Imagine It

Nikolai didn’t normally leave you wanting. He loved to drive you crazy, loved to get you riled up. Only when he was there to see you as the mess you were. But he was off being Sturmhond, and he’d left you in Ravka. Why? You couldn’t be sure. You were a powerful grisha. He could have used you on the ship.

In fact, that’s how the two of you met. He was a pirate, and you an Etherealki who was trying to escape being forced into the Darkling’s army. Nikolai took you in.

The rest was history.

You swore to yourself you wouldn’t fall for the bastard. But that was years ago, and now you had, and there was nothing you could do to stop that. When he left, he told you it would only be a day or two. Maybe three at the longest. How long was it really? Two weeks. It had been two weeks since you had seen your godforsaken boyfriend, two weeks since you held his hand. Touched his skin. Kissed him. Had him buried inside you.

Of course it was driving you crazy. He knew it, too. Somehow, that bastard figured out how to get letters to you. Letters. You assumed he spoke to some Squallors, but then, they wouldn’t be able to send the letters that far.

Still, they got to you.

The first one was innocent enough. He wrote how badly he missed you, how much he longed to see your beautiful face. It was sappy and wholesome and it made you sick. You wouldn’t admit to laying in your shared bed, with a grin on your face, holding the letter close to your chest, kicking your feet. You wouldn’t admit to rereading it over and over. Because you didn’t. The next letter was still quite innocent, though he wrote about how soft your skin was, how he missed seeing that look in your eye when you let go.

Vague, sure. But you knew what he meant.

One by one, the letters got less and less wholesome. The longer you went without each other, the dirtier they got.

Which was how you ended up in your shared bed, with your hand between your thighs. Five letters laid on the sheets next to you, some of them having crumpled sides. Where fingers might have clutched it. A sixth was in your hand, your lip tugged between your lips. This was fucking embarrassing.

What else were you to do?

You’d been without him for two weeks, with that frustration building and building. And here were letters detailing exactly how he wanted you, what he planned to do to you when he got home.

Every single letter started with “My Love,” or “My Dear,” and once or twice, he even wrote “My Heart.” You hated him.

Two fingers didn’t feel like enough when you needed him so badly. Your fingers were still all you had. They thrusted in and out of your wet cunt, making small squelching noises as they did. How wet you were, just from reading a goddamn letter was embarrassing. You were going to kill him as soon as you saw him again.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t even need to read the letter anymore, though you still had it clutched in your fingers. It was the most recent one, the most raunchy by far. As if he’d gotten just as frustrated as you. It served him right, leaving without you.

“I’m afraid I can’t write anything as sweet as my other letters. I need you, my love. Slow and sweet would not suffice anymore.”

Each line from the letter— the letter you had already memorized— echoed in your head. Your fingers never stopped, continuing their assault on your soaking cunt. The letter slipped from your fingers, and the hand which held it slowly slipped down your body. From your chest, down your bare sides, to your hip, then your thigh…

“Pardon my vulgarity, [y/n], but I need to feel your velvet walls around my aching cock.”

Even in a letter he spoke in such an annoying way— a way you loved, of course, but you were too angry to admit that.

As the lines from the letter echoed in your mind, your fingers touched your needy clit, a featherlight touch for the moment. You angled your other fingers differently, desperately reaching for that sweet spot inside you. If Nikolai were here, he could find it expertly.

If Nikolai were here, you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.

A coil was building up in your gut, but still you wanted more. You didn’t want to rely on your hands anymore. As soon as you had slept with Nikolai the first time, as soon as you felt just his fingers, you swore you needed nothing else. Just him. Just his fingers, or his mouth, or his cock. He knew how to work it all expertly, how to hit you in just the right ways that you were seeing stars. Another breath fell from your lips at the thought. Your movements got even more desperate.

“And when I’m done, I wouldn’t pull out. I wouldn’t even stop. I need you so badly, one round would not be enough. You won’t be walking when I’m done.”

With that line in your thoughts, you felt your legs start to tremble. Pleasure took over you, taking over each one of your senses. It was blinding white, hot, and… and still not satisfying enough. You were left still aching for release, for something overwhelming. For the way Nikolai… ugh.

You recovered rather quickly.

You could make yourself cum just fine. But it wasn’t the same as when Nikolai did it.

The bastard. You were absolutely going to kill him the next time you saw him. You’d wring his neck. But only after he fucked you.

There was a mess on your bed, but you couldn’t care less. With him, it was always messier. God, when did you become so dependent on him? When did he become that important to you? You absolutely loathed it. You loathed him.

Just because you were angry, you snatched the letters from the sheets and shoved them in the drawer in the nightstand. Some of them had mystery stains on them. Although the mystery wasn’t very hard to figure out, obviously. Not when you’d been doing the exact same thing, night after night. You pulled the sheets off your bed.

The very last line of the letter fluttered through your mind as you cleaned up.

“Of course, after all is said and done, I would still take care of you. I’d clean you up, cuddle with you until you fell asleep. And you would be having breakfast in bed the next day. I miss you, [y/n]. I love you.”

Two mugs on the counter.

One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.

His eye twitched.

“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.

He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.

Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.

You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”

You blinked. “…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I have questions.”

“I’m not under interrogation.”

“You are now.”

“…Sam.”

“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”

Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”

You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”

“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”

“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.

“And matching mugs?”

“That sticker was mine first!”

Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.

“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.

Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”

“Cool.”

“Came in lookin’ real tired.”

“People get tired.”

“You look real tired.”

Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”

Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”

They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.

“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.

Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.

Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.

You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.

“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”

“He probably already has.” You both laughed.

He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”

You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.

Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.

You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”

“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”

You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”

Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”

You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.

“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”

“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.

Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.

 “Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.

“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.

You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.

Totally.

 “You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”

You coughed, choking down a laugh.

Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”

“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”

“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.

You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.

“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “For twenty minutes.”

“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”

You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.

Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”

“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”

You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.

“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”

You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.

You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.

“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”

“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.

You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”

You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.

He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”

“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.

“Not a chance.”

Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”

“We deny everything.”

You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”

“Especially under interrogation.”

One day, he’d prove it.

But not today.

Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:

CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating. And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:

shared laundry = suspicious

“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other

Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.

Bucky smiled back.

FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”

“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”

War was still on.

But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?

You were definitely still winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2

A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3

•••

The first time Matt hears of your issues. It’s early on a Monday morning.

Matt first learned about your issue on his way into the office.

He doesn’t mean to listen—doesn’t want to listen—but the moment your voice filters through the air, he can’t stop himself.

You’re perched on the edge of Karen’s desk, your morning coffee barely making a dent in your exhaustion. It had been a long night, and Karen needs to hear all about it to make yourself feel better.

“So,” you sigh dramatically, “I don’t think he was confident enough to use anything other than his hands. It was like I was his guinea pig. Just kinda laying there pretending to moan, pretending to feel something.”

Karen pouts back at you, understanding your predicament like most women would. “Oof, that is bad. At what point did you call it?”

“When he kept trying to make eye contact with me…from down there, it gave off weird vibes. So, I just patted him on his head and got up.”

“You did not!”

You groan up at the ceiling, covering your face with your hands. “It gets worse…after he left, I tried to help myself -yah know. And nothing.”

“I think you might be cursed.” Karen has already given you all the advice she could. What helped for her, what didn’t, even which brands of lube that might help. But nothing. Literally nothing has helped.

“Yeah, no shit! I’m convinced I’ll never know how it feels to have my own mind blowing, out of this world, orga- “

You stop dead.

The weight of your stare pressing against him even though he can’t see it. He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses as he enters the room.

You quickly shoot a look to Karen who just smirks.

“Morning Matt” you both chime, dripping with innocence.

He grumbles a response not really stopping to interact with you. His mind running a mile a minute. Have you never had an orgasm? Maybe I could help?

Matt doesn’t know why that gets under his skin as much as it does. But it does.

He drops into his chair, flexing his hands at his sides. Your voice is still there, looping in his head, and it shouldn’t be this distracting.

I’m convinced I’ll never know how it feels…mind-blowing, out-of-this-world…

Christ.

He doesn’t need this. He’s had a hell of a week already—barely any sleep, too many cases piling up, and now? Now he’s going to spend the rest of the day haunted by the mental image of you—spread out, breathless, wanting.

Matt knew the dynamic between you went beyond friendly colleagues. There had always been something there, an unspoken tension simmering beneath every playful jab, every stolen glance. But he had never taken it seriously.

That changes now.

He moves before he can stop himself, heading to the office kitchen. Two cups of coffee—one for him, one for you. It’s a rare gesture, but he knows you’ll appreciate it.

“For you.” He grunts shoving a mug towards you. Your fingers brush his as you take it. Matt lingers for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes boring into yours intensely. The telepathic message he’s sending not quite reaching you.

Just when you think he is going to say something his lips smack closed and he’s walking away.

The words I can help lost in his throat. Matt scowls at himself for chickening out. He couldn’t embarrass you like that. It really is none of his business.

All you notice however, is how his fingers are flexing at his side, as if your quick brush has stung him. The gesture of coffee confuses you, but you’re too distracted by his hands. You picture what they can do for you, take you to an edge you’ve never experienced before.

“Well, I don’t get coffee like that” Karen snides from her side of the room. You flush and hide behind your stack of papers. You take a sip and hum. It’s just how you like it, Matt always knows how you like things.

Matt spends the rest of the morning trying—and failing—to focus.

The sound of the office hums around him, phones ringing, papers shuffling, the steady rhythm of keyboards clacking. But all he can hear is you. Your voice, looping in his head, the way you sighed when you talked about last night, the frustration laced in every word.

I’m convinced I’ll never know how it feels…

His fingers twitch against the edge of his desk. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t want to care.

But he does.

And that’s the problem.

By the time lunch rolls around, he needs space. Needs air. Needs to clear his head before he does something stupid.

Because the last thing he wants is to come off as some arrogant asshole who thinks he has all the answers. The last thing he wants is for you to think he’s just like every other guy who assumes he knows what you need.

Even if, deep down, he’s pretty damn sure he does.

The thought twists in his gut as he heads back to the office, rehearsing ways to make a move that don’t end with him humiliating himself—or worse, pushing you away.

But the moment he steps inside, ready to test the waters, Foggy’s voice cuts through the air.

“…I know he knows what he’s doing.”

Matt stops. Freezes mid-step on the stairs.

He’s on about a blind date.

Someone else.

Someone else touching you. Someone else making you laugh, making you moan. Someone else failing you.

Whilst Matt was out Foggy took the opportunity to swoop in, grinning as he flops into the chair across from you. Getting you to spill all the details from last night.

You skim over the basics—the guy took you to a nice restaurant, knew how to flirt, wasn’t exactly your usual type but still tried. Foggy questioned if you managed to get off, which shocked you. You knew you hadn’t told him, which means Karen must have.

The snap of Matt’s jaw tightening echoes in his ears.

He doesn’t remember moving, doesn’t register the way his fingers crush the takeout bag in his grip, barely even feels the splintering pressure of his cane beneath his palm.

All he knows is that when he speaks, his voice is sharp enough to slice through the air.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, can you please leave our paralegal alone to get on with her work?”

Silence.

He’s standing in the doorway now, Foggy blinking at him in surprise, you stare at him like you’re trying to read him. Like you can feel the heat radiating off of him from across the room.

Matt clenches his jaw, forces himself to move, to breathe. Forces himself to walk away before he does something reckless.

It’s not my problem. It’s none of my damn business.

But the thought of anyone else fixing this for you—that is what has his stomach twisting. That is what has his grip tightening around his cane until he’s sure the wood is about to crack.

I know what I’m doing.

Your pulse, however, is unsteady as you turn back to your desk, your mind is spinning.

Matt never snaps like that—not over you.

And yet, the frustration in his voice, the heat behind it, the way he stormed off like Foggy had just personally offended him—

You swallow hard.

No. No, you must be imagining things. Reading too much into it.

But then some time later, as you return from the bathroom, you pause. Confusion flickers across your face as you spot something on your desk—a plate, half a sandwich, some chips.

You glance around, questioning, until Karen gives you a knowing smirk, tilting her head toward Matt’s office.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t acknowledge what he’s done.

•••

It’s late. The office is quiet, save for the occasional rustle of papers and the low hum of Matt’s computer. Everyone has gone, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space. You’ve been pretending to focus on paperwork, but your mind has been elsewhere- on the weight of Matt’s presence, on the way he looks in the glow of his screen, his jaw tight with unspoken tension.

Matt, with headphones in, is distracted. He’s thinking about you, like he has been all day. Thinking about the way you might touch yourself when no one is watching. About how much he wants to be the one touching you instead.

The thought takes hold, creeping into his veins like wildfire. His hand drifts lower, pal, pressing over the hardness straining against his slacks. He exhales sharply, his mind flooding with images - your skirt bunched around your waist, your body arching against his, the breathless sound of your moans as he drives you over the edge. His fingers tighten. He’s losing himself in it, lost in the fantasy of you, of having you, of making you his.

He doesn’t hear you approach.

You stop in your tracks, eyes widening at the sight before you - Matt, head tilted back against his chair, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, his hand gripping himself through his trousers. A bead of sweat slides down his temple. Your name spills from his lips in a quiet, desperate murmur.

Heat coils in your stomach.

You should walk away. Pretend you never saw. But you don’t.

Instead, you step closer.

“Enjoying yourself, Mr Murdock?”

His body goes rid His body goes rigid. His eyes snap open, unfocused but sharp, as if he can feel your presence more than see it. His breath is unsteady, his arousal still evident, straining against the dark fabric of his slacks.

It takes him a moment to speak. "You’ve done this to me," he rasps, voice rough, edged with frustration. "Drove me to this. I haven’t stopped thinking about you all day."

A slow smirk tugs at your lips. You take your time, stepping between his spread legs, savouring the way his breath hitches. You step closer, the air between you electric. His hands clench at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you into his lap and grind against you until you’re just as desperate as he is.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he confesses, voice tight with restraint. “Every look. Every word. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You hum, tilting your head as if considering his words. “And what exactly have I done, Mr. Murdock?”

His jaw tightens. He’s unraveling, restraint slipping through his fingers like sand. You see it in the way his breathing turns ragged, in the way his control—so carefully maintained—is fracturing before you.

“You already know,” he growls.

Your hands brush along the armrests of his chair, caging him in, your body close enough that he can feel your warmth. His fingers twitch, aching to touch.

“You’ve spent all day thinking about me?” you murmur. “Thinking about what you’d do if I let you?”

His control snaps.

One hand grips your waist, dragging you onto his lap in a fluid motion. His other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head so your lips are a breath away from his.

“Say the word,” he rasps, mouth ghosting over your skin, teasing, tormenting. “Say the word, and I’ll show you exactly what I’ve been thinking about.”

Heat coils in your stomach. His fingers dig into your hips, firm and possessive, as if grounding himself.

“Then show me,” you whisper.

It’s all the permission he needs.

In a blur, your skirt is bunched around your waist, and his mouth is on you—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your neck, each one laced with the promise of what’s to come. His hands roam your thighs, spreading you open, savouring every inch of exposed skin like it’s something sacred.

"You smell incredible," he murmurs against your lips, voice reverent, like he’s memorising every piece of you. His touch is maddening—just enough to make you shiver, but not enough to satisfy the ache burning between your legs.

He lowers himself to his knees pulling you to the edge of the desk. Bringing one of your legs over his shoulder, placing gentle kisses until he reaches your centre.

His breath hitches as he finally—finally—tastes you. A low groan vibrates through his chest as his tongue drags over you, slow and deliberate. You gasp, your fingers threading into his hair, anchoring him there.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against you, voice thick with reverence. “You taste even better than I could ever imagine.”

His tongue moves in long, languid strokes, teasing, savouring, drinking in every sound you make. His grip tightens when your hips jerk against his mouth, an unspoken command to stay still.

But he’s not done teasing you. Not yet.

“You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?” His voice is low, gravelly, sending shivers through you. “Going to do exactly what I say?”

You can barely form words, nodding, breathless.

“Good.”

And then he ruins you.

His tongue works you over with practiced precision—each flick, each stroke designed to drive you higher. Your body trembles, a desperate whimper escaping your lips as pleasure coils tighter, hotter.

“You like this, sweetheart?” he taunts, voice dark and full of promise. “Like knowing how fucking desperate I’ve been for you?”

You moan, back arching, legs trembling as you lose yourself in him. He keeps going—pushing you closer, dragging it out until the pleasure is unbearable. It’s almost a pain mixed with white hot pleasure. You beg for more. For it not to stop. It can’t stop. You grip Matts hair to be sure it doesn’t. He sucks on a spot that makes you want to scream. Or maybe you are. It’s all too much and you need it. And then you reach a point where it is too much, and your eyes squeeze close and your thighs shake.

And then—release.

You shatter, thighs tightening around his head, a strangled cry escaping your lips. He groans against you, lapping up every last tremor, drawing out every aftershock until your entire body is shaking.

And still—he’s not finished.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s pulling you into his lap, large hands tracing slow, grounding patterns along your abdomen. The fabric of his slacks is rough against your oversensitive skin, the hard press of him impossible to ignore.

"That’s one," he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple.

You barely register the words before his fingers are sliding back between your legs—tracing, teasing, pushing inside you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Your body jolts, oversensitive, but Matt doesn’t stop.

“We’re not done yet, darling.”

You grind against him instinctively, chasing friction, chasing him. His head tips back, jaw clenched, as you roll your hips over him.

"Fuck," he grits out, hands gripping you tighter. "You're going to kill me."

His fingers curl inside you, stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy. His breath is hot against your ear, murmuring filth that makes your toes curl, your body tightening once again.

It doesn’t take long until your second orgasm hits like a freight train. "That’s two."

And then he’s standing, lifting you like you weigh nothing, and bending you over the desk.

Your cheek presses against the cool wood, the contrast to his burning heat making you shudder. Light brushes against your shoulder blades as he moves your hair aside, placing slow, reverent kisses down the curve of your neck.

"You have no idea how perfect you are like this," he groans, his hands steadying you, grounding you. "Falling apart for me. Letting me take what I want. You deserve to feel it all."

Your mind is blank—no, not blank, just utterly consumed by him.

"You still with me, sweetheart?" His touch is slow as it glides down your spine, teasing, taunting.

You barely manage a nod.

He chuckles darkly. “Think you can take one more?”

A whimper is all you can offer.

"That's what I thought."

And then he’s inside you.

The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming, a perfect contradiction of pleasure and desperation. He gives you a moment to adjust—to feel every inch of him, to let the sensation take you over.

And then he moves.

Deep, unrelenting strokes, each one angled to wring more from you, to keep you right on that edge where pleasure and pain blur into something devastating.

"So tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect for me."

He fists a hand in your hair and pulls you up, your back flush against his chest. The movement is purposeful—possessive. His free hand finds your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling the way you gasp for him.

You’re babbling, incoherent, barely able to hold yourself together. And Matt loves it.

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering as the pleasure consumes him. "Fuck," he hisses, his grip on you tightening. "You’re going to make me—"

Your body clenches around him, and that’s all it takes.

He groans your name into your neck, the sound raw and wrecked as he tumbles over the edge, heat spilling inside you. His hold on you tightens as he rides it out, dragging you with him, until the only sound in the room is your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your hearts.

And still, he doesn’t let you go.

His arms stay wrapped around you, holding you firm against him, his breath still ragged against your ear. His hands, once gripping with desperation, now trace slow, grounding circles over your skin. Neither of you speaks for a moment—just the sound of your heartbeats, the slow rise and fall of your chests in sync.

Then, finally, Matt exhales, pressing a lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His fingers slide down to your waist, squeezing gently, almost reassuringly.

“You okay?” His voice is lower now, softer, a stark contrast to how he had just wrecked you.

You hum, too blissed out to form words. He chuckles, the sound warm and satisfied, and the vibration of it sends a pleasant aftershock through you.

For a while, you just stay like that, his body still pressed against yours, neither of you willing to move just yet. He runs a hand up your spine, then down again, like he’s memorising every dip, every curve, every shiver you give him.

Finally, reluctantly, he pulls back just enough to let you turn in his arms. His face is unreadable, but there’s something intense lingering behind his expression. Something possessive, something tender.

His fingers ghost along your jaw, tilting your chin up. He studies you, like he’s committing this exact moment to memory.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him, dazed, still trying to process everything. A small, breathless laugh escapes you, and he grins, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

A beat of silence stretches between you. The weight of everything settles in the air—what just happened, what it means, where it leaves you both.

And then, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“So…” he murmurs, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. “Still convinced you’ll never know what a mind-blowing orgasm feels like?”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you swat weakly at his chest. “Shut up, Murdock.”

He laughs, catching your wrist, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. “Just making sure you’re keeping count,” he teases. His lips trail down, ghosting along your collarbone, dangerously close to starting something all over again.

You arch a brow at him, trying to feign exasperation, but you already know the truth.

matt’s head tilts, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “look too much?” he repeats, and there’s this dry, low chuckle. “sweetheart, that’s the one thing i can’t do.” his hands wrap firm around both your wrists, pressing them to your sides. "but if you think i’m not paying attention…” he leans in, flattening his tongue against your clit, closing his mouth around you and moving it slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world.

the rest of what he says is muffled against you, but it sounds nothing short of pure adoration.

his hands slide up, locking over your stomach when your hips start to jump, holding you down firmly as he doubles down on making you cum. the sensation is unfamiliar, your breaths breaking into sobs as the pressure builds too fast to handle. but he pats your thigh to show you how immensely proud of you he is, eager to feel you bloom on his tongue.

when you cum, it’s overwhelming, your body jolting as you cry out, his name breaking in pieces on your lips. he keeps going just long enough for a second wave to hit—and a third—until you’re left seizing and babbling.

later, when he has you tucked against his chest, your body still trembling and pliant, he brushes a hand over your hair, his lips ghosting over your temple.

“you know you’re mine forever, right?”

you nod against him, your body still humming from the aftershocks, sinking into the comfort of his touch.

and he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

you're perfect.

it's true what they say about weddings; it goes by in a blur. although he's a little tired, and tipsy from all the reception champagne (okay, it's some sort of sparkling “wine” and yes, you're all at josie's), matt feels like bliss. this day had been a long time coming, and truthfully, matt never thought it'd happen, but of course, that all changed when he met you.

right now, matt's bowtie is undone, shirt a little ruffled, and his skin slightly flushed from the number of drinks foggy's bought for you all. he's riding the high from your little ceremony at the church, presided over by father lantom, with sister maggie, foggy, marci and karen in attendance. you had insisted it be small, with only your chosen family there, and god, it was just perfect.

.

father lantom and sister maggie opted out of the reception, pulling you and matt aside for a small embrace, a meaningful exchange of words. you've never seen the two of them so happy, tears glistening in their eyes as they took in your beautiful dress and matt's expressions of unbridled joy. this was a very significant moment, especially for father lantom; he would always, always worry about matt, but with you, matt would never be alone again.

.

it wouldn't be a wedding reception without speeches, right? and foggy did exactly that, climbing on top of the pool table (at josie's dismay), tapping his tie clip on his whiskey glass, capturing the attention of every patron. in typical foggy fashion, he delivered a speech that embarrassed the hell out of matt, drawing laughter from all corners of the bar, but made sure to wrap it up with a message of endearment, sweet words that you'd cherish for the rest of your life.

and karen? oh, karen. her speech made you and matt cry -- to be fair, you'd expected nothing less -- and it was soon followed by the rising chants of your newfound audience: 'first dance! first dance! first dance!'

so, with the clink of a couple quarters into josie's jukebox machine, completely unaware of what song was about to come on, a little space was cleared for you in the middle. matt took your hand, guiding you into the centre, holding your waist as you nuzzled your face into his neck. the music startled you a little, the upbeat sound of 'god only knows' filling the small space. not what you would've picked for a typical first dance, but you'd take it. as you pressed your lips into matt's, still in your wedding dress by the way, everything fell away around you, and there you were; the two of you. just the two of you.

.

when matt takes you home later that night, carrying you over the threshold of your front door, it's hard to describe the feeling coursing through your veins; the pure, euphoric joy making your heart swell beyond belief.

you lose count of how many times matt calls you 'mrs murdock', the words falling from his lips sweetly at first, then dipping into a tone laced with hunger as he takes his time undoing your dress, the soft thud of the fabric pooling around your ankles music to his ears.

as he finds himself between your legs, his shirt not even completely off yet, he calls you mrs murdock again, before his tongue dives into you.

later, after you've fallen apart on his tongue and his cock more times than you think humanly possible, it's hard to mistake the devotion radiating from him, radiating from who is now your husband.

and, as you lie in his arms, fingers grazing against his wedding ring, you trace over the raised braille dots of your name engraved into the metal.

"how is it that i got so lucky, huh?" matt whispers against your cheek, hands intertwining in yours.

matthew michael murdock and the green-eyed monster are close, close friends. even though you've chided in his behaviour and try to lead by example (you've had plenty of chances because your boyfriend seems to always find beautiful ladies who have questionable morals), matt definitely gets possessive.

he thinks he's subtle, but he's the complete opposite. his tells are the way he tightens his grip on his cane, white knuckles drawing your attention, or the way his nostrils flare with jealousy.

he's the kind of guy who would sit behind a restaurant menu a few tables away from you, pretending like he's not eavesdropping.

oh, and eavesdropping is mr murdock's speciality. he'll hear your voice in his head, telling him to cool it, but he just can't help it. he'll lean his head back, tip of his ear going pink as he concentrates his efforts, clinging on to every word or action circling you.

it's also a good time to point out that with matt's enhanced sense of smell, he is crazy attracted to your pheromones. even more so when you're sweating and working out. he can smell you before you even walk in the door, and it makes him lick his lips, become feral... it makes him want you.

sometimes, if you meet up with someone and say, give them a hug, their scent lingers on your skin, even if just in passing. and you'll get home, seeing that matt's gritting his teeth, shoulders tensing at thoughts he knows he shouldn't have.

part of this relates to his trust issues, sure. he's a work in progress, and so are you, but he never gets angry at you. never. sometimes that frustration gets misdirected, but you're always there to steer it right. and sometimes, that requires a little bit of exertion over his control.

you just have to teach him a lesson.

maybe you'll tell him to get on his knees, or lie down so you can sit on his face. you'll tangle your fingers in his hair, maybe jerk his head back a little bit, just to look down at his perfect, perfect face, those hazel, sightless eyes, his beautiful nose... the lips of a sinner...

"tell me you know i'm yours, matthew," you'll insist, gripping his chin.

"i-i know, sweetheart," he'll rasp, as you lower yourself down on his cock.

and you'll tease him, roll your hips at a pace that's infuriatingly slow, watching him as he tips his head back, not caring about the sounds falling from his mouth.

he'll give into you, fall apart under you...

but the teasing gets a little too much, and matt wants to regain control.

matt stills himself inside you, his grip around your throat and stomach loosening. there's no way he heard what you said correctly–

"matt."

he arches his eyebrows as he moves his hips, drawing out a moan from you. "huh?"

"i said, i want you to cum inside me."

he sputters, torn between two hard places, moving his hips again instinctively. a soft groan leaves his lips as you tighten around him, willing himself to back down from the edge you've so easily brought him to.

you moan again, throwing your head back into matt's neck. "i mean, only if y-you're comfortable with it. and i'm on the pill if that worries you."

"sweetheart are you... are you sure?" matt rasps. he's somehow harder than he was before, and your words spur a desire deep inside him, a desire he's tried to suppress for a very long time.

your change your tone. it's more stern now, more of a command than a request. "i want to feel your cum inside me. i want to feel it dripping out of me after. i want you to mark me as yours."

he growls, breath coming out in shallow pants as one hand finds your throat again. with the other, he brushes your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear, leaving your neck exposed. then, with his chest pressed into your back, his cock still deep inside you, he wraps his free arm around your stomach.

he's got you exactly where he wants you.

"you want my cum, sweetheart?" he grunts in your ear, grinning as he picks up on your racing heartbeat.

"yes, matty," you breathe, whimpering as he nips your earlobe, face pushing into the sheets.

"be a good girl and take it for me, okay?"

he pistons his hips into yours, ignoring the obscene slapping of flesh that echoes throughout his bedroom, relishing in the orgasms he coaxes out of you with his cock.

that angle is too good, too deep for him... and before long, he's groaning, sloppy thrusts an indication that he can't hold off for much longer. you're so wet, so tight for him and he's cursing and feeling your skin on his and...

he explodes inside you, crying out your name, burying his face into your back. you don't care his stubble scratches at you, that that vice of a hand grips your neck with a ferocity you've never seen.

"matty," you whisper, feeling his warmth spread inside you, feeling his muscles go rigid as he holds you close, cock still pumping.

"fuck!" he yells, dragging himself out of you until just the very tip of him remains.

before you can speak he fills your body with his again, the mix of both your arousals making it so easy for him to slide back in.

he fucks his cum into you until he's satisfied; until you can't give him any more and you're both spent beyond belief. when he eventually pulls out, he sniffs the air, chuckling lowly at the scent of his cum dripping out of you.

"you gonna clean me up, matty?" you ask, flipping onto your back and propping yourself up on your elbows.

Once everything was set up and ready, you tell him to take off the mask. Not wasting a second, he rips the thing off his head, his brown hair now a mop of a mess that makes him unfairly attractive, as his eyes go wide at the surprise you had in store for him. 

“Baby,” he whispers, walking closer to the new Spider-Man suit you had made him. 

You smile, side-stepping so he can get a full look at it. 

“Your old one was getting a lot of tears in it, so I thought I’d try to make you a new one. I also tried to stick to your design cause I know you like it, but–“ 

You’re quickly cut off by hands resting on your cheek and hip, lips on yours, and the wall suddenly against your back as Peter’s kissing you. You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, causing Peter to smile against the kiss. It’s all teeth and smiles before he’s pulling away, gently holding your face in both hands like you’re the most precious thing in the world, before he starts kissing every inch of your face. 

“I take it you like your surprise?” You ask through laughs. 

He nods, mumbling “love it, love you more though,” in between kisses. 

You’re not sure how much time passes until he pulls away, leaving you a breathless, giggling mess as his eyes flicker between you and the new suit you had made for him. 

“I can’t believe you made me a new suit,” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. “Thank you,” he says, kissing your lips once again. 

“If this is how you’re going to react when I make you a suit, I might just make you a new one every day,” you joke. 

Instead of responding, Peter kisses your forehead, as if he can’t get enough of kissing you, as if none of it was enough. Before he can start his onslaught of kisses again, you’re gently pushing him away from you, laughing at his pout as you nod your head towards the suit. “Go try it on!” You exclaim with a laugh. He eagerly nods, stealing one more quick kiss before grabbing the suit and heading to the bathroom. 

“Fits like a glove!” He exclaims, exiting the bathroom with the suit on, and what you think is supposed to be a poor attempt at jazz hands. He does a small spin, letting you see the full suit on him as you grin a wide smile that almost makes your cheeks hurt. 

“Looks great!” You tell him. 

Peter scoffs, ripping the mask off his face as he strides towards you, cupping your face as he kisses you once again. This time, soft and slow, as if he’s trying to pour all his love and gratitude for you in that one kiss. “Looks perfect,” he mutters when he pulls away. “Feels perfect, seriously, baby, thank you.”

You shrug with a smile. “Course,” you say through another fit of giggles as he starts pecking your face with kisses once again, like he’ll never get tired of this, of you. 

“Love you,” he says, with a final kiss to the tip of your nose. 

“Love you more,” you reply. 

Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes in feigned annoyance as he kisses you one more time to tell you that no, he loves you more, actually. 

peter flufftober taglist: @ireadmorethantalk @bingsbitch @njdluvr