonight, would i have discovered your disappearance through rumor?"
your mouth falls open slightly at the sheer absurdity of it. you remain seated exactly where you are, one dress still half folded in your lap while your husband behaves as though civilization itself is collapsing around him.
the fire continues crackling peacefully nearby in direct contrast to the emotional devastation aerion has apparently chosen to endure.
"i was going to tell you after supper," you reply flatly, watching him pace the room who's searching desperately for reason within chaos.
he stops immediately upon hearing this, offended in entirely new ways. the look he gives you suggests this explanation has somehow deepened the betrayal rather than softened it.
"you should have told me weeks ago."
"it is four days."
"four endless, miserable days."
the sincerity with which he says it nearly destroys your composure entirely. you press your lips together hard in a desperate attempt to maintain seriousness while aerion resumes pacing the room with mounting distress.
there is something deeply entertaining about watching a man feared by the realm unravel over temporary separation.
"and what exactly am i expected to do while you are gone?" he demands suddenly, stopping at the foot of the bed to stare at you accusingly. "speak to people? attend meetings alone? endure the mornings without you there to torment me?" he says it as though these are unimaginable cruelties inflicted upon him personally by the gods themselves. "this castle will become unbearable."
you slowly set aside the garment in your hands. the mattress dips softly beneath your shifting weight as you turn fully toward him, equal parts exasperated and amused.
"you are acting exactly why i did not tell you sooner," you inform him carefully, laughter threatening beneath the words. aerion immediately looks scandalized by the accusation.
"that is nonsense," he says at once, deeply offended by the suggestion.
you gesture vaguely toward the sight of him pacing your shared chambers in emotional ruin. "you are currently behaving as though i announced my permanent exile."
aerion points at you immediately. "because you blindsided me."
the sheer conviction in his voice nearly makes you laugh outright. then, without warning, something changes in his expression. you watch realization strike him in real time. he almost looks like a commander suddenly forming strategy during a battle. the distress remains, certainly, but now determination settles beneath it as well. aerion straightens slightly before narrowing his eyes at you with terrifying seriousness.
"my loveâ"
"what if i buy you everything? or everyone? anyone?"
the abruptness of it catches you so entirely off guard that you simply stare at him for several seconds in silence. somewhere beyond the windows, the wind stirs softly against stone.
"no, listen carefully," he crosses back toward the bed before lowering himself onto one knee beside it. "jewels. dresses. that necklace you stared at three moons ago and claimed you did not want despite clearly wanting it."
he speaks quickly, fearing you may reject negotiations before hearing the full offer. "i can also become significantly kinder to everyone within this castle." his voice lowers slightly with grave sincerity. "i shall stop threatening the maesters."
"that should not be considered a generous offer."
"i can do more," he insists immediately, leaning closer with the urgency of a desperate negotiator. "i shall tolerate musicians during supper. i shall smile at lords i dislike. i will even permit that dreadful cousin of yours to speak uninterrupted."
he pauses briefly, visibly pained by the enormity of his own sacrifice. "for at least several minutes."
your shoulders begin shaking with restrained laughter. the image alone is enough to undo you completely. your husband nobly suffering through conversation for your sake.
"aerion," you manage through growing amusement, "i am not canceling my visit because you offered basic decency."
his expression falls immediately afterward, so genuinely wounded that it only worsens your laughter. "then my efforts mean nothing to you," he says quietly, sounding devastated beyond reason.
you cover your mouth briefly, trying and failing to compose yourself.
"i can be... sweeter," he presses on desperately, climbing onto the bed beside you hoping proximity itself may strengthen his argument. "or more agreeable. i shall compliment people voluntarily."
he visibly grimaces at the mere thought.
"i shall personally ensure fresh lemon cakes await you every morning for an entire moon."
you finally break fully into laughter then, filling the chambers entirely while aerion watches you with resignation.
"name your price," he says solemnly, taking your hand into both of his with absurd seriousness. "i am prepared to negotiate."
you shake your head slowly, still laughing.
the sight of him sprawled across the bed beside your neatly folded travel things is ridiculous enough already, yet somehow he continues committing himself to the performance.
"i am leaving for four days, not abandoning you forever," you remind him gently once your laughter softens enough to speak clearly again.
aerion exhales heavily before collapsing backward against the pillows with theatrical despair. "to me," he mutters darkly toward the ceiling above, "there is little difference."
you shift closer against the pillows until your shoulder brushes his, your amusement slowly melting into fondness as he immediately reaches for your hand again without thought. his fingers lace through yours, ensuring you cannot disappear before morning arrives.
"why did you not tell me sooner?" he asks again eventually. you glance toward him, already knowing exactly how this answer will be received.
"i told you," you say patiently, squeezing his hand gently, "you would react exactly like this."
aerion immediately opens his mouth to argue. then frowns deeply because he realizes, with great personal offense, that you are entirely correct.
the firelight flickers warmly against the sharp lines of his face while he continues holding your hand with unnecessary firmness, clearly displeased by this entire conversation. then, quite suddenly, his expression changes again.
you recognize the look immediately and dislike it at once. it is the exact face he wears moments before making deeply unreasonable decisions with absolute confidence.
"then i shall come with you," he announces. the statement is delivered with such certainty one would think the matter already settled.
you stare at him for a long moment again, genuinely unsure whether to laugh or throw something at him instead. aerion, meanwhile, appears entirely pleased with himself now that he has clearly solved the problem through sheer brilliance.
"i will leave with you after breakfast," he continues calmly, already planning the arrangement in his head. "the journey will be safer with additional guards. we shall remain there together until you are prepared to return."
"like hell you are."
aerion looks startled by the immediate rejection.
"you are staying here," you continue firmly before he can interrupt, shifting to sit properly upright against the pillows. "you have duties, councils, meetings, and an entire castle depending upon you not abandoning your responsibilities because your wife is visiting her family for four days."
aerion opens his mouth, clearly prepared to argue every single point like always, but you lift one hand sharply before he can begin.
"and while i am away, you will remain here waiting for my letters. that is what you will do."
you have rarely seen a man appear so personally devastated while technically being told to stay inside his own castle.
aerion stares at you as though you have condemned him to isolation atop some freezing mountain rather than instructed him to behave normally for less than a week.
"letters," he repeats faintly, almost hollow with despair. "you expect me to survive entirely on letters. letters?" his voice drops lower with every word until he sounds haunted by the concept. "ink upon parchment. scraps of affection sent across distance."
"oh, stop it."
"no."
the refusal comes immediately. he releases your hand only to collapse again sideways across the bed, one forearm thrown over his eyes. the mattress shifts beneath his weight while you simply sit there watching him in exhaustion.
"this is misery," he mutters toward absolutely no one. "cruelty within my own chambers." he reaches blindly for one of the pillows beside him and drags it over his face. "abandoned by my own wife."
from beneath the pillow comes another muffled complaint. "i shall wither here."
"four days, not four decades."
"no one understands. four days! perhaps longer if the roads turn poor. i may never recover."
you shake your head slowly and reach over to pat the lump of pillow covering his head. aerion immediately grabs your wrist from beneath it, clinging to your hand like a deeply wronged prince facing exile.
Which Targaryen men do you think are sub or dom (and why?)
âË⥠DOM OR SUB â targaryen men
âË⥠notes give me more, give me more, give me more. anon this is all i think about so thank u. also i need valarr targaryen right now.
MASTERLIST
AERION is switch, but dominant leaning. i think his demeanour makes him appear dominant, and i do believe he likes control in the bedchambers (because he has no control elsewhere). but really he just wants approval, he wants to know heâs doing a good job. so whilst having you in a submissive state, he wants praise for fucking you so well. i think he would be so easy to turn into a sub for the right person, like if you keep telling him how well he fucked you, how hard you came for him, he is yours to order around however you wish.
VALARR is soft dominant, i will not accept any other answer. he has a soft demeanour, isnât a total asshole like aerion, but heâs still a targaryen, heâs second in line. so he acts as such. he wants to make you feel good, and wants to prove himself. cares about your pleasure and isnât a sadist, but asserts himself when it comes to sex. can't stop thinking about him manspreading on his lounging chair, watching you on the bed as he tells you what to do to yourself oh my god.
BAELOR is also a soft switch, leaning on dominant. having all the responsibilities of the realm upon his shoulders, sometimes he really just wants to crawl into bed and have you take his troubles away with your hands, or your mouth. but on particularly troubling days, or after a long progress without you, he will take it out on you in bed. his touch is soft and commanding, so calculated with where he touches you, how firm, and for how long.
MAEKAR is dominant. this man is constantly irked by the people around him, and so in bed, he wants order. he wants you bent to his will, pleasing him. and wants you to let him please you. he would sooner have your head buried in the pillows than have you ride him. he wants to hear you, and loudly. he wants to hear how well you're taking him, even with his firm, unrelenting grip.
DAERON is submissive. he wants for nothing more than to see you atop him. though i can see him doing anything you asked, absolutely on his knees for you. if you wanted to be taken, claimed, by him, he would do so without a moment wasted. though he would much prefer you taking your pleasure from him. would absolutely put in the effort to taste you, for hours, until you were falling apart around his mouth. any energy and attention he has belongs to you, however you want him.
Hubby took my hand, leaned in until we were eye to eye, and said in the sweetest voice, âCâmere, pretty girl, time for me to kick your ass.â I swear, I started giggling and squirming like thereâs genuinely something wrong with me because all I could think was I need to get this man pregnant.
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So my dog does this thing where if I take her collar off for literally any reason, she loses her mind. Nosing it, pawing at it, whining, trying to shove her head back through it, im talking full distress mode.
My other dog? Completely fine. Could not care less. But her? Absolutely not. The collar comes off and sheâs like no â€ïž this is wrong â€ïž put it back â€ïž
Anyway. Iâm still too sick to write, but if anyone out there loves me and wants to write a little drabble with a Reader who has this exact energy in a puppy play context I would owe you my entire soul. đ„ș
not a request but a question. do you post pics of your cat? if so iâd love to see the fur baby! iâll trade you pics of the tuxedo i used to have before i had to move. youâll LOVE it.
and no, he didnât look like that in person. for some reason he looks pissed in every photo đ
I DO ON OCCASSION!!! iâm nervous sometimes just because itâs like oh my god what if someone i know sees BECAUSE IM SO PROUD OF HER SHES MY SWEETIE I POST HER ALL THE TIME ON MY PERSONAL SOCIAL MEDIA.
tuxedos are so fucking cute man look at that little guy âčïž
sheâs my sweetest little thing ever. she loves me because i have a naturally really high body temperature and so she loves to sleep on me. especially my back.
she deserves everything i love her so much im so maternal towards her. not to mention she sits on my boyfriend whenever heâs about to leave which is so funny. she just knows.
sheâs also a snob! we gotta grab her new cat food every so often cause she gets sick of it. itâs so funny i love her.
but yes THIS is who youâre giving treats and such to when donating. Deadass if i can save enough money i will post photos of her with her christmas present giggled. EVERYONE QUICK SPOIL HER. ITS HER SIXTH CHRISTMAS IT NEEDSTO BE SPECIAL.
they really do know when youâre about to leave. they make it so difficult but itâs like baby i gotta get you your litter and your food! đ
i too typically run pretty warm, my cat used to lay on my back when i would lay on my stomach. or heâd lay on my chest when i laid on my back. he was a big boy.
the tuxedo was a little shit but we loved him anyway. he once literally hid my birth control from me đ i was like WHYYY
he also would throw himself down on you when he wanted attention. he was soooo dramatic. exactly what youâd expect from an orange really, which is hilarious, because my orange was the sweetest and calmest dude.
orange boy = patrick, who was my cat, and the tuxedo boy = charlie, who was my momâs cat
PSA: if you're watching the new Knives Out mystery (Wake Up Dead Man), please be aware that around 1 hr 34 minutes in, there's a series of flashing/strobing lights. the sequence lasts about a minute.
[ID: comment reading "I have epilepsy went to see it yesterday and covered my eyes too late and had a seizure and all I could think was why are we STILL not putting strobe warnings on movies..." /end ID]
To be specific [spoiler warning for Wake Up Dead Man] there is a scene in the rain, the priest will slip on mud, run into the woods, and a fist will knock him out. Close your eyes immediately when you see the fist. Don't open again until you start hearing conversations.
If you have an Apple product you need to hear this,
In the latest update Apple has added and insidious Ai to every single one of your apps
You will need to manually turn this off to stop Ai from using your apps as a learning base
First:
Head to settings and find the Apple Intelligence & Siri tab
Second:
if you scroll to the bottom of that tab you should find an option to see your apps and a separate option to see apps clips (these can be done in either order but Iâll explain clips first)
Third:
You should come to this screen with an option of âLearn from Apps Clipsâ, make sure to turn that off (if itâs green itâs still on)
Fourth:
Head back and click onto the apps section, this should bring you to a screen with all your apps
Youâre going to have to click on every single one of your apps and turn it off manually (Apple has deliberately made it as tedious as possible in a way to discourage people doing this)
Fifth:
SHARE THIS INFORMATION!! either via my post or making your own,
Every uninformed person is another source of content for Ai to steal from, donât let this undermine us
As far as Iâm aware thatâs everything, but there may be more
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Just canât stop thinking about little things Stack does.
Stack has a hand on the small of your back ir your waist, always. Canât not be touching you, when yout walking or talking or just sitting together. He acts the most touch starved when he hasnât seen you in a week, groaning and inhaling you when he finally gets to wrap his arms around you, âBaby I fuckin missed you.â
Stack always has to make some sort of face at you when no one is liking. Heâs playful, throwing up the finger or sticking his tongue out at you. Rolling his eyes at you when Smoke says something he doesnât wanna hear. And Smoke somehow always catches it, eyes of a hawk, âWatch yourself Elias.â
And the younger twin will throw his hands up in defense, grin wide as ever, grills gleaming, âIâm just playin, Iâm playin, I hear you. Damn.â
When thereâs a puddle or something, if itâs small enough, he likes to jump over it. Very cute when you tell him he does it, and then he likes to get you in on it too. Taking your hand and helping you jump over it like youâre in Singing In the Rainâ one of his favorite movies.
Will pull you into him when the train gets too crowded so no one tries to squish you. Canât help but look at you so lovingly as you complain about someoneâs overly loud phone playing music. You guys both holding onto the pole, his underneath yours. He canât help but brush his fingers against yours, so soft, so intimateâ he loves it.
Stack loves making you giggle, whispering in your ear and talking straight nonsense. Ticking your side when you least expect it or telling you straight out how breathtaking you look. Making you do a little spin for him, hyping you up so much making you think youâre the talk of the townâ and in his eyes you absolutely are.
When the younger twin doesnât like a certain thing you do, such as talking to your ex, or letting someone get too friendly, heâll start re-adjusting his clothes, jaw ticking. The type to have to push and push until his anger comes out with a sarcastic laugh, âMama you playin a dangerous gameâ
It takes him time to apologize, sighing like a puppy dog whoâs been beat up. Either heâll go take a walk or a drive or shyly come into your space, taking your hand in his, a bit of stuttering, âIâm sorry baby, itâs not- I ainât mean what I said. Shouldnâtâve said it tâ begin with. I wanna be sweet to ya.â
my first and middle name were the only names my parents could agree on so my almost name is just what my name wouldâve been if iâd been a boy which was either henry or hunter
so glad i found you while searching for aerion fics. i swear almost nobody writes for some of the under appreciated characters (that i have seen anyway, in sure thereâs authors out there who have) like orys.
i also particularly enjoy that you have requests as closed forever. it gave me a little giggle.
Iâm glad you wandered in too. đ
Aerion fics were basically desert wasteland with the occasional mirage before AKOTSK trailer, so anyone looking for him on purpose automatically has my respect. Same goes for Orys. Half the fandom acts like these characters donât exist unless HBO shoves them in front of their face, so someone actually digging for the good stuff is a damn relief.
And yeah, the ârequests closed foreverâ thing has⊠lore. đ€Ł Letâs just say Iâve survived enough unhinged asks to qualify for hazard pay, so the sign stays up permanently. Iâm not reopening that door unless I suddenly develop a taste for chaos and brain damage.
i really really want to see more things for more of the book characters. i personally enjoy seeing everyoneâs takes, even if i think some of them are trash. itâs really cool to me as a neurodivergent person to see how other people understand the same material.
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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 filthâŠ
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 lipsâŠÂ
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, theâuhâuhâŠp..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 justâŠÂ
A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous�
âIâ umâ shitâŠâ 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 justâŠâ 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.
ââŠOkay.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 weâŠâ 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. ââŠWhat?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.
âTheseâŠâ 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 sinâŠ
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 abilityâŠ
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 godlinessâŠ
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, MattâŠâ 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.
âŠThat each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honorâŠÂ
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.
âŠnot 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.
ââŠJesus 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