Lover of monsters

Then came the preceding week leading up to it, and Foggy's asks became teasingly persistent. The simple yes or no question of whether or not you'd go evolving into increasingly persuasive reasons he thought you should: There'd be non-alcoholic drinks. The house was big enough to have more than enough rooms to duck away and hide in. If you weren’t vibing, there would be no one forcing you to stay. He was your friend and would promise not to leave you alone and that he just wanted to see you have some fun before exams beat both of your asses.

Your ‘no’s’ had become hesitant over time, the reasons against why you shouldn't go quickly being overshadowed by the fact that you not only had the day off from your job the next evening, but also only one afternoon class to worry about. Not to mention that Foggy Nelson had a charm that made it nearly impossible to argue against—that being the tough to swallow truth that he was usually always annoyingly right. 

You began to realize that maybe a party wouldn't be too bad. Maybe it'd be good to be in a place that wasn't your apartment, workplace, or lecture halls. Maybe it'd be good to interact with people other than your friend, even if it was stupid and drunken conversations you might not even remember. Maybe it'd be good to flirt around because he damn sure hit the nail on the head when it came to clocking the pent up sexual frustration you’ve been trying to ignore.

He knew he got you when he’d cornered you in the campus library the day before the party, both hands down on the table in front of you, a mischievous grin glinting against the blue in his eyes and the words ‘Matt will be there’ coming out teasing and far more knowing than you appreciated. You had rolled your eyes, shut your book, and turned to leave him behind before he could only add the flush that quickly rose to your cheeks as fuel to the fire. But it had been no use—he'd caught up to you in no time, matching your step in stride and launching into a victorious animated speech, the sound ringing louder than it had any right to be in his voice. 

“Party starts at seven, but we won't be there until nine or so. I'll text you the address. Wear something comfy. I'm so down to fist fight any weirdos or creeps to defend your honor. And oh! Put on that really subtle perfume Matt likes, he'll go crazy.”

And it didn’t matter how long you’d spent your time getting ready grumbling about Foggy’s audacity. In the end, he had won. In the end, it only took a quick glance at your phone to make sure you were in the right place. In the end, it was now nine-forty at night and you were standing in front of the door that separated you from the party already in full swing inside. 

You didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that the mention of Matt Murdock was the icepick stabbed into the glass that shattered every defense and half-assed excuse that had you stalling your answer for the better part of a week. In defense of your say in the matter, you refused to give any more ammunition to Foggy. The fact that he had not only already picked up on the almost ridiculous sized crush you had on his best friend, but was more than willing to weaponize it against you kept you reeled in, in spite of his unsuccessful attempts. Why he thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to get together, you would never know. Between Matt’s well-known revolving door of commitment issues, and the promise you made to yourself to not to fuck around with anyone not worth it for the long haul, it didn’t matter how attractive you found him: Matt Murdock would be nothing but trouble.

That being said, you told yourself you dug that perfume out from where you’d misplaced it among your other products because you liked it, and not at all because the thought of giving the blind man something else to recognize you by made your chest tighten with a theoretical satisfaction. 

Just as you were telling yourself he had no sway over why you were currently twisting the knob to the front door. You wanted to be there. Have a couple of drinks, relax, and have some of the fun you’d been putting on the back burner for the last month and a half. And if you also had a chance to check Matt out and fantasize about a couple of things, then hey, you were supposed to enjoy yourself tonight anyway.

It was the music that hit you first. Loud, catchy, and with enough bass to remind you of sitting front row during your high school’s orchestra performances whenever the brass sections would be featured, but amped up to twenty. You were already buzzing out of your skin and the door had barely shut behind you. Casting your sight out, you noticed a couple of people you didn’t know wave at your arrival, and you managed to give a polite smile as you began to weave yourself through the crowd of moving bodies. If the outside was anything to go off of, Foggy had been right; this place was huge. You had entered a foyer that opened up to a hall that connected its adjoining rooms with large marble arches that gave the impression of distinction, but allowed for direct sightlines from the hall, living, and dining rooms. All of which were packed to the brim with both people you recognize from and around Columbia, and other faces you wouldn’t even begin to try to remember. You made a mental note to ask Foggy who was throwing this party and if they were a rich socialite or what. 

It was warm, despite your notice of the window air conditioner units and box fans set up in every room you shimmied through, passing through people dancing and chatting. All things considered, with the amount of bodies in the building, the machines were working overtime to keep it as comfortable as it was. The air was thick with that heat as well as the faint smell of weed and heavy fog of alcohol that mingled in every breath you took. Interestingly enough, through the initial overwhelm and nervous jitters, you felt yourself beginning to relax. There were no expectations here. No deadlines, or professors, or bosses. Just the inviting thrum of the music, the beckoning call of a cold drink, and the thought of just maybe being able to let off some steam. 

You followed the trail some people holding cups left, navigating to where you could only hope had a path to a kitchen, passing a flight of stairs that looked like it led up to a hall with an endless amount of rooms until you pushed open a double-action door that revealed a large tiled kitchen. Your eyes scanned over the buffet of chips, finger foods, and other junk meant to be enjoyed before cholesterol caught up in old age spread out appeasingly on an island counter until they swept the room, catching on the stainless steel of the refrigerator. It wasn’t until you were contemplating your choices, bent over to gaze at your pick of poisons, that you realized you weren’t exactly sure what you were looking to get out of the night. So until you figured it out, you were satisfied with grabbing a bottle of water, grateful for something cold and crisp as you shut the fridge, shuffled out of the way so the other people filtering in and out would have room, and leant against the counter, taking a few sips as you pulled your phone from your pocket.

Shooting Foggy a quick message letting him know you made it there easily enough, you sighed into your surroundings, closing your eyes while you tracked the next gulp of water travel through you, welcoming the chill down your spine and the clarity it brought to your mind as you thought. You truly weren’t sure what you were expecting out of your showing up. Having some fun, of course. But when it came down to it, that was only a base level goal. You had options: you could dance until your feet fell off. Drink enough to feel bold and weightless and have to come back to pick up your car in the morning. Do something stupid with someone pretty. You pursed your lips—you could do all of the above.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard.” Your head jerked up at the sound of Foggy’s voice, bottle halfway to your lips before you swiveled to see him holding open the door for someone exiting the kitchen as he came in. His smile was infectious, and you felt one mirroring in your own features as a gentle relief filled you, the distant memory of his promise to not leave you alone and enjoy the night with you echoing faintly and you were grateful to have a friend like him as he hopped over to you, swinging the door to the fridge open and pulling out two beers from a brand you didn’t recognize. “What happened to giving that hard-working brain a rest?”

“This hard-working brain needs to form a gameplan, Fog.” You laughed, finishing up your water as he crossed the room, held out a bottle to you and settled into a spot next to your side. “Figure out what I should expect.”

He frowned playfully, poking your shoulder with a firm finger, “You,” his opening statement was emphasised by a wiggle against your arm, “shouldn’t expect anything. You’ve made it to this cool party, so now enjoy the party! Do what you feel is right! Go with the flow! What do you wanna do?”

“Not sure.” You answer honestly, shaking your head with a light chuckle, twisting off the cap to the beer and taking a tentative sip. The taste had you second-guessing whether you should drink it at all, but it was beer and it would get the job done. “What’s going on around here?”

Foggy sighed, following your actions and shrugging. You noticed the pink dotting his face, the tenseness already gone from his shoulders. He’s barely been there more than a half-hour before you arrived, yet he already looked incredibly care-free. Maybe you really should take notes. “Nothing much upstairs, since those are all the bedrooms. Mainly dancing and stuff out there. There’s a few card tables set up on the patio by the pool if strip poker and skinny dipping appeal to you at all.” You snorted into your drink, raising your eyebrows as he continued. “I was planning on heading back down to the basement—bringing you with me, of course.”

“What’s down there?” You groaned slightly as you stood back up straight, the tension you carried yourself cruelly making itself aware in a threatening tease, and followed the nod of Foggy’s head and his lead as the both of you crossed the threshold back into the main party. He raised his voice so you could hear him over the noise. 

“Well for starters, it’s so much quieter. Matt basically made a beeline when he realized he could go down there. But it’s also just chill. Hangout space, mostly. Couple of games going, few joints being passed around, but nothing you don’t have to join if you don’t want.”

You hummed an acknowledging reply as he led you back to the stairs that led to the second floor, and to a door just to the side of them you hadn’t noticed your first go around. You swallowed hard as you descended behind Foggy, shutting the door behind you and feeling for the railing even though the light above the stairs was bright enough for you to see your way. An excitement rose in the pit of your stomach, giddy and childish, at the thought of seeing Matt down there, but you squashed it down just as fast as it came, the words ridiculous and get yourself together slapping across it and you found yourself dragging another mouthful of beer in the moment your feet landed on the basement floor as a means to prime yourself for whatever the night held for you. 

The basement was dimly lit, well furnished, and while still moderately packed, incredibly calmer than the first floor. Most noticeably, it was quieter—quiet enough that a small speaker was able to softly play its own music, a smooth R&B playlist going on to filter in with the background noise of chatter, footsteps thumping from above, and the amicable laughing from the apparent groups of friends clumping together in the space. You started to sweep over the room before you realized that Foggy was moving without you and you wasted no time catching up, trailing behind him until you reached a couple of couches pressed up against the corner. There were a few seats left, one of which Foggy didn’t hesitate taking next to Matt, flopping down onto the couch with a pleased noise that had to be exaggerated, or else that had to be the comfiest couch in existence. 

Your chest tightened for a moment, heart doing a flip in your chest at the sight of him. Matt, with an easy smile on his lips, drink in hand, dark lenses over his eyes, and unbuttoned shirt over a thin white tee. Once upon a time, you balked at Foggy’s confrontation about how you felt about Matt, your instinct to deny, not willing to believe you were that obvious. But as you stood just off to the side of the couch, your eyes shamelessly lingering where his shirt stretched across his chest, almost tight enough to map out the shape of his pecs underneath, and trailing up his neck, you knew for damn sure you were as obvious as fire truck sirens in a burning city—even when your blatant staring led your gaze to where that easy smile was pointed in the direction of a pretty brunette on his other side. Well, you thought mournfully to yourself and pointedly looked away when her eyes flickered to yours, a look of wanting all too familiar on her face because you’ve caught it too often on your own, definitely still attractive. 

Huffing a sigh, you go to take the seat next to Foggy with plans to rest against the arm of the couch and sink into it much like him, but as you approached, you just barely caught the way Foggy’s eyes shifted from you, to Matt, and to the seat you were turning to take before an all too impish smile accompanied the way he suddenly slid into the corner seat and patted the cushion next to him. You stalled for just a moment, surprised betrayal dropping your jaw as Foggy tried to hide his content smile behind a non-chalant sip of beer.

“Gonna sit?” Foggy couldn’t help himself, and you shot him the dirtiest glare you could muster in the split second you had before your loitering would become awkward and you turned to sit in the last spot available to you. Next to Foggy, but also, very purposely—and you would be sure to harbor this grudge as leverage against him for however long you could get away with—next to Matt. 

“Remind me to pencil killing you into my schedule for next week.” You hissed as you sat down, indignation stuttering as in fact, the couch was incredibly comfortable. But your point had been made, you couldn’t enjoy the nice fluffy couch, and Foggy cackled next to you as you were slowly made all too aware of the fact that if you shifted over even slightly, you’d be brushing up against Matt’s side. He has to be trying to make you suffer, you were sure of it. This wasn’t clumsy matchmaking, this was psychological torture. 

Foggy laughed again, louder, when you kicked his leg softly out of the way so you could adjust in your spot. “I’m a little busy then. Do you mind pushing my murder back a few weeks?” 

“Extensions are only for friends who aren’t also trying to kill me.” 

“I literally have no clue what you’re talking about,” He sang under his breath, blissful and entirely perceptive to the way you choked the neck of your bottle.

“Your days are numbered, Nelson. Count them.”

“Who’s committing murder?” 

You jumped at the sound of Matt’s voice, and you turned your head to see his head turned toward you and Foggy. A playful smile tugged his lips as he tilted his face, and your name passed through them in a quiet question; a gentle wonder if he was addressing the right person, and you suddenly felt horrible for not letting him know you were there first. If your offered greeting was sheepish and soft, it was only because you held yourself up to a higher standard. Not at all because you watched Matt lean in ever so slightly, as if being closer could help him discern you. 

“Hi.” His smile widened at the sound of your voice, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped in your chest. 

“Hi.” You returned, unable to help the smile of your own as your eyes quickly darted around his face. It wasn’t like it had been an eternity since you’ve last seen him—being friends with Foggy more often than not meant hanging out with him also meant hanging out with Matt—but it was always nice to check the mental boxes of what made this man so appealing to you. The crinkles by his eyes when he smiled like that. The way his hair swept down onto his face. The fullness of his pink lips. When you felt yourself staring, your heart beginning to race, you cleared your throat and took another sip from your bottle. 

Matt shifted next to you, angling himself closer as he adjusted on the couch. Curious, knowing he was talking to someone, you glanced over his shoulder to find his other side empty. 

“Where’d your friend go?” The question came out before you even thought about it, borne of both a curiosity and masochistic urge to know, and you quickly found her retreating body settling down in a group of people sitting in what looked like a circle on the floor a few yards away. 

Matt’s brow twitched before he sighed, shrugging his shoulders like dismissing beautiful women was a simple pastime he couldn’t be bothered with. “Ah, it wasn’t going anywhere, so I told her she should go enjoy herself.” 

“Oh, let me tell you, she wanted it to go somewhere.” You scoffed against the glass, remembering the look of desire you caught. A little while longer, if you didn’t interrupt, and she might have gotten it. A sliver of green jealousy you couldn’t help rose at the mental image of Matt between her legs—or anyone else's, for that matter—but you quickly stomped that down into the closest recess of your mind you could manage. It would be helping no one, and certainly not you, for you to unpack any of that.

“I know,” Matt said airly, deep breath filling his lungs before letting his head and voice dip toward you. “But you’re here now, and I enjoy talking to you much more.”

You stared Matt down, keeping a straight face your only defense to the way his voice shot straight through you. It was hard to tell if there was an implication he ended that conversation for you or if you were simply losing it. So you ignored the way you felt heat stir in the pit of your belly, ignored the way Matt seemed to wait for you expectantly, head cocked and smile turned teasing, ignored the way Foggy shook silently with laughter next to you—you could handle it. So he wanted to flirt. He’s done this before. You do it too. Yeah…you can handle it.

“Sure you do.” Flippantly, you hummed, and Matt’s leg brushed against yours as he shifted to prop his head up on his hand, elbow on the back of the couch. A tingle washed over you then, light and full of a crackling potential, before it dissipated across the surface of your skin. “You should say goodbye to Foggy, by the way. He might not be here in a few days.”

“Should you be confessing ideals of premeditated crime to me?”

“Oh this isn't a confession. It’s a statement. I’m just telling you everything so there’s no surprises during the trial. Which, you’ll be representing me, of course, Counsellor.”

Matt grinned. “I don’t know, I haven’t quite passed the bar yet. Besides, I might be biased. Considering he’s my best friend and all. Lines get even blurrier when you take into account my prior knowledge of this first-degree murder. I’ll have you know, by telling me this, I’m well within my moral means to stop you.”

You raised your drink, letting the invitation of the alcohol spur you on as it warmed your body. Despite yourself, you were having fun, honeying your words as excitement thrummed through you. “Go ahead.” Slyly, you lowered your voice. “Stop me.”

Admittedly, watching Matt’s reaction did more to you than you thought it would. He paused just for a moment, sitting in the weight of your statement before he wet his lips—an action you followed all too closely—and brought his own bottle up to his mouth, smirk hiding around the edges. You watched the way his throat worked down his drink, unable to stop the thoughts of wanting to kiss down the motion. You knew he couldn’t see, yet it seemed that behind those dark frames, he was fixed entirely onto you. 

Desire loomed just under your skin, itching to strike flint against the kindling, but you were quick to abate. Teasing was fun, but you had to remind yourself that that’s all it was: teasing. For as much as you wanted to grab Matt Murdock’s face and make out with him on his lap right there on the couch, or drag him out to your car and lead him to your apartment, party be damned, you also couldn’t bring yourself to do anything you would regret. And Matt, in all his bed-warming glory, would be something you’d regret. One fun night wouldn’t dull the ache you felt in foolishly wanting to be something more, something meaningful with him. Exclusivity wasn’t a word he knew. Or at least one frequently honoured, if you pieced anything about him together correctly.

A flicker of embarrassment wasn’t the only thing that warmed your face as you sat back against the couch, dropping your head and letting your eyes flutter shut against the picture of the ceiling, but it was what you focused on as you let out a deep breath. Maybe it was silly of you, to want a relationship. You definitely felt silly, knowing that most of your peers—including the ones at this party—most likely weren’t looking for anything serious. It was hard enough, getting into Columbia. And working during your graduate program on top of that…no wonder short-term flings or one night stands were so popular. And as worked up as you were, however tempted you might get, you told yourself you weren’t looking for throwaway easy stress relief. At least, not with Matt. Briefly, you contemplated if you would go home with someone tonight, someone you wouldn’t have to remember the name of, or face again in your small circle of friends. Someone just to help ease the ache that always grew tenfold whenever you let Matt get to you; someone to help you pretend. The thought flickered before you shook it from your mind. You frowned, feeling wrong to even be thinking about it with Matt right there, and stretching your spine as you felt Foggy bounce on the couch by your side.

“That has to be a record, you two,” Foggy threw out casually into the air. “Should I give you the couch? Clear out the basement?”

“You can keep dreaming.” You chuckled as you quickly dragged your hand down your face, sitting back up. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, face screwing up into a frown before he rolled his eyes. “So what’s the plan, gang? Getting wasted? Should we plot world domination? Or—”

“Foggy! Matt!” Your heads swivelled to the sound of the voice calling them, and you spotted a guy with cropped blond hair that’s sitting in the circle you noticed earlier waving his arms up. You didn’t know him, but obviously your friends did. “Come play with us! And bring whoever’s with you, the more people the better.”

Foggy’s face lit up. “Or we could play—”

“No.” Matt said simply.

It dimmed just as fast. 

“Why not! Don’t you wanna feel like a pre-teen again?”

You watched as Matt grimaced, but not without amusement. “Not necessarily, no. I went through enough getting to my twenties. Totally fine not participating in middle school games.”

Glancing between them, and spotting that blond man again as there was a sudden cheer from the circle, you bit the bait. “Okay, so what are they playing over there?”

“Take a guess,” Matt leaned in closer to you, and it took a decent modicum of strength not to study his profile from the angle, holding up his beer like he was scrutinizing it before you realized he was displaying it out in front of him for example. “There’s a bottle, drunk undergrads, and a closet the next room over.”

You felt a laugh bubble up from your chest as you finished off your own drink, squinting over at the circle and watching as someone from the group leant forward to spin a bottle, and two of them were ushered into another room off the basement. “Oh, that is so middle school.” 

“But it could be fun!” Foggy sighed, like he was contemplating but not quite arriving at a decision. “Besides, you don’t gotta go make out with someone. There’s like, truth or dare or something. Unless standing in a cramped space making awkward conversation is your thing.”

Rolling your eyes, you snorted. “I’ll pass.” The idea greeting you with a childish humor—alongside the gut selfish thought of how you’d be a horrible player, and would only choose the closet if that bottle landed on Matt.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed in a soft voice, and you had to tell yourself he wasn’t looking at you. He literally couldn’t. “Me too.”

“So it’s been decided.” Foggy nodded his head once, slashing his hands through the air. “World domination it is, then?”

“Think I might need another drink before I’m meant to get nefarious,” You said, leaning forward and placing your empty bottle on a small coffee table in front of you. “But by all means, where do we start?”

But when Foggy doesn’t answer you, and questioningly, you look over to see his gaze fixed on a group of people that just descended into the basement. As if sensing your question, you hear Matt’s voice close to your ear, his breath hot and low. And even though he didn't even say anything remotely sensual, the shiver that ran down your spine was imagining he did. “Think the NYU 3L’s just got here.”

“Oh no.” An oxymoron, given your grin, watching as Foggy began to frantically smooth out his shirt. “I think—” Your eyes scanned over the new heads dispersing around the room until you spotted the sway of blonde hair tied up high. “Yup, she’s here. And he’ll be gone in three, two…” 

“I um,” Foggy shot up, hands combing nervously through his hair as he turned, torn between addressing the two of you and glancing over to where Marci Stahl just sat down in the spin the bottle circle, “think I might go play afterall. I’ll just be- you know where to find me!” You and Matt erupted into laughter, cheering as Foggy stumbled his way over, hovering only long enough to strategically pick a seat before plopping himself down and sending you a thumbs up. 

“Ugh,” you groaned playfully, and it wasn’t hard to miss the way Matt stretched to rest his arm behind you when he settled back down. And you leant into it, his forearm behind your neck and his fingertips lightly grazing your shoulder in lazy passes. “Young love. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

“If growing up means Foggy still thinking there’s any way she’ll give him a shot, then sure.”

“Put that cynicism aside, Murdock.” You looked over to see his brows shoot up in amusement, then even further when you plucked his bottle out of his hand. “They’re gonna Romeo and Juliet that shit—sans poison, just you wait.”

Matt chuckled. “You can get your own beer, you know.”

“Payment.” You took a sip, watching him from the corner of your eye. “For thinking you were slick enough to pull this off.”

He pressed his fingers into your shoulder purposefully then, caressing a line where he could reach, then back up. “What, this?” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk, a flash of teeth. “Guess I’ll note that a little affection means you wouldn’t be above stealing a blind guy’s drink.”

“Yet somehow, I don’t feel bad at all.”

“Didn’t think so.” Matt shimmied in his seat, getting comfortable when he reached through the air to grab his drink back. You guided it to his hand and watched as he sighed into another swig, licking his lips again and you almost swore he bit back a low groan that still escaped, feeling a rumble where you pressed against his side, despite his effort. “Mm, I actually think you feel pretty good right now.”

“Yeah?” Nonplussed, and completely aware of how your heart beat quickly behind your ribs, “How’d you figure?”

“One can hazard a guess.” He turned toward you, and you met his face with enough conviction to try and see through the black lenses and try to get a glimpse of his eyes behind them. “But also,” he dropped his voice to a whisper as he shifted closer. You’re not sure if he knew just how close he was to your ear or not, but the heat of his words licked down your spine. “You haven’t pulled away from me yet.” 

Unable to help it, your gaze dropped to his lips as you swayed back just to breathe. He was so close to you, it would barely take anything to kiss him. A few inches forward. An upward angle of your head. And it was tempting, as you stared longer than you should have, breath catching in your lungs at how they were parted so prettily, hinging on as if on an unspoken word. Or an invitation. If this were anyone else, they probably would have clocked the intent you beat down and have done it already. But Matt couldn’t see the way your eyes darkened, or the way your chest rose and fell slightly quicker. There was always part of you that thought he had to know, or at least, in his words, be pretty spot on with his guesswork. You supposed Matt knew the effect he had on people, and how you weren’t much different.

You may have thought any different, but you apparently loved the self-punishment that came with declining his every attempt to tempt you into dark corners and private rooms, it seemed. 

“Don’t think anything of it. Just comfy.” You rolled your neck, leaning back against his arm. “Don’t need that head of yours getting any bigger.”

“Oh, but don’t you wanna see how big it can get?”

You groaned, ignoring the traitorous way your stomach fluttered at the double entendre or how the baritone of his voice travelled straight in a quick clean pulse between your legs. You would not think about the size of his dick. You would not look down at the crotch of his jeans. “You ruined it, Matt. Really. Got me going there and everything. Might’ve rerolled your chances.”

He threw his head back and laughed, deep and real. “Sure I did.”

Then, there was a silence. A moment passed between the two of you that was easy to settle in. Found in the overlap of too loud voices, the faint sounds of Mario Kart, the background beat of Frank Ocean, and the creeping alcohol flushing through your bloodstream. It made it easy then, sharing the rest of Matt’s drink and just soaking in the environment. A hum formed in the back of your throat, pleasant and almost content; and for the first time that night, you started to actually feel relaxed, tucked into Matt’s side on a comfy couch in someone’s basement. 

But the thought didn’t linger for long, your brow furrowing at the realization that you could get used to this, to easy comfort and sharing a beer. That you wanted to get used to it. That maybe next time, you could steal his drink away in a bout of distraction, in a kiss, perhaps. That you’d be leaving just as you arrived: together. That you wouldn’t have to suffer showing up to parties you only went to for him just to see him flirting with other people anymore, simply because he would be yours.

But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t be. And you’ve already made your peace with that. Because that’s just how it was, selfish thoughts aside. You could flirt with Matt Murdock, let him flirt with you. But that’s as far as you would ever let it go. Because if you ever gave in, you wouldn’t be able to help yourself from wanting more. You wouldn’t be able to take anything he wouldn’t be willing to give.

You inhaled sharply, sitting up and moving away. An inch. It was truly only an inch. But an inch was more than noticeable when your thigh had been fully pressed into his. You never truly realize just how warm someone is until you lose contact. Or just how cold you leave them.

“Are you okay?” 

Matt followed you to where you sat at the edge of the cushion, straightening his back, and you almost missed the way he hesitated before deciding to place both of his hands in his lap. “Hm?”

“You…you got quiet. Is something wrong?” Your face twitched against a pout at the earnestness in his voice, soft and simple. “Did I- was it the joke? Not feeling it today?”

You shook your head, a dry chuckle escaping. “No, Matt. No it wasn’t you, don’t worry.” He seemed to relax then. You didn’t notice how much he had tensed at the thought of him making you uncomfortable until you saw his shoulders sag. “I…yeah. Don’t worry.”

He frowned. “You’re telling me not to worry, but your entire mood just changed.” He stated pointedly. “I can- I don’t know, it’s like I can feel it. Tell me what’s up.”

You sighed, heavy and full. You didn’t know if you could tell him even if you wanted to. You and Matt were friends—or at least, you thought you were—but you weren’t particularly close despite the fact that Matt tended to be an open book with you. Purposefully, you’ve kept yourself from establishing that return in connection, from wanting to indulge in him to weather your frustrated rants or hold safe a few of your secrets. That kind of connection would only make the way you felt about him worse, if you craved him not only under the sheets but as a confidant. It was bad enough that you wanted him so much based on what you knew of him just from this last year since you’ve met him—being exactly your type in more than just looks and humor. You never could quite find it in yourself to cross that line, because then you knew, you’d truly be lost. 

“I’m fine, Matt.”

“You’re not.”

Defensive, and upset with yourself for not being able to just be normal about him, you couldn't control your tone. “What’s it even matter to you?” You spit back, your eyes widening just as you said it, and a lick of regret stinging the back of your throat from how sharp the words came out. 

You watched Matt, taken aback, confusion and…something else you couldn’t quite place creeping onto his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance. 

“Murdock!” Glaring, your eyes snapped back to that same blond guy that called out to Matt and Foggy earlier. “Bottle landed on you man. Get your ass over here!”

Without even thinking, you called out in his defense. “He’s not even playing. Spin it again.”

“You have to see how clearly it’s pointing to him!” And you did. A quick glance, and you could see over the distance that there was a clean gap between seated bodies, the open bottleneck of a long empty drink pointed barrel straight across the room. There was no doubt, if someone were to draw an arrow from it horizontally until it reached another, the line would hit Matt dead and center. 

For a split second, you watched Matt’s jaw tick with a restraint that you couldn’t decide if it was rooted in anger, annoyance, or a special third thing you just weren’t picking up on, opting safely for all of the above. You went to go roll your eyes, to tell Matt to ignore them. But then suddenly, he grabbed your hand, fingers wrapping around yours as his other one reached down to where his cane was on the ground by his side. 

“Come on,” He murmured, only loud enough for you to hear. “Let's go somewhere quieter.”

Confusion sent a shock through your system, a gentle short-circuit as it felt like you blinked and the dynamic changed drastically. “Aren’t we already somewhere quieter?”

He sent you a small sardonic smile, tugging your hand as he stood up. You tried not to think about how warm his palm felt in this moment that caught you off guard, or the slight callousness of his fingertips where they pressed against your skin as you followed. “Private, then. So we can talk.”

The question sat on your tongue as Matt began to move swifter than you thought he would, dipping out his cane and taking careful, measured, yet confident strides before your brain could even catch up. Talk. He wanted to talk. Your reply came out in a whisper you weren’t sure if he heard. “Okay.”

The both of you were already across the basement floor before you started to hear a sound of a protest. One you intentionally ignored to instead tell Matt about the stairs coming up. The angle ascending was weird, and you didn’t want to inhibit his navigation in any way, so you gently slipped your hand from his, but not without muttering an assurance that you were right behind him. 

The main party was just as loud as ever, and you swore you saw Matt take a deep breath and brace himself before he opened the door that led from the basement, and you couldn’t blame him. He waited until you stepped out, shut the door behind you, before his fingers caught the hem of your shirt and he leant down so you could hear him better. “Upstairs?”

You nodded your head, momentarily forgetting he wouldn’t have picked up on the gesture as you guided him through the luckily sparser crowd in the hallway until you rounded the corner of the staircase. Matt found the railing, and you looked at him. He motioned for you to lead the way. This house really was huge. And the assumption you had earlier when you’d gotten there that the second floor was a neverending assortment of rooms wasn’t far from wrong. You supposed Foggy hadn’t been either, his comments about places you could hide being one of his selling points to you. The first door you had opened was a bathroom. The second, a bedroom that was fully furnished and sheets unmade. The third was when you’d hit the mark, finding unlocked entry into what looked like a long since unused guest room after you’d flipped on the light. There was a full-sized bed in the middle of the room, pressed against the wall with immaculately folded sheets and crisp tucked edges, a small hallway side table that housed a fake potted plant, a lamp at the bedside that was slowly collecting cobwebs, and what looked to be an ornate dresser that had in its past, seen better days. 

The second the door closed, clicking against the latch, Matt wasted no time. 

“Just to get it out of the way, you matter to me, so of course if something upsets you, I want to know.” Your jaw dropped as you watched him trace the wall and navigate a little around the room before leaning his cane up against the dresser, casual all the while you suddenly felt like you were frozen where you stood. “So could you please…If it’s me, I want to know, so I can do better. If it’s not, then if you’re willing to share, I’m willing to help out.”

Your mind raced, suddenly overwhelmed and in a whirlwind state of shock as to how you’ve gotten to here, alone with him, when just five minutes ago everything was normal. Everything was fine. “Matt.”

“Is it me?”

There was a pain in his face, subtle, but tugging just enough to be evident as you studied him. “No it’s…it’s complicated.”

“How?”

You threw your hands up in the air. “It just is! I don’t know!” Squeezing your eyes shut, you continued. “I like what we have Matt, whatever it is. I just. Don’t want to mess it up, with the shit I don’t tell you, I guess.”

“What we have.” He repeated. Slowly. Gently. Then softly, taking a step forward, he asked, “What do we have?”

Suddenly, you felt like you were under a spotlight in an otherwise pitch black room. You always thought the weight of a person's focus came from how they looked at you. But now, in the quiet, music muffled and distant, alone with Matt, you realized just how wrong you were. You could nearly feel the way he was honed in on you, five feet away and steadily approaching in small measured shuffles forward. By all outward appearances, it seemed to be like he knew exactly where you were, featherlight steps that almost seemed feline in nature, and was giving you ample time to make a decision. 

“We’re friends.” You began. “Joking around. Hanging out. It’s easy with you, sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” He nodded. Waited for you to continue. He was three feet away now. “I like…I like messing around with you. Don’t mind it at all. So if you were worried you crossed a line, you didn’t, Matt. You’re okay. Promise. It’s all in good fun.” 

If you weren't so aware of your thoughts right now, you might not have noticed the way that last sentence snagged in a lie against your tongue.

“There.” He stopped just a foot in front of you, a firm set to his face as his brows furrowed in thought. 

“There, what?”

“Your voice wavered, just then.” It was an accusation, but it didn’t make you feel targeted. It was simply as if Matt was sorting through the interference of your mind and plucking out the loose strings. “I know you like the flirting, but it never goes anywhere. And you say it’s only easy with me sometimes. Why?”

“Why does it never go anywhere, or…”

He lowered his head, chin dropping just slightly. “Both.”

You scoffed, and for the first time since this conversation started, you felt like you were ready to throw in the towel and switch topics as your heart flipped in disbelief. He couldn’t seriously be asking about this right now. “Matt, really, you’re getting worked up over a random stray thought that made me go quiet. I’m fine. Everything is fine—”

“Everything is not fine, because you’re all I can think about, and I need to know if I'm about to say something that'll majorly screw things up or not!” And Matt swayed where he stood, like he was torn between stumbling away and reaching forward to you. Your heart thudded in your chest. 

Then it was silent—music, party unheard—save for the roaring in your ears.

“What?”

Matt’s head suddenly shot up. And in an action in which you thought you’d find a breath of clarity, he instead turned sharply toward the door. Briefly, you weren’t sure what impressed you more, the fluid strides in which he made it over, or how he remembered which direction it was in after turning around a couple of times in his pace of the room to find a wall. It also took you by surprise, the inherent trust he had in how he moved, like he was past guessing the space he had to work with and simply acted. But that was a moment quickly pinned to the background, as when you saw Matt’s hand grab the door knob and twist to push it open—it wouldn’t budge. 

Matt tried again, and you heard the jiggle of the knob, and watched, befuddled and disoriented and trying to make sense of the last thirty seconds, while Matt shoved a shoulder into the door to only be met with no give. 

The door was locked. 

“It locks from the inside,” Matt replied, voice low with a dangerous edge of an irritation you've only witnessed from him rarely, and you realized you said that out loud all the while you saw him pathetically twist the lock back and forth as if he were reveling in the cruel joke of it all. “Someone out there blocked the way.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Matt takes a step back, and you wonder if he was contemplating making another pass at the door. His head seemed to tilt around the general direction of the frame as if trying to trace it out mentally, his fingertips splayed on the wood at the end of an extended arm. For a second, it looked as if he were lost in a contemplation under the warm light of the room, studying…whatever it was he could gather. If he was going to throw himself at it again, you realized you should probably stop him. You also realized that somehow, he knew the door was locked before either of you had tried to leave. 

He also had just admitted to thinking about you all the time. And selfishly—or at least in the hierarchy of emotional distress those three things gave you—that seemed like the most pressing thing to address. 

His fists clenched at his side and you saw him take another step back as if to gear up for a charge before you blurted out, “What do you mean I'm all you think about?” He seemed to falter, going stiff and turning away from the door in a shaky glide as he pivoted on his heels. “Because if that's just a line to try and get me to open up, that's so not cool, Murdock. And blind or not, I'll use you as a battering ram to get out of here.”

“Oof.” A little amused huff shook him before he pursed his lips, shaking his head. “No. No that…that wasn't a line. I'm not trying to—” he flung his hands frustratingly down by his sides after they drifted up to rub at his face, shifting his glasses until he replaced them on the bridge of his nose— “It means exactly what you think it means.”

With a shaky confidence, you took a step toward him. “And what did you mean when you said you don't want to say anything that could screw things up?” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you wanna say, Matt?”

He approached slowly. So slow it was almost a prowl, and you might have equated it to one under different circumstances. On instinct, you took a half step back just from the sheer intensity Matt seemed to carry with him, your stomach fluttering with a new craving despite yourself. Again, he paused in front of you, and you noticed the way his chest rose and fell just as violently as yours.

“Tell me what had you freezing up next to me down there first.” 

“Not fair.” 

“I asked you first.” 

“No, you confronted me.” You said stubbornly, deciding to go rambling down that path than to admit he was right. “Very rudely, might I add. Killed my buzz from that crappy beer and everything. And then you dragged—”

“You followed me willingly,” He took another step forward. And another. You moved back if only to keep space between you. 

“—me up here, then go and say an incredibly insane thing to me—”

A smile started to tug the corners of his mouth. “It was a truthful admission.”

“—Then you did that weird and somehow sexy thing with the door.” You felt your heart leap to your throat as the back of your thighs tapped against the blunt edge of wood grain and you let out a soft grunt. Your hands reflexively grabbed onto the sides. Matt grinned at the sound of your surprise. “And now you're…you're backing me into a table, y'know—”

“It was either that or a wall, I figured.” 

“—and it should be threatening, maybe, and I probably could’ve darted around you without you knowing, but it's honestly kinda hot, and—”

“I want you.” Your mouth went dry, parting on an expression that was a mix of shocked and aroused as he stopped in front of you, his knee bumping into your leg and stilling himself only just before he'd have to brace himself on the wall to lean over you. “That's what I was gonna say.” 

As all things lit up in you much like restoring power to a city grid, you swallowed thickly against the hammering of your heart in your throat. If you were a better person, you would roll your eyes and push him away, calling Matt out on what had to be another line and focus on the more pressing issue of getting out of the locked room. If you were a stronger person, you could blame the heat that rolled through your veins like molten magma and primed every nerve on the drinks you had, and come up with some other excuse as to why its epicenter would lead straight to your core. But you were neither, and the long, long months of this game you played were starting to catch up to you. Whether you were winning or losing, it was hard to tell.

“And that's the big thing you were afraid would make shit hit the fan?” You breathed, your hands growing restless as you fought the urge to touch him. You didn’t. That’s how you held your line. That’s how you lasted so long. You could last a little longer.

“Mhm.”

You lifted your chin, emboldened by the forbearance that twitched a muscle in his cheek. “And here I thought it'd be something I didn't already know.”

Matt tilted his head, a slight cant toward his shoulder as a confident lilt yet again infiltrated his words. “You knew, huh?”

“Believe it or not, there is a limit to how many times you can proposition me before I started to suspect you actually might have started to mean it.”

He paused, and briefly, giving way to a sober moment, his face softened, a fragility you were surprised to find, not thinking clearly enough for insight, whispering on the coattails of his question. “So you're saying, I…didn't just catastrophically ruin things?”

“Nope.” The question of ‘why would it?’ carefully lingered at the front of your mind, but the words died before you even had the forethought to speak them; the idea that Matt could have been implying anything more than what seemed to be surface level desire not even crossing into your realm of possibility in this moment. This moment, where all you could think of was how close he was. How warm he was. How every time he shifted on his feet, he bumped into you and it sent a flicker of anticipation that did nothing but join the haze that began to carve out space for the one way track you seemed to be careening toward.

That softness didn't fully disappear, it lingered, only just now hidden behind the zealous intent of his concentration and the unconscious way Matt drew his bottom lip between his teeth. “And you're admitting to knowing I've wanted you for months now and you've just been having your fun brushing me off?”

“Trust me, it's not always fun.” Came your reply, shameless memories flashing behind your eyes of the countless numbers of days you've gone back home with your heart racing from the exercise of your restraint around him. Or the way you'd daydream about Matt while you worked until you often found yourself snapping out of distraction. Or how you'd be unable to sleep sometimes until you got yourself off to the thought of him. 

For a brief moment, you contemplated not being fair in your confession. One final sense of preservation reminding you in alarm bells why you've spent all this time ignoring him—ignoring yourself. Why you've shouldered and toughed through all the flirting, the invitations, and sometimes downright filthy observations. The reason you'd declined him that first time nearly a year ago being the same reason that's held strong over the course of the time that's passed: there was no real way for you to tell, for you to be certain, that you wouldn't just be another notch in Matt's bedpost. That despite the fact that he's been nothing but a gentleman to you otherwise, playing nice by your rules, heeding within the boundaries of the cat and mouse you'd encouraged. It's been months, and you don't think you've ever witnessed Matt Murdock hang on so long to anyone—the fervor that at first felt like him trying to do better, do more to convince you, slowly turning into a comfortable normal. A playful back and forth you two shared in. The both of you truly had been playing a game. Playing a game, and having fun, despite the main reward doing nothing but adding to the pile of tension that in this moment, felt so unrestrained, you were bursting at the seams.

Unable to ignore it any longer, you couldn't even find the will in you to summon the strength you always mustered to stop any risks for escalation. Any opposition that might have bubbled up in the forms of bad idea or you'll regret it dying out like the last burning embers of a flame doused in enough water to flood.

If you were finally going to allow yourself Matt—allow the indulgence that had you burning for him day after day, night after night—you quickly came to the realization that it would be now. It would be tonight. And it would be before there was any chance you could talk yourself out of it.

Your equal admission came mild, words concentrated and accentuated from carrying the truth you've wanted to share for far too long now, and not without its own equity in weight. “I want you too.”

The air turned electric; the silence that bridged the remaining gap between you charging quickly into something thick and heady as active reality was starting to actually settle in. Matt let out a little breath, as did you, shaky and involuntary, as he deliberately pressed closer. His knee found the seam of your legs, and he effortlessly nudged himself between them. Your hand shot out to steady yourself against his arm, nerves producing a slight tremor you couldn't quite control.

Your voice, thick, and seeming all too loud to your ears, tested the waters. “We should get out of here.” Out of this room. Out of the party. You weren’t sure which. You wanted both. You wanted Matt.

Matt gravitated toward you, like he was unable to help the pull anymore, same as you. You froze when his fingers pressed featherlight against the side of your neck, thumb sliding just under your jaw enough to tilt your head the most minute of degrees. He was close enough, his breath fanned distantly against you when he spoke. “After I kiss you first?”

A breath was held, thundering anticipation in your chest, and you let the frantic nod of your head against his touch do the talking. 

You’ve known Matt Murdock for a while now, pulled into the little bubble he shared with Foggy Nelson quickly after stumbling into an unlikely friendship. You’ve been around long enough to know the rumors and which of those actually held truth. To overhear the occasional giggles and whispers every once in a while from men and women around campus. Long enough to know that Matt had steadily built a repertoire well known amongst a select group of the co-eds. But nothing you gathered, assumptions you weighed, and the personal experience you used to supplement your own fantasies could have predicted this. 

Against your expectations, Matt’s kiss was surprisingly soft. It was almost unsure, as if he were on a trepid venture, using the way he moved slowly against you as permission still. You could almost taste the trickle of hesitation intertwined with the sparks behind your eyes and behind the way your brain roared and heart sang with the simple satisfaction of ‘finally’. When you kiss him back, he let out a gentle little sigh, and you felt him smile into you, seemingly enough of an acceptance to abate the incredibly trivial worry he had that once it happened, you would somehow want it to end. And as he pressed closer, deeper, your pulse leaping under your skin as you felt his fingers slide into a delicate cradle around your throat, the thought of wanting it to end was so far removed from your immediate mind, it was easily humbling the version of you that swore you’d never allow this. Allow him.

When Matt pulled back, it was instinct to chase after him. But through the pleasant haze that muddled your thoughts, the gentle passes of pleasure that lazily rolled through you like low tide lapping at the shore, you instead opened your eyes. Through your lidded gaze, blinking, you watched a quiet gratification steadily bloom across his face alongside a grin that was almost boyishly giddy, and settle into a content as he released another deep sigh; an indulgent revel as you both shared in this long awaited moment. 

It might not have been a good look, but after a couple of flips of your heart in your chest, you dictated the moment was over as you impatiently leant forward to wrap your arms around his neck and pulled him back in. You could relish in finalities later. You wanted to kiss him now. And Matt had little objection as he melted back into you.

“So, about the door—” He wisped in the inbetweens, soft laugh interrupted between each press of your lips to his and his hands steadied himself on the table as he leaned into you.

“Mm, not yet.” And Matt grins because he already knew you wouldn’t even entertain the tease. Not when you were like this. Not when you felt like the world was spinning beneath you, weightless, and his kiss dizzying. You responded to him at first equally, before a surge of more overtook you. 

Unbidden, you gave way, relenting to every part of you that craved him; that wanted to take. You’ve dreamt of this for so long: the feel of him close to you, the weight of him as he had you hemmed against the table, his hands by your sides, hot and solid and willing. The taste of him—oh how you wanted the taste of him, whether you found it against his skin, in his mouth or in yours. You didn’t want to stop, despite knowing you should, knowing that maybe this wasn’t the time or place, a distant reminder that you were a guest in somebody’s home locked in a bedroom that wasn’t yours. But you cling tightly onto that flicker of greed, letting it fuel you as you surged forward into him, your fingers curling against the strands of hair at the back of his neck. A surprised little noise escaped Matt then; a soft startled whimper falling from him as you tugged him to you, your kiss insistent as you took the next step, wordlessly telling him what you wanted with a swipe of your tongue against the plush of his lips.

Matt’s hands were on your face faster than you felt him move, warm palms cupping your jaw, fingers pressing into your temples as he held you in place, body leaning forward until his hips pinned your own. There was a reluctance in the way he pulled back, and you felt the shudder that ran through him, a shiver that seemed to crackle through his system and percolate to you where you were skin to skin, raising goosebumps that formed anywhere they could as he parted from you only the smallest fraction. Matt shook, and you gulped, swallowing hardly at the feel of his breath mixing with yours, lightheaded and yearning, as time seemed to slow.

“Fuck,” The curse is breathed against the skin of your lips, hot. Whispered like a resolution; burning like a brand. Your hand curled tight in his shirt collar, shivering with him. Waiting. Restless. Curious.

You understood in the split-second just before it happened, what you must have done. And it was like you could feel in this limbo of space the power in the aftermath of Matt's undoing, restraint unraveling as the fervor you'd fed him convincing enough to turn the lights green and the throttle red. He hovered there, in front of you, ghosting another kiss he was gearing up to give as the cogs in his head turned, inhibitions flicking off one by one. A single second stretched into an agonizing eternity—galvanic and volcanic.

He let go.

Now this…this is what you expected; a kiss full of a hunger and desire so explosive it was nearly overwhelming, static crackling in your ears and a reticent moan freely opening the gates to the roaring flame Matt brought with him. His insistence seeped into you heavy and sudden, reminding you of the swift fury that can come with rain against bare skin during a thunderstorm. His hold on you tightened ever so slightly, trying to pull you impossibly closer as if he wasn’t already pressing bruises onto your lips. You felt a hand card through your hair, a sharp pull that was far from unkind tilting your head back until he was almost on top of you. It was a steady devouring; months of want, of self-control, pouring into you with the press of his body and the surprising nip of his teeth and no apparent plan of stopping until you were made up for lost time. If this were any other person, you might have struggled to keep up with his intensity. Instead, you matched Matt in stride as you parted your lips in a gasp, opened up to the way he eagerly slid into your mouth. You moved without thought, without reason, guided simply by the carnal instinct that sought to fill in its depravity. 

He was everywhere; carding through your hair, tracing down your neck, the curve of your shoulder, like he was mapping out the shape of you under his touch, charting a path he could later reference and follow. His hands fell to the dip of your waist, holding you steady as you tried to lift off from where you were leaning against the wood and into him, your turn with your hands on his face as you swiped over his cheeks and held him against your palms as you dared to drag your tongue over his. You were not at all prepared for the burst of him—beer and slightly sweet with a faint whispering of copper—or the sensual groan that tore from a place deep and ragged, ripped from the stirrings in his chest. He parted for you, a silent ‘again’ as his grip found its banded attention on your hips. He settled there and jolted when you licked into him again with the intent to see what other sounds you could pull from him. The table creaked as the both of you collided firmly with it, and Matt rocked against you, denim catching the side of your hip in a clumsy, unconscious grind. 

You were burning now. This wasn’t enough. Nowhere near. Fingers clawed at Matt’s button up, and you began to yank it off his shoulders before he helped shrug it to the ground and he was on you again like he’d never left, tugging through strands of your hair and kissing you like the only way he could breathe was to siphon the air straight from your lungs. You’re lost for a moment, a delayed shock catching up, running through you, before your mission stirs back into awareness once more. Your touch is unwavering and steady as you stroke down his arm, as you claw gently against the cotton still over his chest. Matt released a quiet growl then, a low rumble from the back of his throat that you couldn’t quite classify—warning or invitation—so you heeded it, flicker of fire igniting through you, as both. 

Frantically, you began to yank up his shirt from where it was tucked into his jeans, tugging at the fabric until you could bare skin. Your goal had been to get it off him, to have Matt shirtless in front of you, but you quickly found out he had a similar idea before you could even swipe across his hipbones, your motions stuttering as you felt a large hand slither under your own shirt, blazing palm sliding up, up, up, against your stomach to your chest. His fingers prodding mildly at the lower curve of your bra. 

“Holy shit,” You gasped, and you tried to push into his hand. “Matt, please.”

There was an appreciation in the way he carefully grazed over the curve of you, but it was quickly overshadowed by the way he grabbed at your breast, kneading you in the palm of his hand and earning him another low moan, that in response, had him rocking into you again. There it is. And you felt more of him this time, your nerves shot and hyperaware, and Matt now hard enough that you could faintly begin to etch out the shape of him growing against your leg. You almost whine when he suddenly stops kissing you, panting heavily, but it catches on a choked gasp when wet lips instead start roaming other skin. Your chin. Your jaw. With a soft chuckle, Matt licked playfully at the lobe of your ear before he pressed a kiss to a spot right beneath it, firm and emphatic. His first move against your neck was lazy, and languid, and you felt yourself susceptible to slipping away as he began to take his time to explore. So you groped around wherever you could reach, your hands sweeping over the muscles in his shoulders, skirting down his back. You passed over cotton and skin and denim until your hands reached their target along the curve of his ass. Briefly, you wondered if you weren’t so distracted if you’d be embarrassed by how much you wanted him. But frankly, you were too turned on to care. Your thoughts came simple, one right after another. Right now, you wanted to feel him again. And your hands helped to prove your point, cupping at him until you had a solid grip, pulling him to you, guiding, encouraging. 

Matt moaned so close to your ear, hot and heavy as his head dropped helplessly into your shoulder, it only stoked the flame. He granted your wish, bucking into you again with a slow roll of his hips and a high, strangled noise against your collar. And this time, you laughed; wild and full of the disbelief that this was actually happening. A lazy pulse of heat coursed a new warmth through you, rocketing intensely through your veins until you couldn’t ignore the ache between your legs any longer. You could probably try and make Matt moan for you all day if you had the patience, but now wouldn’t be the best time for that trial. You’d nearly forgotten, when you tried to squeeze your thighs, tried to relieve some of that pressure in search for some—any—friction, about Matt’s leg. Instead, you found yourself clamping around where his thigh was slotted between yours, thick and strong, and responding in a knee-jerk reaction as it lifted higher, giving you an expanse to find relief on as you twitched instinctively.

“Oh, shit,” Matt all but yanked you down onto him, panting into your skin as his touch, his direction, persuaded you all too easily to grind against him. Relief however wasn’t the only thing you found, your eyes fluttering shut as you rolled your head back at the feel of a soft suction at the column of your throat, skin pulled between lips. The smallest graze of teeth. You wondered if it’d leave a mark. 

Then Matt suddenly startled against you, and just when you had started to chase a rhythm against him, working against the thick solidity of his thigh, he pulled away. This time, you did whine. A protest as you opened your eyes and your jaw dropped. Too worked up, your body kept moving, racing after and wanting. You were just about to speak, whether words would be a snark or a plea unknown to you until they would come out, when you spotted him, face flushed a deep pink and mouth hung open on a hinge. It was hard to choose what exactly you should focus on: the way his tongue pressed out against his bottom lip, curling up slightly as if dragging in the smell of sweat and arousal in the air, or the way his palm again found the plane of your abdomen, pressing flat with his fingers pointing down, grazing the waistband of your pants, dipping ever so criminally slight under them. Despite his cocksure demeanor, Matt trembled before you, like a rubber band strung too tight, ready to snap. And yet again, his touch was hesitant. Waiting for permission. You tried to form a coherent sound, but your body was already reacting to the possibility of what he was offering, an indecent groan falling from your lips instead as you pushed off your toes to try and rock into his touch. That was enough for him to slide down further, not yet under clothes, but your legs spread the best they could from how he’d caged you in to let his hand slip through. 

“Want some help?” Husky, Matt’s voice was so low it rumbled through you like a train on the tracks. He was warm, so warm, as he cupped over you, the sudden heat and pressure making you twitch almost violently as you didn’t even hesitate to grind into the heel of his palm. Flashes of white flickered behind your eyes as you finally got the friction you sought after, pressure enough to make you bite your lip and dig your fingers around the flesh of his arm, a broken cry dying in the well of your chest in a last effort to stay a semblance of quiet. 

“Need more.” You choked out, subject to how his touch stayed firm and consistent, following your motions to keep the stimulation you wanted, but deliberately slow. 

“Can I?” Matt swallowed hard, thumb hooking once again along the edge of your pants, brushing just ever so slightly against the sensitive skin below the belt. Never once in your life, ever, have you seen a man look as wrecked as Matt did now asking to pleasure you. Words stumbled out of his mouth in an eager plea, laced with a genuine excitement, a sincere want, as he rutted against you again, breathing hot into your skin like proximity would compel you further. Like he even needed to convince you more. “Say yes. Please say yes.”

You tugged Matt into a kiss that was hot and messy and uncoordinated, tongue and grazing of teeth, his glasses bumping against you. “Yes.”

To your surprise, Matt didn’t tease. He was swift, deftly slipping his hand under pants and your underwear alike, moving like a man on a mission about to accomplish his goal. He only paused once, heavy breaths from the both of you stirring the air as he took a moment, feeling you hot and bare and throbbing against his palm. Unconsciously, you nodded, and you think Matt felt it where he still was tucked against your shoulder, because at your signal he pressed a single finger forward, dragging slow and careful through the warm slick heat that’d been there waiting for him since minutes after you’d sat on that damn couch.

Matt moaned with you, his mouth parting on a ragged breath and his other hand on your hip tightening like feeling you was affecting him just as equally. “Oh, sweetheart I knew you were wet,” His voice was thick as it crooned out to you, parting you further as he explored, spreading through your wetness and nudging just enough against your clit to make you gasp and try and chase after it. “But all this? You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not before you finish what you started- ah!” You clutched onto his arm as he intentionally brushed over you again.

Matt stumbled over a laugh, but it lacked any cruelty. Just the same breathless intoned disbelief you’d expressed earlier. “You were saying?”

“Asshole.” “I could be.” But he wasn’t. Far from it as he sighed into you and began tracing your clit in slow, featherlight circles. “But not tonight. Not with you.”

With how much you needed something, anything, the soft touch was more than enough at the start. Something direct and consistent in its way he revolved his fingers to send fleeting, gratifying waves through you. It made you shiver, flex your hand where you’d found purchase against his shoulder. Matt moved patiently, thoroughly, taking his time to see what touches, what movements, drew out which noises. He was hedonistic enough for the both of you, humming pleasantly into your skin and lips quirking against you with every gasp and twitch and tremor, moving with no rush. Just the simple intent of making you feel good.

Eventually, however, your desire began to outweigh the input of pleasure. Matt’s sweet, satisfying motions grew unintentionally teasing. You tried to hold on, scolding yourself for a capacity for greed you hadn’t yet known you were capable of. You were getting what you wanted. There was no real reason to rush. Yet your need for more again grew with every languid pass over you and occasional roll of his own hips against your upper thigh. Despite the way you usually got off, satisfied with your fingers alone, Matt’s unlocked a craving that burned rampant, smoldering and deep. 

He seemed to sense it somehow, whether it was in the way your soft groans evolved into seeking whines, or in the frantic disposition of how you tried to meet him, torn between pursuing more from his hand, and leaning into, meeting him where he rubbed against your leg. Matt made the decision for you, pressing his fingers firmer against you and catching your lips in his as he swallowed your moan before it even had time to breach the air. 

“What do you want?”

“Put them inside.” You panted the words into his mouth, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth and nipping lightly just to hear him groan. “Please.”

You watched the way his brow furrowed when he screwed his eyes shut, and he ground harder against you, an opened mouth grunt tumbling out with a sudden jerk of his hips. That band was still winding. You wanted to be there for when it snapped. “Open wider for me then, honey.”

And he shifted, taking a half-step back from where he corralled you enough just to give you room to spread your legs further where you stood. It was a momentary loss, the direct stimulation, but you couldn’t complain as your entire body coiled with a quiver of excitement, tight pressure just aching for release. Testing, Matt slid a finger along your entrance, wetting himself in slick arousal and pressing his face into the side of yours to muffle the raspy noise that escaped him at the way you instinctively bucked into him, needy and borderline impatient. 

“You really do want me, huh?” A grin curling around the shape of the kiss he pressed against your cheek. 

“Matt, I’ll lose it if you try teasing me right now.”

“But I can tell you like it,” he whispered hotly, running his finger over you again, pressing ever so slightly with just enough force to almost push into you without actually getting there. And you clench around the projected impression of him, your body craving what was just barely out of reach. “I can feel it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, your cheeks, your face, everything burning with want. Of course you liked it. You liked him. The multitude of things you imagined him saying to you far exceeded the tameness of that statement in comparison. But coherent thoughts were slipping from you, and you just wanted to feel. You could tell that Matt didn’t have the capacity to drag this out any longer either, meeting the roll of your hips as you’d tried to coax him in perfectly with the easy glide of his index slipping into you. Your back bowed on a heady moan as suddenly, that coil was being acknowledged. Matt moved in a lazy search, pumping his finger with a small curl that gave only the slightest amount of pressure, but was enough to send small pulsing shocks of heat through you, too turned on to pretend you would be able to last long at all if Matt played his cards right. 

And you’d no doubt he would, a quiet, satisfied hum buzzing against you as it seemed he had his fill preparing before a second finger joined the first. You clawed at him where your arm was thrown around his shoulders, your head tipping forward against his breastbone as you panted into him. With how wet you were, the stretch was nothing but pleasant and comfortable. But your undoing truly lied in sensitivity. You couldn’t think back to a time you had been this horny in your life, and the first slow push of his fingers pressing up inside you almost had you choking on a plea, a flash of white blinking behind your eyes as the stirrings of that familiar build up in your core teased that it might be there sooner than you thought. 

“Oh, fuck,” You inhaled sharply, that first drag of his fingers sending a shiver down your spine. “Jesus, Matt, oh my god.”

He responded to you with a smooth roll of his wrist, a shudder complimenting your own as he parted his lips, licking them and breathing heavily against your shoulder. Matt’s voice was rough. Like you were slowly tearing him apart by barely doing anything. “Did Foggy tell you to wear that?”

Your thoughts were muddled, nothing existing around you but you and Matt and the room you were in, so it took you a moment to parse through your thoughts until the puzzle pieces clicked. An off-hand comment made. A recommendation followed. “Really don’t wanna think about Foggy with your hand down my pants,” you turned your head until you could press closer to him, your other hand coming up to rest on his chest. “But he might’ve mentioned it, yeah.”

“Compliments you so fucking well.” And he bows his head closer to you, twisting until he could just barely graze the back of your neck with a kiss. “Not overwhelming. Still very you. Smells so good—you smell good.”

And despite still feeling the ghost of his kiss on your lips, despite already having his hand, a small swell of mundane accomplishment bubbled in your chest. Enough to make you smile, and some of the easiness you shared trickled into the lilt of your voice. “Aw, does Matt Murdock have a sensitive nose?”

He grinned, and you matched him the best you could before he curled his fingers just a little sharper, pressing up into you a little harder. You clutched onto him tighter, biting off a moan. “You’ve got no idea.”

He found a steady rhythm then. He had to work, adjust with the obstacle that was your pants—since neither of you had the foresight to work them off—but if anything it bid in his favor. Matt couldn’t pull too far away, constricted by the fabric, but that didn’t matter, him opting to work you up in a steady grind and fervent pressure. The pace became heated, natural, as you met him the best you could, and the air rang out in shared whimpers and soft cries. It only took two grinds of your hips into his hand before he adjusted, maneuvering until the heel of his palm started to build the tension again on your clit, rocking into it with every steady push and pull. 

Sparks snapped in the corners of your eyes as heated pressure built in your core. You were getting close. You were getting close and it would be Matt that’d get you there. You pressed your mouth to him over his shirt if only to help prove your point, shifting into him as you listened to his short, tiny breaths, or the lewd wet sound that was proof of your indecency. You felt the way his thumb swiped comfortingly against your hip after he’d roamed down to grab at your ass and come back up. This wasn’t a dream, or a fantasy, or some sort of cruel illusion. It was actually happening. And you were letting it. 

“Fuck.” You held onto him tighter. “Shit, Matt, please- fuck! Right there.”

“Such a dirty mouth,” But his tease fell flat on a breathless sigh, almost distracted-like as he concentrated on the spot that made you keen into him.

“Says the Catholic boy fucking me on his hand, shut up.” 

He in fact did not shut up, his voice dropping, low and trembling with something you could only describe as excitement. “Are you close?”

“Mhm,” And you mouthed at his collar again, nudging his shirt out of the way to reach skin.

“God, if you sound like this only with my fingers, I can only imagine what you’ll sound like when you’re taking me.” He breathes, an awe in his voice like he’d just come to the same realization you had: that he couldn’t believe this was happening. And it was everything at once; his voice, his words, the insistence of his strokes. You clenched around his fingers as a sharp bolt a pleasure wracked through you, unable to help the way you visualized helping Matt out of his jeans, pulling your pants down too. Finally being able to see all of him. Hedging your bets on whether the old table you were using as a foundation would be able to handle it. “You like that? Like thinking about what it’ll feel like when I fuck you?” When, he said. When.

If you were going to answer, it got cut off by the way your eyes fluttered open only to see the way his hips snapped against the air. You remembered at that moment he moved away from where he could use you to be able to touch you better, but now you could see the way his cock strained tight against his jeans. Untouched. You’d fix that. 

Clumsily, you leant more of your weight against the table, leaning back only enough for your shoulderblades to wisp the cool wall behind you. And before Matt could ask anything, you reached out to hook a finger in his belt loop to pull him closer. He stumbled over his feet, faltering for just a moment, and you grinned at how cute it was that you caught him by surprise. 

“What are you—” “Let me help.” Your voice a sultry drawl that danced upon his skin.

Matt couldn’t help the throaty moan that tore from his chest at the first feel of your fingers skirting over the length of him over denim, nor the way he jerked into you, barely even touched and seeking something more substantial. He was so hard, you could only imagine how much he ached, warmth radiating from him in pulses against your hand. And you had meant to pop that button, try and fail because of your lack of patience to inch down his zipper. But a sweet little whimper tumbled from Matt’s trembling lip as in one fluid motion, he rolled up hard against your palm and ground his hand harder into you. Your resolve cracked at that, not knowing if you currently had the bandwidth to focus on him like this. You felt bad for a second, before you found resolution in the way he eagerly chased you. If Matt was satisfied with fucking himself against your hand, then you wouldn’t have any problem diverting your attention back to the fact that you were so close now, the crest of your high was almost in sight. 

You still felt like you needed to do something though. And your first thought was to pull Matt back to you, kiss him until your lips went numb, but the noises he was making went straight to your head, your heart, and between your legs. To cut those off would be a sin, you thought. So you settled for trying to spur them on, pressing in firmer drags against him as you met his thrusts, and fisting your other hand tightly in his shirt, yanking it down to pull him closer. You heard the solid thump of his palm hitting the wall behind you, and a shaky moan vibrating under your lips as you grazed your teeth across his clavicle before pressing a kiss to the column of his throat. 

“So good,” You managed to get out, following a straining tendon in Matt’s neck, him rolling his head back to give you space before you sealed your mouth over the thin skin just under his jaw. “Doing so good.”

It was as if you were held suspended in that pleasure for an extended period of time, the whole world both falling away and stopping in those few moments before you came. Nothing but the thundering in your chest, the taste of Matt against your tongue, and his fingers inside you. Your thighs clamped his hand in place as you shook, orgasm washing over you in a deep powerful wave that momentarily stole your breath, black creeping into the corners of your vision. And Matt worked you through it, slowing his ministrations but not stopping, riding the way you still grinded against him until your spasms grew too sensitive, edged on the cusp of an intensity you hadn’t yet explored. 

He kissed you, both to distract you from the way he slowly slid his fingers out of you, hand creeping back out from under your pants, and to swallow down the blissed out whine that came with the movement. He breathed with you, and distantly you felt his hips retreat from your hand. With your eyes closed, still basking in the lingering pleasure of your climax, you tried to feel back around for him only to be met with the gentle clasp of Matt’s hand around your wrist, guiding you away. 

“He-hey,” You stuttered out the word, blinking against the heavy rise and fall of your chest. “What ‘bout you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and you lifted your head just in time to see Matt pull his fingers over the flat of his tongue as he licked over the hand he’d just had in you. Your jaw dropped as you watched his full body shudder, a strained moan stuttering from his chest at the taste of you and you watched him work you down his throat as he tilted his head ever so slightly back, hips thrusting forward once again against nothing but air. When he came back, he grinned, devilish and wicked.

“Unless you want me to come the second I’m in you, sweetheart, give me a minute.” His laugh was short, rough, and delirious. And giddy, you found yourself sitting up.

“You were that close?” Wide-eyed with wonder, you cast your gaze down to his crotch, rolling the odds for what little else it might’ve taken. “Didn’t even get your pants off.” He swayed, tilting his head and raising his brows as if to say ‘well,’ before he dipped back to you, drawing in a long, deep, indulgent breath. 

Your thoughts slowly began to clear as the both of you lingered in the growing calm. But then dizzy awareness began to come back to you in time with the thumping bass of the music playing downstairs under your feet. You bit your lip, suddenly tasked with making what shouldn’t have been such a hard decision. 

“Still wanna get out of here.” You couldn’t tell if the words came out as a statement or a question, but the meaning held true either way. You stumbled as you stood, Matt moving back slowly to accommodate you, his hand on your waist. 

“This is a pretty spacious closet, though.” His joke was melodic, irony of what made you go upstairs in the first place not lost on you, and you couldn’t lie: it was so incredibly tempting, whether you’d stay put and he’d have you right there against the wall, or if you dragged him over to that pristine bed and found satisfaction in messing up the owners sheets. 

That snapped you back to it. 

You swatted playfully at his chest. “God’s sake, Matt, I have no clue whose house this is. Have some decorum.” The smirk he sent your way was absolutely sinful. “Besides, the car ride’ll give you some more time to cool off.”

“Car ride?” Matt hummed as the hand on you found skin again, squeezing you gently. “You gonna bring me to a secondary location?”

“I know somewhere even more private than up here we can use for the main event.” You whispered in the space that rapidly closed before he kissed you again and you added: “I still wanna keep going.”

He nodded against your lips. “Me too.”

Your sigh was deep and content, an excitement brewing up a fresh new wave of anticipation. “First thing’s first—”

“Call Foggy.”

You blinked. “What?”

Matt shrugged like he was being obvious. “Well, we can go see if the door’s still blocked. If it is, we can just call Foggy and have him move the chair for us.” 

“I…right.” You scoffed in disbelief, a solution as simple as that had not even been given a chance to cross your mind since the two of you went upstairs. But as long as he picked up, it really would be 

You leant to press what was meant to be a quick kiss to Matt’s lips as you pulled your phone out of your back pocket, but he grabbed your bicep just as you were about to pull away and brush past him, lingering just a few moments more into it before he let you go. You smiled at the ridiculousness of it all, mumbling that you were gonna move to go test the door, leaving him behind at the nod of his head. 

Your mind reeled as you crossed the bedroom, dialing Foggy’s number and hearing it start to ring out against your ear. Your body was still coming down from your high, nerves settling and want still politely throbbing and waiting for permission to grow again between your legs. When you reached the door, and before you tried the knob, you glanced back to see Matt shuffling around until he grabbed his cane and started in the direction toward you. Like he knew you were watching him, his face split into a wide smile, and you couldn’t help the giggle that started to bubble up your throat when the call picked up, and you were blasted with a cacophony of noise. 

“Finally!” Foggy exclaimed over the loud background of music, nearly screaming into the receiver. “I’ve only tried calling you two like a million times. I know Matt’s with you, saw you guys walk out together. Where are you?”

“We are, uh,” You let out an annoyed groan as you rattled the door knob, pushing forward, but no luck was spared. “We’ve been locked in a room.”

You would say there was silence over the line, but it was truly impossible in this house. Nevertheless, you waited until Foggy decided how long he should hold for dramatic effect. “What?”

Rolling your eyes, you shifted to get comfortable on your feet. “We left the basement because Matt needed to get away from that shit-head trying to get him to play that stupid game—”

“That was pretty shitty of him, to keep asking,” You heard Foggy grumble in agreement over the phone.

“—so we went upstairs to talk, and…” You faltered as you felt Matt sidle up behind you, a smile creeping back onto your face before your eyelids fluttered at the press of his lips against the back of your neck. “...and we found out the door was blocked behind us.”

There was another pause, and you could almost see the way Foggy must have been balking if you closed your eyes. “And you’re just telling me somebody trapped you in a room, now?” You felt your face grow warm, weighing the odds on how fast he might get to you if you let him know in just what way you and Matt had been preoccupied. “And why didn’t you pick up my calls earlier?”

“We were talking! And doing uh, something important.”

“Something important.”

“Yes.” You could facepalm, the way you weren’t subtle at all. You knew it didn’t really matter, that once Foggy made it up to you, he’d be able to read it all over the place. You hadn’t yet taken inventory of just how wrecked either of you looked, but you bet it was more than enough to cross lying out of the equation. 

“Something very important.” Matt chirped seductively next to you, nuzzling into the side of your neck and hands pulling your hips back into his as if to give you a reminder—as if you could forget—that he was still in fact, very hard, and the plan was to get out of there as soon as you could. 

You couldn’t tell if the exclamation you heard on the other end was Foggy actually hearing Matt’s addition, or just a general party thing, but in all honesty, you didn’t care. “Could you please get your ass up here and let us out? Probably won't be hard to miss. The only door up there with a chair shoved up against it, most likely.”

There was a distant ‘oh my god,’ as it faded presumably with a phone being pulled away before the call disconnected. Spinning around, you drew your brows together as you scanned over the state Matt was in. He simply smiled, smug around the edges, as you smoothed out his white tee and carded through his mussed hair. There was nothing to be done about the way his lips were slightly shiny and clearly kiss-swollen, or the fact that all it would take was one look to catch a glimpse of the very clear tent in his jeans, but you still did your best if only for your peace of mind. You couldn’t even bring yourself to go over to the mirror you just now spotted in the corner of the room, knowing you were probably too far gone to pretend to look put together. You at least fixed how your pants hung on you, adjusting and pulling them back up to a decent, modest place. 

“He should be on his way,” You told Matt, and in a final sweep of the room, you spotted his discarded button up on the floor. Patting his chest, you went to go pick it up. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Don’t think it will.” You heard him muse as you slung his button up over your shoulder. 

And just as you returned to him right beside the door, there was a faint thunk against the frame, and a muffled scrape of something being pulled out of the way. You barely had time to find amusement in it before Foggy was yanking the door open, gaping at the two of you where he stood in the doorway, slightly out of breath like he ran through the house and up the stairs.

“Did you…?”

“Holy shit!” You couldn’t tell if it was pride or embarrassment that was winning in the fight for control over his features as his eyes flickered from you to Matt. “I knew it! You guys finally—”

“Two questions.” Looking back at Matt, you saw him holding back laughter, both hands clutched on his cane in front of him and his shoulders pulled slightly up to his ears.

“Two- I get two questions?”

“Get to answer them,” You clarified, resting your hand on your hip as you let out a deep sigh. Your car keys were salaciously weighty in your pocket. “First: any luck with Marci? And second: do you have a safe way back to the dorm?”

Stammering, and caught off guard, Foggy cleared his throat. “Yes! Yeah, and…also yes, why—”

“Good.” And with that, you reached behind you to grab Matt’s hand, tugging him with you as you breezed through the doorway past Foggy. “Then we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, why are you leaving- oh my god.”

You remembered to yell a thanks to Foggy over your shoulder as you fervently dragged Matt with you down the hall, muttering a quick stairs, stairs, stairs, to him as your heartbeat began to pick up again behind your ribs. Surprisingly, he matched you in speed and swiftness, just as eager to get out of the party as you were, entirely entrusting you to guide him safely through the mass of moving bodies and heat of the building. 

Despite doing nothing inherently scandalous, it felt oddly liberating to be leaving with Matt as the both of you met the outside, breaching into the cool night air. If anything, getting out of the house made the growing flush you felt glow hotter—the temperature difference a blaring sign to the lustful way your awareness grew stronger. With every step you took down the block to reach where you parked, with every hushed giggle and squeeze of his hand in yours, your heart pounded heavy with anticipation and arousal. You’d led Matt over to the passenger side door first when you’d finally reached your car, and you waited until he opened the door and started to slip in before you joined him, hands shaking as you yanked your seatbelt on and turned the key in the ignition. 

At first you were primed to go, an uncontrollable smile playing on your lips as you went to shift the car into reverse, but then you paused, hand hovering over the gear shift. It was not for lack of want, or even the threat of regret that caused you to take a moment. It was simply the weight of it all. The reality. You've wanted this for so long—wanted Matt—you just…needed to be sure. 

“Are we,” the engine was stalled, primed, rumbling and ready to go. “Shit, Matt, do you actually wanna do this with me?” 

“Of course I do.” Came his soft reply, instant, and not needing to be loud for the heft of his words to carry across the small space. “But if you don’t, I won’t ever say a damn thing if you decide just to bring me back to campus.” 

He states it as if it were that simple. Presenting you the choice. It wouldn’t even be fair, seeing as he’s already got you off just a few minutes ago and it was your decision to make what the two of you were doing more tangible, more real, by wanting to take it back to your apartment instead of staying in the haze of thumping music, weed, and mist of cheap alcohol. You didn’t even really need to think about it that hard though, when it came to it. It really was that simple. And the fondness that had you craving Matt deeper in the first place returned in an intense and almost overwhelming wash over you. The choice was yours. And he’d respect it either way. Just like how he respected the game, never pushing you for the sex you swore yourself off from even when the both of you would part ways hot and bothered too many times to count. Or the way he’d back off the second you weren’t in the mood, or if neither of you had the time or patience to rile each other up, and you would settle the air into something calmer and closer to easy friendship. 

Your decision came easy. You shifted the gear. 

Before you could press down on the pedal however, Matt continued, words blazing a silken fire in their wake. “But if I’m being honest, I really want to get back to your place so I can drop to my knees and get a better taste of you.”

“Oh my god.” That torch he placed in you blazed again, and you were already pressing your thighs together to relieve the ache that came back with a reckless abandon. You knew it’d be a mistake, knowing the visual would only spur you further, but you couldn’t help but to look over to see Matt’s head turned to you, a wide cocky grin lazily splitting his lips as his tongue darted out to make a show of licking over them. “Jesus Christ. You really are such a bad Catholic.”

“Never said I was a good one.” He shot back in a smooth reply. “How far away are you?”

You flicked on your headlights and pulled out of your parking spot, guiding the car onto the road. “Like four minutes.”

Matt isn’t subtle at all as he sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, deliberate in the way he let a breathy moan ring out in the confined space of the car. One glance over, and the sight of him grabbing hold over the straining shape of him over his jeans, rutting into his own hand, was something you replayed over and over in your mind the entire drive. “Bet you could get us there faster.”

You did. 

The second the both of you stumbled through your apartment’s front door, kicked shut carelessly—by you or him, you couldn’t tell—all bets were off. Matt’s cane clattered to the floor in the distance of your front hall, and he wasted no time pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss; hot and needy and filthy. You might have been the one Matt was relying on to lead him through your space, but you couldn’t even rely on your talent as a guide as navigating became the least of your worries. If bumping into a coffee table or the couch arm was the price the two of you would have to pay just so your hands wouldn’t have to leave him, or for you to have to send your focus anywhere else, then you would pay that price willingly. Luckily for you, the front door to your room was a straight shot. 

There was no thinking as you and Matt fell in time as you led with your back turned, the speed of eager steps only hindered by the fact that nearly every second involved a clumsy attempt at removing more articles of clothing. It almost felt like a passionate waltz—if waltzing had evolved into a feverish assault on the senses; your shirt too tight and your pants too constricting and your head spinning as Matt’s hands fumbled with the clasp of your bra while you moved. Your hands yet again found themselves snaking under his shirt, this time pulling it up with you as you went, pressing firmly up the lines of his abdomen, feeling him flutter under your touch, and spreading your palms over the muscle of his chest, being sure to brush your thumbs over his nipples if only for the way it made him shiver. 

Matt broke this kiss solely to help you pull his shirt over his head, and you sighed half in content, half in satisfaction as you finally set sights on him topless, broad lines and firm muscle, shirt flung somewhere into the depths of your living room. And despite Matt trying to dip down to find your mouth again, you busied yourself littering kisses from one edge of his collar bones to the other as you undid the button to his jeans, and carefully pulled the zipper down. Your plan of action had included tugging the denim down far enough to get him in your hands, but you were interrupted. Unexpectedly, he stopped you, his hands, strong and firm, grasped both your wrists, guiding you and placing them to hold him chastely low on his hips. 

“Not yet,” He kissed you through your quizzical groan, pulling your bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it gently before letting go, “Told you what I wanted to do first.” Freshly set alight at the reminder, you murmured an agreement, arching into the way he held you tight, cradling against your ribs.

You knew it couldn’t be much farther to the bedroom when you suddenly hit the wall, jolting against it with a small ‘oof’ before a frown twitched your expression. When you swung your head to the side, it was an easy realization that the two of you faintly veered off course, unable to follow the easy path to the door in favor of a curve that now situated you up against the wall, inches from the frame. Reaching over, you could almost brush your fingertips against the doorknob. 

“We’re right- right here,” You tried to begin, “Just gotta get the door open.”

“Hold on.” He whispered, distracted, hands finding your face again as he cupped your jaw. 

For the second time that night, Matt subverted your expectations. What had been a desperate, messy kiss, slowed down into something intoxicatingly sweet. His thumb grazed your chin as he kissed you softly. Tenderly. Like you were something sacred to him. You weren’t prepared for the sudden shift, but you let this tentative affection float over you, envelop your mind in its subdued passion and careful reverence. For the second time that night, a flicker of what this really meant, what you were really doing, brushed your thoughts with a pigment that lingered. 

This…with Matt, this wasn't just sex to you. It was a desire, sure. And lust, no doubt. But it was also the way his face lit up when he laughed. His quick, whip-sharp wit during a debate. It was the way he threw himself into his studies not just with the goal of being the best, of being the smartest, but being humble in his intention. It was the way he was intolerant of any bullshit, but was kind, despite being hard on himself. The way he could flash a smile and bring someone to their knees and all the while it just felt right and normal and safe, because this was Matt Murdock and it was easy to trust him to not abuse the power he must've known he had.

Your breath hitched as you lifted your arms for him, Matt slowly pulling your shirt off over your head. You heard it land quietly on the floor, and Matt lowered just enough to place a leisurely kiss to your sternum. His hair was soft, so soft, as you brought a hand up to run through it, raking gentle caresses against his skull and wondering if you had been patient long enough to deserve the delicate purr he rewarded you with. 

Hesitation did prick in the undercurrent of your thoughts. This wouldn't be just sex for you. That sometime along the way, in banter and teasing…in drinks and time shared, you'd started to grow feelings for Matt. Ones that seeded firmly with roots fixed in wanting no excuse to hold his hand, or to kiss him in broad daylight, or to not need a reason or pre-made plans with friends hoping he'd actually be there just to be able to see him. You knew, as his kisses between the valley of your breasts stole your very breath in the gentle coax of gasps from your lungs, that if you only said the word, if you told him to stop, he would. You knew, that by the end of this night, there was a good chance that regret would eventually catch up to you; that the shape and form, the phantoms of his touch and attention would litter your consciousness until it drove you mad. 

But you pushed it all aside, because right now, in this moment, even if only for the night, Matt Murdock was yours. 

In the way he paused in an instant when your fingertips pressed the lightest pressure against him, happy and willing to wait without a second thought or question. 

And in the way he let you gingerly lift the dark frames of his glasses, slow and controlled, and with a bated breath just waiting for him to tell you to stop. But he didn't, a warm smile instead bloomed a light that reflected in his dark eyes as he rested his head against your skin. And this would be a memory you'd never forget; Matt, slipping to his knees, head tilted against your chest, before you, and an unseeing gaze cast up in your direction filled with a burning devotion you felt undeserving of—as if he knew you needed the comfort despite the way he guarded it for his own. He was giving it to you. Giving him, to you.

Yeah, you thought, a heat consuming you from the inside out, ravaging in want and emotion and simple, sanguine greed as you slipped the last shield he wore onto the little hallside stand to your side. If only for the night. 

Matt Murdock was yours.

You'd forgotten all about your bedroom at the first rasp of his tongue swiping at you over the fabric of your bra. The action was enough to set your nerves once again aflame, and Matt was reverent in how he slid the straps down your arms, gracefully tugging it down and off and discarding the garment amongst the floor to be found in the morning with the others. He was taking his time, sweet, like your experience was paramount to his. He hummed pleasantly as his concentration settled on you. And your breasts weren't an afterthought, just a means to an end as he gave equal time to both of them, licking and sucking and leaving a trail of liquid fire in their wake as he rolled your nipples in his mouth and left a bright red mark you could already see blossoming against the swell of one of them. 

Your head fell back just enough to meet the wall behind you, eyes screwing shut at the drag of his cheek down your stomach, jumping under the small nip of teeth at your hip, and twitching over the feel of his hands sliding firmly against the small of your back. Your ass. Your thighs. Matt sank fully onto his knees in front of you, hands dragging down until he settled against your legs and between your thighs like he belonged there. He rested, for a moment, breathing a happy sigh against your groin and you swore you started to burn so hotly, you felt like you were about to burst into flames. 

The kiss he pressed just below your navel was like a signature he penned in permanent ink, as if tagging his presence, eyes fluttering shut as he finally inched your underwear and pants down until they rested around your ankles. He hadn't even done anything, but your legs were already shaking as you went to step out of them. Deft fingertips guided you against your calf as you did, using in the motion to trail his touch up until he hooked just under your knee and lifted your leg onto his shoulder. That same hand slid up as your voice trembled, tumbling from your lungs, to hold you steady at the hip.

Every part of you burned. Ached. And at his pause, you swallowed hard at the sight of him beneath you, stilled where he settled comfortably on the floor, mere inches from where you were fully naked and flayed bare before him. You've never seen a hunger like this until your half-lidded eyes gazed down at him, smoke and flame and an indulgent breath tugging up a satisfied smirk like a man presented a feast of every one of his favorite meals. And if that wasn’t a sight to behold; you wanted him, and you couldn’t tell if the heat grew warmer because of you or him, as you squirmed against the fan of his breath and the way he held you. Your plea was quiet. So quiet—as if a single decibel louder would convince him to pull away—you barely even heard it.

He dove in. 

You weren't sure whose moan was louder: yours or his, as his thumbs spread you apart to make room for the flat of his tongue. Hot. His mouth was so hot it burned, fire licking into you alongside him. He was in no rush, no hurry; just an agonizingly long, slick sweep of his tongue up the line of you. Spurred by the way a broken whine gleaned off your lips, Matt took his time in his savor, being sure to swipe against every inch, gather as much as he could with that first dip in, only pulling back after pausing when reaching your clit, relishing in the way your cry morphed into something filthy, and giving it an extra pass before he rolled his head back. 

There was a pure bliss in the way his eyes were shut and in the eagerness of his groan. His chest heaved like he’d hiked a mountain as you watched him swallow you, his head resting on your thigh as his throat worked the taste of you down. And if you’d known, if you expected even a fraction of what was about to happen, you might have recognized what he was doing for what it was—that in the languid way he settled back against you, hand adjusting his grip on your thigh tighter—you might have been able to prepare faster.

You couldn’t count the amount of dreams you’ve had about Matt eating you out. The amount of times you’ve fantasized of this very moment, against a wall like this, or on a bed, a couch. You pulled from past experiences, ex-lovers, the unrealistic feeling of your own knowing fingers or toys; a hybrid amalgamation of all of the above. The point was, you could never pinpoint exactly how it would feel, only the idealistic fiction that formed because of a soul in pining. And in spite of the multitude of ways he’s already proven you wrong or unknowing in one night alone, this was an expectation that apparently, you didn’t hit too far off the mark.

There was a mercy, yes, in the way he built up to it, but a vicious magnitude hung thickly in action. When he delved back in, it was with abandon. He moaned openly, making it known to you to make no mistake of how much he wanted to be there, and he parted you on his tongue until your body finally caved and sank into him. Then he started to work; steady, avid laps against you that had you choking on a shout. The rough grind of his nose against your clit when it escaped his focus encouraged slow-building tremors to meet his pace.

Rough, rolling pleasure began to consistently flutter over your skin like the silkiness of a hearty Spring breeze. Your back bowed and your hand clawed at the wall above you, trying to find some sort of grounding reprieve against drywall and paint. But you found none. And you wouldn’t find any if you kept fighting it, tension growing in the pit of your belly as your abs flexed and shuddered. Matt’s glide against you grew smoother, your arousal smearing across his mouth and chin as he drank you in. You jumped, a hoarse whimper tumbling out as you felt the eager tip of his tongue testing, settling, then pushing into you with the firm press of his head between your legs. His entire body rolled up into it, like the only thing he was made for was this. And with the ardent way he latched on as if he were only an extension of your own body, you’d have half a mind to believe he was. 

There was no thought, capability escaping you in the moment, when you fisted a hand in his hair, your hips moving with him as you tried to grind against his face. And Matt let you, letting out a staccato moan that ravaged and ripped through you with the way he buried his tongue so far up your cunt it was like it was him being pleasured. Making sounds he'd make as if it were you taking him in your mouth. And that had your mind racing anew—marveling at the odds of you being able to return the favor, wondering if he’d teeter on the whim of your control, set by your pace, or if he’d work you how he wanted, held back by fine lines of constraint. 

Matt of course, was first to know how that line of thinking affected you. Both his hands formed a sturdy grip on your waist, flicking at your hipbones, before he pulled you down onto him with a grunt and curl of his tongue. 

“Oh, shit.” Your back thudded against the wall as you rose and fell against it. “Matt. Fuck, Matt, baby, please, that feels so good.” You weren’t even sure what you were asking for, but you weren’t disappointed as he preened under the praise, offering a decadent hum of appreciation that flickered through you like blinking starlight. 

And he seemed to keep offering. With every tug at his hair and rock of your hips—even at every broken breath and easy moan—he rewarded you with something of his own. A sigh or a dirty little growl; a change in pace or intensity. It kept you on edge, unable to prepare for what he might do next because his every move was reliant on and responsive to you. When the leg that was thrown over him started to shake and slip off his shoulder, Matt made a sound of disapproval, bumping you back with his bicep against your thigh and his fingertips digging imprints into your ass like he wanted to be caged in, trapped by you.

It was like he could read your thoughts. “Could stay here for hours,” he breathed wetly against you, pulling back only far enough to speak. You shivered at the feel of his lips brushing over you at the form of each word. “Tastes amazing, you know that?”

“Figured. Or else I don’t think you’d be trying to kill me like this.” You had patience. You had restraint. You really did. But your body was truly trying to ruin your image as it reacted involuntarily against your character, hips jolting forward and down in search of his mouth again, anything that would bring the friction back as the burning ache grew more insistent and seeking.

Matt simply grinned, confident and cocksure and all too pleased with himself, turning just slight enough to plant a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh. And you couldn’t even fault him. You and him both knew he was doing a good job. 

“So needy.” His sigh was playful as it buzzed across your skin. You couldn’t even bring yourself to argue what would most definitely be a weak defense. You were. Your want didn’t even come close or fall short of needing him to keep going. 

And at your tiny whimper, he honoured your request, slack-jawed as he pressed his face against your leg, drawing you in as he slicked two of his fingers along the line of your entrance. And sucking in a breath similar to yours as he twisted his wrist until the angle was right, and thoughtfully, he began to push.

This was familiar even in the ways it wasn’t, the second time this night Matt’s had his fingers in you, and there was a confidence now in how he moved. He already knew where to go, how to press. And that’s how you knew, in the way he paused, the pressure the pads of his fingertips used teetering on the edge of just too little, that it was all too deliberate. 

“Please don’t tease me.” Your whisper was feverish and wild, darkened gaze peering down at Matt as if keeping your eyes on him would shed some insight into what he was planning. 

“I’m not.” He stated simply, words thick with a molten craving. 

And pulling in a ragged breath, he was on you again. 

If he later told you his plan was simply to make you come again, you’d believe him. If you were told he actually was trying to kill you, you’d also believe him. But within the case lies that you truly believed it had nothing to do with goals as superficial and simple as those. Because as his mouth found you again, tongue laying flat before his lips moseyed into place, settling in a seal around your clit, you truly, firmly, and irreparably believed, that Matt was out to devastatingly ruin you.

With the first gentle suction, his fingers held fixed but unmoving. Just a waypoint, a guiding compass only there to ease against the way you pulsed against him. A steady hand that right now, acted as anchor in contrast to the delicate, almost exploratory way he licked softly at you. Desperate, you had to remind yourself to breathe through it, feeling the way it was instinct to hold it in your lungs at the most direct stimulation you’ve had all night in light flicks and reserved kisses. If you had any bite in you, you’d accuse him of toying around. But you found no malice in the way he wound you up like this, and you could only equate it to the prep a runner went over before a marathon. The stretch. The warm up. The sprint. 

You struggled to hold on to coherency, ghosts of it whizzing by, as you felt his steady build rise and rise, running parallel to the growing volume of the symphony of sounds the both of you poured into the air, until seemingly, Matt found his content in working you up for him. For a split second, he paused. A hair of a second, a fraction. Then in the surety of his position, the readiness in which he was wrapped around you, he sucked. And he sucked hard.

The moan was pulled razor sharp and sudden from you, unrestrained on a breathy cry as it took everything you had to not double over. The way his other hand shot up to splay over your stomach helped, a weight that kept you against the wall as if to say ‘I’ve got you, I’m here’, like he wasn’t the one disassembling you piece by piece. The way his fingers curled inside you was delicious; a firm grind into where he knew you would fall apart, and pressure teetering just on the cusp of excessive. 

The rasping strokes of his tongue could be considered criminal. Premeditated in the way that told you he’d truly spent his time studying, attuning to your body and how it responded just so that he would know exactly how to ravish you. That sweetness that you’d shared on display slipped into the background, replaced instead by a sinful greed that startled you but was far from unwelcome. Frantic, and breathless, your hand curled tighter in his hair, the pulling only earning you more reckless moans that shocked your system like lightning. You rocked faster against him. It was almost too much—the intense consistency of the suction, the burning insistence in every pass of his tongue—but it came as a shock to precisely no one in the swaths of fire that swept up your spine, or in the white-hot static that blurred the edges of your vision, that it was exactly what you needed.

Your high arrived loud, righteous, and fast in steady heat and heady pleasure that rippled through you in waves Matt only sought to draw out. His touch grew gentle, but unyielding, the brushes with his tongue against your clit mild and subtle, and the thrust of his fingers slowing to an indirect tender massage. He stayed like that until your body stopped convulsing, and the waves of blazing pleasure ebbed until it was nursed back down into a fervent ember toeing the border of pain. 

You'd have thought it would be safe of you to assume that your satisfaction would be enough to tide you over, but it was nothing but desire that burned in you despite the way you were still trembling. Matt didn’t seem to care too much as you slowly slipped your leg off of him, awareness coming to him to help steady you on shaky legs as he panted heavily on the ground. You probably should have given yourself more time to pull yourself together, but then the reminder that you’d already waited months for this moment was enough to steer you toward determination. Reaching down, Matt rose to his feet on your command, drawing breath just as he cradled your face and pushed himself into you. This kiss was a thanks you gratefully accepted, wet and tasting of you and debauched desire, before you spoke. 

“Bedroom. Now.”

“Yeah,” Matt’s words were slurred, thick like honey as he nodded quickly. “Right. Okay.”

The fact that both of you were steady enough on your feet to make it through the threshold was testament tenfold to the solid argument carnal instinct and innate want could make in defense of overriding any warning signs to take a break. Matt laved down your neck as he followed you blindly, suckling at your skin and pressing wet open-mouthed kisses wherever he could reach. And even with your eyes rolled back into your head, you were still able to pirouette the both of you through your room until you felt the backs of your knees collide softly with the sheets over your mattress. 

“Bed,” You murmured urgently, running your hands down his chest. “Bed. Bed, we’re at the bed Matt.”

One of his arms reached around to hold you, a welcome relief against the small of your back as you leaned to give yourself space, edging your hands back to the belt of his jeans. Restlessly trying to tug them down to no avail. With a loud groan, you weren’t above voicing your displeasure as yet again, Matt flicked your arms away, opting instead to push you down gently until your back hit the covers and he could climb over you.

“Jesus, Matt, why won’t you let me take off your pants—” 

His reply was quick and raggedly depraved, apology laced beneath his blatant desire. “Next time.”

The dissonance in your mind barely allowed the implication to rocket through you. The idea of a next time had you arching against his grounding touches as he shifted away enough to hold himself steady against the floor to shove the rest of his clothes off and kick them away in a crumpled pile against the wood panel where they should have belonged minutes after you’d gotten inside. ‘Next time’ meshed, melted in your mind and against every thought, syrupy and sticky like ice cream outside on a hot sunny day. It was intoxicating and exciting and faintly distinctive. ‘Next time’ implied that you’d be doing this with him again. ‘Next time’ meant that maybe, just maybe, Matt was open to not letting this wonderful, incredible night fade away with memories and time. And what he meant by that, well. You didn’t have the capacity to linger on it for too long at the moment. 

You watched as he carefully climbed back onto the bed, fingertips using your legs as a guide on where to settle as he shifted against the mattress on his knees. Propping up onto your elbows, you stared at the line of him in quiet awe. From the ruined, deep blush that splotched the features of his face pink, to the broad line of his shoulders that bled into a lean muscled torso. And it was like Matt could feel your eyes raking over him as they drifted further down and down, over tensing abs and the dusty patch of his happy trail until you finally set your sights on his cock in a full thatch of dark hair between his legs; thick and leaking and flushed so hard it looked heavy, that at your audible moan, Matt couldn’t help the way it jumped, his hand shooting down to grip at the base of him. 

You’d give in to the way you wanted to throw yourself back down into the bed, if not for fear of missing the way Matt adjusted, spreading himself out wider as he shifted on his knees, his other hand feeling around for your leg as you made it easier for him, spreading until you could drape your legs against his thighs and around him and he could shuffle forward enough to be able to reach you easily, slotting, nestling between you. It was unreal, this display in front of you. Matt like this. It almost felt dreamlike—like any second now your alarm would go off and you’d wake up in your bed with a wicked hangover and the distant, receding echo of drunken fun. 

But it wasn’t a dream, and Matt trembled as he rubbed down your thigh with one hand, feeling out your position, and jerked a few times against his fist with the other. 

“You’re gonna have to- pillow, sweetheart.” He managed to choke out roughly, and you clumsily followed his request, words floating in a halo of ecstasy in the air around your head as you yanked a pillow from above you and crudely lifted your hips enough to shove it under and raise you to him. Matt tried to help, his fingers bumping against yours in a way that made the both of you giggle as you adjusted and flattened any lumps out. 

Then came the held breaths. Matt shifting forward until he accidentally brushed up against you. Both of you jolted at the feeling, anticipation skyrocketing nerve endings to their very limits. You watched, guiding another pillow just under your head for support, as Matt drew his lower lip between his teeth so tight you’d be surprised if he didn’t break skin as he bit back a moan the moment he slid himself against you. You didn’t care for such restrained abandon, letting your voice ring out loud enough to carry the sentiment for the both of you. 

He was slow, thorough, as he dragged the length of him through slick heat, coating himself in the proof of your want for him and the aftermath you’d pulled him away from before he could spend the time with you in his mouth to clean up. A raw, stripped noise drifted wantonly from his lips and he hunched into his shoulders, breathing heavy and swallowing hard against the rising presence of the two of you in the air. 

You reached out, fingertips brushing his forearm, feeling his skin prickle under his touch, as you curled your legs around him; a gentle urge forward. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah.” He crawled closer, and you felt his tip part through you until he was right there, lining himself up. The way he nudged against your entrance shot like an arrow straight to the heart. “Are you?” 

“I’m ready. I’m so ready,” Your words came out in one big aching breath. “Please give this to me, Matt, I need it. I want it. I want you.”

And you’d given him enough—more than enough—to have him moving without a second thought, both you and him sharing and certain in your desire, incentive, and mutual need. The necessity to chase what had been building up for far too long, to follow through with the only natural conclusion to the night. The press in was easy. You were so turned on, prepared enough, that there wasn’t even a chance for any modicum of pain or discomfort. Instead, all you felt as Matt pushed, inch by inch, was the glide, your body yielding to the stretch of thick brazen velvet heat, and the truly addictive sensation of being full. 

You both shared in the helpless, shattered moans that danced, twining in the air as Matt bottomed out, tilting over you with a final flex of his hips before he stilled. It might have been easy, but you still needed to adjust to the feel of him and he kindly and wordlessly accounted for that. But when your whispered ‘okay’ fell on deaf ears, and your eyes fluttered open to see Matt’s chin dropped to his heaving chest, you realized something more than just comfortability was making him wait. 

“Matt?”

“Just…” His voice rattled wetly on a deep breath, slow and steadying. “It’s- I haven’t done this in a while. I just need a minute. Wanna savor it.”

For a moment, everything around you disappeared. Your brain blanked, your thoughts froze, and your chest felt too full. Then everything…roared. Your heart sped up, flipping ceaselessly, pulsing heat coursing through you and Matt let out a broken whimper. You spoke with the ghostly fiery remnants of the hope that added up in months of desperate deprivation. “What do you mean?”

You weren’t sure how Matt found the brazenness in him to grin, wide, yet not without its share of sheepish admittance in its soft edges as he opened his eyes for you. “Told you I’ve wanted you.” He stole the breath of your reply with the slow way he began to draw back, fueled by the gasp that parted your lips and the feel of astonishment in your body’s reaction. “For a while, it’s only been you.”

Over the next few minutes, words felt too heavy. A thick reverence settled like a warm blanket over the room, and Matt set a slow, steady pace that gave you all of him in full long strokes. A gentle power as the full weight of him helped drive him forward. For a bit, there was nothing you could do but feel, helpless and content and beyond satisfied. There was a distant happy floating part of your subconscious that drew the conclusion that you didn’t even need to come again. That you could find a perfect ending entirely in the way Matt moved in you and with the force of his vulnerable admission. 

That bubble grew around you until it too started winding in. This pleasure was overwhelming in only the best ways possible. Matt’s hands on you, grip strong and unwavering. The way the front of his thighs met the back of yours, skin sweeping together in an easy sweat slick rhythm with every potent, rolling thrust. In the melodic, reverent moans and the obscene way your hips collided. That sweetness was back. The shared bliss that you now recognized as equally returned veneration. Devotion of the highest power; something just shy of possibly becoming worship found in the wells of a yearning heart.

It was easy to lock on to Matt, easy to watch. There was a restraint in the way he rocked to meet you, as if his thin grasp of control was entirely dependent on how deep his fingerprints imprinted against your skin and in the way you flexed against him, slipping more and more with every tiny gasp and blissful shiver. The stretch of him was all you could have asked for and more, hot and steadfast and every glide stoking a gratification that thrummed shockwaves through you like electricity in a body just granted life; satiatingly full.

You found yourself reaching out for him, your hand finding the side of his face and Matt wasted no time leaning over into the affection. You cradled him there for a moment, before your thumb swiped over the ridge of his brow, and your fingers slowly began to trace the curves of his features. The swell of his cheek. The line of his jaw. When your fingers swept back up to follow the shape of his lips, he pressed a soft kiss to them. You held them there for him, heart blooming with how he craved such intimacy, until you began to drag them down. The gentle touch parted his lips, and you were intent on continuing on with your path until the tip of his tongue darted out against you. Surprised, you paused, and Matt did it again, firmer, opening his mouth wider and oh. 

Sliding your fingers into his mouth slowly, your eyes went wide as you settled them against the flat of his tongue. His lips closed around a pleased hum and with a gentle suction, and he worked you over in a strained groan, tongue swirling around you until he was satisfied in thinking he sucked all the taste off of them, salt and sweat. Testing, you curled your fingers down into him, a slight pressure just to see what sort of spark it striked. And you might as well have struck gold, Matt moaning into it, his eyes rolling shut against a helpless, rougher thrust. When he let you go, a faint string of saliva hung from your fingertips, and you painted his skin with it, following the original trail you’d detoured from down his chin and grazing over the column of his throat. 

And whether that was the prompt, or simply the turn of the tide, there was no mistaking in the way Matt paused, adjusted your legs up just enough to hook around his waist, and drove in deeper. Charged and riled up, there was truly no more waiting as the change settled over you, fierce and filthy.

His mouth hung open now on a perpetual tangible sound, heavy groans and hitching breath amongst your own chorus of noise keying you into just how badly he needed this. Needed you. 

“I’ve been dreaming about how this would feel.” He begins, wildfire blaze and honeysuckle aroma. “You’re just like how I imagined, you know that?”

You hummed a wordless reply as you felt that blaze drop closer to you, the line of his chest now matching yours as he settled onto his arms, elbows digging into the mattress just above your shoulders. Your back arched off the bed at the angle shift that came with the way your legs followed him, pulling toward your body until you instinctively crossed your ankles around his back when he fully situated himself on top of you. 

Matt’s voice dropped into a register soaked in honeyed hedonistic pleasure, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear as he weaved sin into the very fabric of your being. “Feels like Heaven.”

You never wanted this to stop; the weight of Matt pushing you into the mattress, the way his kiss still ignited your bones and sent sparks to burst behind your eyes. You wanted to explore the slight possessive cant his thrusts took on as he snapped his hips forward, and the way he shuddered into you when you dragged your nails down the trail of his spine. 

The shape of his name felt so good as it tumbled into the air, gaining traction in time with each press of his cock inside you and each rough grind against your clit he tried his hardest to keep consistent when the roll of his hips perfectly met yours. Getting lost in it was easy, natural, as minutes ticked by and the stirrings of another climax grew. This was everything you wanted, everything you needed and more. Matt seemed to know exactly what to do, sometimes even before you did. Shifting to match the way you squirmed, speeding up before you could even ask, fucking into you harder as you clawed into him in the hopes that the raging tension, that winding coil of pressure in your core, would snap and let you drift apart against the sheets. But instead it stayed steady. Which in itself wouldn’t be a bad thing—hung, suspended in an endless pleasure—if it wasn’t for the way you began to notice the way Matt’s rhythm started to falter. He tried to hide it too, a determined furrow to his brow as he kissed you through choking gasps and low moans. And the thought of him coming edged you nearer, lighting a flame beneath you that burned brilliant and bright. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

“Oh, fuck,” The taste of your name was reverent and pleading on his tongue as it echoed against skin and sheets. His hips started to stutter, his careful control growing uneven and instinctual. “I’m so close, sweetheart. Tell me you are too. Tell me, please. Fuck, please, honey, because I don’t know if I can stop it. Tell me—”

And you were truthful in the way meaning lingered as you tried to gasp it out, orgasm crawling up from the tips of your hands and feet like the slow creep of wall-crawling ivy, but you could also see where this road was ultimately leading. The tightening peak in your core didn’t yet match the desperation in how Matt moved in you. You were close, yes, but Matt was already there tipping, falling over that cliff. 

You did what you could to try and help, dragging Matt back down into a messy, chaotic kiss, seeking in the way his tongue flicked skillfully against yours, and snaking a hand between your bodies to try and rush you along, match him in stride. Together, it sent washes of a bone-deep pleasure flickering through you, but it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t that your climax wanted to remain elusive. You simply, inherently, apparently, just needed a little bit more.

And when he started slowing, frantic and sloppy, you couldn’t find it in yourself to try and make him hold on in the way you knew he’d try if you’d just asked when he was right there. A single whisper against his lips sealed the deal, you pushing permission in hushed tones and wrapping both of your arms around his neck as he moaned into your mouth.

Matt lasted as long as he could for you.

It stoked the flame, the way his body tensed. You could feel the way the muscle of his thighs contracted, and you grew hooked on the lightheadedness you felt as he rapidly panted above you. You don’t think you’d ever hear a sound prettier than the noise he made as he buried himself completely into you, coming deep in hot steady pulses, a slew of praise, and a strangled, guttural moan. 

You could hear the way your heart pounded in your ears as he struggled to stay upright above you. And when he flinched at the first shaky caress of your hand, you waited until he was ready to lean back into the touch. The brush of your kiss was gentle, and you hoped it sang of the gratification that rejoiced just under the surface of your skin. Maybe another day, the satisfaction would have been enough, but your own edge was just barely within reach. And while Matt breathed, settling down, you took advantage of the way he was still seated in you, throbbing and filling you up. The sigh that parted your lips when you dipped your hand between your legs again was heady, and you chased it, not wanting to lose sight of the way that heat still curled at the edges. You focused on the burning weight of Matt. The cognizance of what he’d just done only spurring the roll of your wrist.

When Matt sucked in a breath and began to pull back, you steadied yourself for the inevitable loss of him. But then it never came. Matt shifted, a hand tracing down your body until fumbling fingers laced with yours just to bring it up to rest on the pillow beside your head, and he pushed back in. You froze, feeling the way you instinctively clenched around him, your body seeking the more you craved.

“Didn’t you-” Your voice shattered when he did it again, this time building closer to a slow, sloppy, full thrust as his body reared up over yours. “Matt, didn’t you just…”

His reply was broken, words cracking at the edges. But he managed to send you a smile full of filth and desire. “Yeah.”

“You can stop.” Although you arched into him, torn between your orgasm billowing on the horizon and worry for his overwhelm. “Fuck, baby, it’s okay, you can stop. Isn’t that too much—?”

“Only a little.” It wasn’t easy to look past the way his voice was shaking, trembling above you as he struggled to keep himself held up on his arms, but there was no mistaking the determination in the echo of his words. Or the unmistakable edge of pain cutting sharp around his subdued gasps only furthering the way his brow furrowed in slack-jawed pleasure. “But right- right now, I like it.” He groaned as he found a new, shaky, lazy pace. And he dipped his head down, burying himself against the crook where your neck meets shoulder, and determinedly ground himself in every feel of you he could manage.

You’d never been engulfed in something like this before and you didn’t know what to do—didn’t think there was anything you could do except ride it out, filing away Matt’s bitten-off little whimpers as he fucked you through overstimulation into a sacred little folder, let the wave of your climax crest over you again to the caress of his tongue against your throat and the sinewy shift of muscle working overtime above you under the soothing weight of your palm sweeping over shoulderblades and the dip of his waist.

“Know you're close, sweetheart—wanna feel it.” he gasped, dragging his nose against the line of your throat before his lips captured yours. “You'll give it to me, won't you? Need it so bad. Fuck. Please, god I need it.”

It was the mix of his words and the way he continued to drive himself forward, an unwavering resolve in his want to give you another orgasm strong and unyielding even in the frantic snap of his hips that almost whispered temptations of holding back something rough and hard. It was a race to take care of you, see you to your fulfillment, before the consequences of his own caught up to him. You could tell it nipped at his heels by the way his eyes were blown wide and glassy as you caught glimpses behind a heavy half-lidden gaze, in how the power of his thrusts grew unpredictable as he shifted you in angle until you clawed out for him to make up for consistency, and in how his hand replaced your own, fingers circling your clit with a persistent coaxing desperation.

You came with a snap of the rubber band that had been winding since that bedroom at the party, hard and uncontrollably; a raging, wild storm of white-hot sparks that dotted your vision and a smouldering ember that wrapped a thick, weighty smoke around your head.

When he felt you shake, when you cried out a grateful ‘thank you’ against his ear and started to spasm around him, Matt couldn’t keep going. He came again too, choking on a hoarse cry of your name, when his arms finally gave out from under him, twitching in time with you as he collapsed onto your chest, and the aftershocks of your lingering pleasure bleeding out all he had left to give. 

You don’t know how long you laid there. A few seconds. A few minutes, maybe. It didn’t matter; as long as it took for your heart to stop racing and the sheen of sweat that beaded along skin to dry. Matt was…somewhere else, for the majority of that time, him adjusting only once in the swarming aftermath to drag his head over your breast, ear pressed down over the left side of your chest. You enjoyed combing your fingers through his damp hair, lightly scraping your nails at the back of his neck, humming softly in a quiet content while he listened to the steadying beat of your heart until he began to stir on top of you. 

He didn’t lift his head when he breathed your name; a tiny little question.

“Yeah?”

“I should pull out of you.”

“Think it’s a little too late for that.” And what began as a breathless little giggle morphed into a deeper laugh when Matt snorted, dragging his cheek against your skin as he breathed deep and rolled his shoulders to begin his ascent.

Lifting up, Matt faced down at you with a wide, blissed out smile that scrunched a line above his nose, beckoned the crinkles by his eyes, and a harnessed glow you’d never seen before. He rendered you breathless—how he was giving this so freely to you, you couldn't even fathom.

“You ready?” He asked in a soft, reverent whisper, reaching behind him with one hand to coax your legs to return to the mattress, the strong press of his fingers rubbing a soothing apology into the soreness of your muscles from holding the position for so long, the other pressing a kiss against the back of your hand where he still held it.

The both of you flinched when he shifted back to achingly reel his hips in enough for him to pull out of you, soft and spent. You bit back a whine at the loss of that fullness, but it was quickly replaced by the place he claimed by your side, rolling against the sheets until he laid down next to you, throwing an arm like a brace across your torso and splaying his fingers against your back. 

You laid together as long as it took before you floated back from that dreamlike mist and to reality. Before the stickiness between your thighs and the way his come dripped down your leg grew uncomfortable. It was breaching a fragile quiet, how you got out of bed on shaky legs. Matt's hold on you was hesitant, grip tight but careful, like he was afraid that if he slipped away, you would slip past him right along with it, as you guided him with you to the bathroom. And with every tender swipe of the warm washcloth, and with every time your gaze flickered up to Matt under the stark fluorescent lights, you knew there was no escaping the elephant that tried its best to sneak, mild and embarrassed, but justified in its presence, into the room. Back by your bed, in fresh underwear and after fishing Matt’s silk boxers off the ground, you paused as he caught your elbow, stilling you before him. 

Turning toward him, Matt held you close. The way he touched you is reminiscent of earlier that night, the light touch of hesitant fingertips tracing the length of your neck, wisping across your collar. Except now they also dragged down to where you were still topless, forging a new path where he’d begun to press softly against the curve of your chest and gently tracing the indents of your ribs. His fingertips left lines of something bittersweet against your skin, hanging just on the precipice of resolution in his touch. Like he was trying to memorize what was given to him tonight, what he had. What he might lose. 

You caught his arm, brushing your thumb across his skin as you held loosely onto his bicep, trying to push some comfort through your action. “We don’t have to talk about this today.” The offer felt heavy as it pushed through your lips, the growing weight of distant fear twisting in your stomach as the dust began to settle to shed light on the reality of what remained. “You could stay the night if you’d like. I’ll drive you back to campus in the morning. We can take some time.” Your lip stung as you bit it, reluctant to even breathe air into these next words, but it wouldn’t be fair of you to not put the option on the table. “Or just…or we could just forget it.”

“No.” The statement was firm, instant, but Matt’s voice was frail—like he was losing the battle with the urge to beg, the plea echoing in its shadow. “I don’t want to forget it. I want- I wanna talk about this now. If…if that’s okay?”

You swallowed thickly, nodding your head. “Okay.”

But you weren’t sure where to begin. Hovering in this dense silence that filled your bedroom, in the wake of everything that just happened. Everything you’ve kept yourself from experiencing. Everything you swore you’d never let yourself have. Every way you could think of to begin died on your tongue, words escaping you alongside their meanings. You suddenly felt selfish, what you wanted from him. And foolish. So incredibly foolish. It wasn’t exactly regret that started to seep in with the tumult in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t think you even could regret tonight if you tried. There wasn’t just a satisfaction, or just the pleasant hazy post-sex bliss that rippled through you like gentle reminders of what was probably the best experience you had with someone up until that point. It was a loss: the pride you held out in front of you as the last barrier of defense that fell the moment he asked for a kiss sitting, trembling with the possibility that these next few minutes might give something substantial to the fears that had up until recently, kept you in check. A victory: a deep furrowed craving that had sat lying in wait, yearning for months, finally coaxed forward, rewarded, and fulfilled in more ways than you could have even feasibly imagined.

Further still, it was easy to let those seeds of doubt influence your expectation. To let the character of Matt, tonight rewritten and brand new before you, be overshadowed by the interpretation of him you protected your heart from for months. This conversation wasn’t one you think you could be ready for, but you prepared yourself for the fallout regardless. Opting instead to brace yourself for the worst possible outcome, leaving yourself vulnerable and hopeful if not unaware for if it came to the best. 

The silence, now stretched too long, brought a frustrated heat to your face. You hated that it couldn’t be simple. You hated that you couldn’t just file away this night under something cut and dry. Because you knew—deep down, you knew—this wasn’t a carefully chosen conquest. The onus wasn’t on Matt Murdock charming his way into your pants with an offer you couldn’t refuse and the bitter taste of knowing you were doing something stupid stinging in the back of your throat. The whisperings had been there all night; in the vulnerability shared, in the way he responded, in the utterance of raw admissions strung up plain for anyone to see. You struggled to find the balance of that coin, some part of you drenched in such arduous disbelief that of all people, Matt chose you, that you had to search every word, action, touch, and endearment for the punishment, the joke, the end to the dream.

It was like Matt could sense the hill you were slipping down, the soft mutter of your name cradling around you like a gentle lifeline. “Look at me.” So you did, taking in his expression in the rapid movements of your eyes over his face in the low light. And what you found could only be a mirror of what you were sure reflected on your own features; a breath held back by the bite of fear. Apprehension. Longing. Then his voice fell into something hesitant in the quiet moments that followed, question echoing all too familiar as he repeated it. But this time, it was searching for something else. Something more. Desperate for something solid to grasp onto. “What do we have?”

And you charted it all out, laying the answer down flat in your mind. Months—term after term of falling into step. Of playful banter and risky flirting. Of drinks shared and quiet moments when lines were drawn. Of finding authenticity in an otherwise easily misunderstood performance. A gentle evolution from somebody you off-handedly knew to tentative friendship. You knew what you and Matt had; a relationship that thrived on sharp tongues and a scrutinizing study of character that despite your effort, opened the gates of possibility to something calm and dangerous in its delicacy. But that's not what he was asking. 

Instead, you steeled yourself where you stood. He was looking, searching for the next step forward. All the while giving you the agency to his heart, allowing all power over dictation and final say to whatever you chose to establish. You couldn't ignore the infliction he dealt to himself, seeing straight through the spaces in between to the fear, the cruel reminders of the last time he gave himself so freely to someone. That was before you met him, but ghosts were best known for haunting. “What do you want?”

It was almost as if you could see the wheels in his mind turn, a sightless focus casting his eyes from side to side as he tried to settle on the right words to say, finding the extent of which he was comfortable enough to voice. “Can I still kiss you?”

You weren’t the same person you were when you arrived at that party. That version of you, if placed in your position now, would have had no trouble making a joke out of it. Putting a teasing spin on how if he didn’t think he’d earned it after single-handedly raising some bars that were admittingly far too low, then that was on him. And that version of you did linger, buzzing in the back of your thoughts and offering a hand should you take it for the easy way out. Instead, in this moment, you were wholly the part of you you sought so long to protect; the one that didn’t miss the vulnerable cadence of his voice, or the way his eyes darted rapidly across where he assumed your face to be. So you tried to solve the puzzle in his quiet, shimmying closer to him until you could press your lips to his. 

This kiss was something new. It wasn’t the sweet satisfied devotion that could breathe fire into a soul, or the lust-driven hunger that fueled nothing but go, go, go. It was a soft, tentative ask. Not just seeking permission, but in search of solace. A place to stay. A kiss aware of the possibility of rejection. It wasn’t until you pulled away that you confidently thought you dug your way to grasp at its roots, a clarity finding you in what it meant for him to also have expressed his want. And the picture you’d missed, too otherwise distracted to place how his consistent, fervent intensity seemed to match yours—and all it included, carefully considering that you’d poured yourself into him with months of lonely yearning. And the steady implication that he had also, maybe, possibly, done the same. The pieces had not been handed to you all at once, but incrementally; inside the quiet, intimate spaces that slipped through the cracks between feverish touches and hot, liquid desire. It was so easy to overlook them in the moment, but felt nothing but so incredibly monumentally substantial now.

Taking a calculated risk that had your heart leaping up into your throat just on the incrementally slim off chance that you were wrong—now that the haze over your thoughts, and other carnal distractions were clear—you broached the topic with a solemnity and offer you wouldn’t be able to come back from. “You can kiss me whenever you want.”

“Yeah?” Matt looked almost surprised, like the part of him that already knew your answer was still caught off guard by his own doubts, but he fought to not let the entirety of his expression show; a twitch that opted to lean more into the favor of the cool demeanor much like you’d seen him display only a few hours ago. Like what he was used to doing when he fell into step with you. Like he expected in this wind-down that you wouldn’t take him seriously—or not understand the nuance of what he was even asking. When in reality, you were glad he asked first. Because you weren’t so sure if you’d have had the guts to bring it up in the next couple of days, let alone so incredibly soon. “Even tomorrow?"

You hoped he could feel the weight of your stare as you studied his face, your voice dropping to a fragile whisper that clung to every hope you’ve ever had. “Especially tomorrow.”

The urge to bask in the grin that split his face wide was overwhelming and you caved in an instant. The light of him filled you to the brim, your heart doing airy flips in your chest while your mind raced, fervent disbelief that this was how it all sorted out; resolution found in the sharing of admissions equally matched in tenacity.

The quiet was simple, when you met Matt back on the bed after throwing on the first sleep shirt you found. He’d laid in wait, an almost incredulous smile widening at the first dip of you crawling up to lay next to him. You wondered if he would always like this, eager hands reaching out to touch you the moment he could, guiding you to where he could lay your head on his chest and grab your thigh, comforting and purely there, when you lifted a leg to tangle with his. He held you then, the two of you breathing together in the comfortable quiet against the sheets, letting the realization that the platter was just given to you, the door was now open to a future where you did have this—cuddling into Matt with his arms wrapped around you, the wisp of a kiss pressed to the top of your head—and not just for the night. 

It was only a few hours ago in which that very realization held an opposite sentimentality. That thinking about wanting him only led you to find a disappointment welled deep inside your chest. And despite the surrealist way you bathed in the gentle circles being traced onto your skin, or hearing Matt’s heart beat beneath your ear, that hesitation still persisted. If only in insecurity.

Your voice was small, as it spoke. Like you tried to keep the edges blunt as if you were in a room full of bubbles ready to burst. “Tell me you mean it,” Swallowing against your nerve, a part of you that wondered if maybe you should have saved this for another day, you continued, “I mean, neither of us have actually said what this is yet, and I don’t want to rush labels or anything, I just…I wanna make sure we’re on the same page.”

The pause Matt took wasn’t hesitant, but careful. He knew just as well as you did that he was walking on the eggshells of a pretty consistent history that more than spoke for itself. “Of course I mean it.” The reason why you even asked at all hung perilous and sharp like a sword above both of your heads. “I want to be with you. Do this. Us.”

It was hard not to chew at your lip, cast your gaze down until you felt Matt’s finger hook under your chin, tenderly prompting you to look up at him. “And you think we’ll last?”

“I certainly hope so.” Then he dipped into something you’d never seen from him before. Something heavily guarded and drawn out in rough breaths that were hard to take. When he spoke, everything in you stilled. “I hide things, from people. It’s hard to share. Hard to explain. I can’t be myself with others.”

You felt now like you were just handed something fragile pulled up from the depths of him, a gift of something made of a porcelain he was trusting you not to drop. You cradled it gently, shifting to wrap it in silk and lay it amongst the pillows. “Is that why you want to try? Are you yourself, with me?”

“Not fully. Not even close.” He offered you a sad smile that ticked up with hope scattered around the way his lips tugged it into shape. “But I think one day, with you…I could be.”

The realization that you were edging into territory that presented Matt more naked than you’ve seen him tonight clutched heavy around your heart. A swell of veneration, of appreciation. A flicker of coffee dates and hand holding. A rediscovering of who you were and the beginnings of a future together. It was almost overwhelming, the way Matt stripped down and offered this to you; the willingness to figure things out, to grow close, to try again. You leaned up to press a slow and gentle kiss to his lips, sighing into his smile as you nodded your head in reverent understanding. 

“Sounds a lot like you’re hoping I’ll hold out in the meantime, waiting for you to be ready.” 

For a moment, he met your reply with open relief, welcoming how you saved the conversation from becoming too much of a weight to burden at the hour it was with how deftly you spoke, letting a trickle of your normal rhythm with him sooth every syllable. “Well, you’ve already waited for me once.” He pointed out, not a single hint of triumph or smugness in his voice at how you held out hope all the while unknowingly, Matt was gathering the nerve to ask you to be his. Just a steady stream of admiration and gratitude. The plea never gained the strength it needed to become vocal, but the ask rang just as clear as the echoing toll of a church bell in the breath in between. 

Would you wait a little longer? 

And for all of him, it barely took anything to weigh the odds—finding a conclusion in his sigh of relief, the way Matt seemed to compliment even the most neglected parts of you, and the way you knew if given the chance, you would protect any and everything he’d share with you. For all of him, it didn’t matter how much time may pass, if all you had to do was love him while in wait…you knew you would.

You ignore him anyway, because you always do when it’s your apartment and your life, and you can hear him struggling to keep somebody upright. You move down the hall barefoot, the hardwood cool under your feet, and you catch the shape of him in the living room by the dim kitchen light. He’s still in his suit, mask off, shoulders rising and falling too hard. One of his hands is clamped around an arm that doesn’t belong to him, hauling a second man forward like he’s refusing to let him hit the floor.

The second man stumbles, catches himself at the wall with a palm, then tilts his head toward you with a lazy kind of confidence that doesn’t match how unsteady he is. He’s dressed in blue gear that looks expensive and ruined at the same time, and the second his eyes land on you, his mouth curls like he just found something amusing. “Well,” he says, drawing it out like he’s tasting the word. “Hi.”

You stare at him, then back at Matt, and you don’t bother lowering your voice. “Why is there a stranger in my apartment, and why does he look like he crawled out of a fire?”

Matt’s head turns in your direction with that pinpoint focus he always has when he’s tracking your voice. “He’s not a stranger to me,” he says, and you can hear how carefully controlled he’s being. “He’s hurt and I didn’t have another choice.”

Dex laughs under his breath like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week. “You make it sound like you rescued a kitten. I’m touched.”

Matt’s grip tightens on Dex’s arm, and Dex hisses like it actually hurts. “Watch your mouth,” Matt snaps, then forces his voice back down when he speaks to you again. “We ran into each other on a call. There was a lab. Something broke. There were… containers.”

“Containers,” you repeat, flat, because it’s absurd and vague and you can see the way Matt’s suit is flecked with something that might be dust or dried chemical residue. “You’re bleeding?”

“I’m fine,” Matt says too fast, which is how you know he isn’t, and his shoulders hunch like he’s bracing against heat or pain. “It’s not bad.”

Dex slides down the wall like he’s trying to sit without admitting he needs to, then he looks at you again with that same sharp interest that makes your skin crawl. His gaze drags, slow and deliberate, from your face to the thin fabric of your nightgown and back up, and he doesn’t even pretend he’s being subtle.

You fold your arms over your chest and let your expression go cold. “Can I help you?”

His smile widens a fraction. “You’re prettier than I pictured.”

Matt’s head snaps toward Dex so sharply it’s almost violent, and for a second you see the exact moment his restraint threatens to split. “Don’t,” Matt says, low and dangerous.

Dex’s eyes flick up, mocking. “Don’t what? Look? Talk? Breathe in her general direction?”

You step closer without thinking, because you hate the way Dex is taking up space in your living room like he belongs here, and you hate even more that Matt is shaking with something that looks like exhaustion mixed with anger. Up close you can see the sweat at Matt’s temples, the damp hair stuck to his forehead, and the way his chest rises like he’s struggling to pull air deep enough.

“Matt,” you say, softer now, because whatever this is, it’s making him feel wrong in his own body. “Talk to me. What happened?”

Matt swallows, and his jaw flexes. “We fought,” he admits, like it costs him to say it with you standing there. “He showed up where he shouldn’t have been. We went through a glass enclosure, and there were test tubes inside it. They shattered.”

Dex shifts, his voice turning conversational like he’s discussing the weather instead of the aftermath of a fight. “You should’ve seen his face when the thing popped. Real dramatic. Whole room went sparkly.”

“You’re enjoying this,” you say, and you don’t bother hiding how much you dislike him.

Dex tips his head. “I enjoy most things.”

Matt exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to say something that would turn this into an even bigger disaster. “There was a chemical. I don’t know what it was. I just know the heat hit fast, and then we both went down for a minute.”

He shifts his grip, reaches into his suit with his free hand, and you instinctively lean forward because the motion looks clumsy, like his hands don’t want to cooperate. When he pulls his fist back out, he’s holding a broken length of glass, the snapped end jagged and cloudy like something coated the inside.

“I kept a piece,” Matt says, and his voice is tight with the kind of practicality that always kicks in when he’s scared. “I didn’t want to leave without something. If we can figure out what it was—”

“Matt,” you cut in, because the glass makes your stomach drop. “Why are you holding that with your bare hand?”

“I’m not cut,” he says, and you can tell he’s telling the truth, because his voice doesn’t hitch the way it does when he lies to you. “It’s not sharp on this end.”

Dex snorts. “Sure. He’s very careful, your boyfriend. Extremely careful. That’s why he dragged his enemy into your apartment at midnight, wearing his murder pajamas.”

Your eyes cut to Dex. “Stop talking.”

Dex’s grin turns delighted. “Aw. You tell him what to do too? That’s cute.”

Matt’s patience finally cracks in a way that has nothing to do with you. He yanks Dex’s arm up, not enough to dislocate anything, but enough to remind Dex who’s stronger, then he shoves him toward the couch with a controlled kind of force. Dex stumbles, catches himself on the back cushion, and laughs again like it’s foreplay.

“Sit,” Matt says, clipped. “And if you say one more thing about her, I’m putting you through the wall.”

Dex settles onto the couch with exaggerated ease, stretching his legs out like he’s in a waiting room. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Matt turns back to you, and the aggression falls away from his face like it was never there, replaced by something strained and urgent. He holds the broken tube out in your direction, and you take it because you don’t want it in his hand anymore, even though you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with it.

The glass is warm, warmer than it should be, and the cloudy residue inside catches the light faintly. You angle it away from your body on instinct, then look up at Matt. “Okay. You brought me… a dirty shard of a test tube.”

“I know,” Matt says, and he sounds frustrated with himself, like he can hear how ridiculous it is. “I didn’t think. I just—I wanted it here. Safe.”

“You couldn’t have put it in a bag?” you say, and you can’t help it, because your nerves are trying to get relief through sarcasm. “Or a sock? Or literally anything that isn’t my bare hands?”

Matt’s mouth twitches, but it’s not a smile, not really. “I’ll clean up after. I just need you to—” He cuts himself off, breath stuttering like the heat is spiking again. “I need you to help me keep a clear head.”

You don’t say what you’re thinking, which is that he doesn’t look like he has one right now. Instead, you lift your chin toward the bathroom. “Both of you need to change, shower if you can. At least get those suits off, because whatever this was, it’s on you.”

Dex’s voice floats over, bright with amusement. “Oh, yeah. Tell him to take it off.”

Your eyes flick to him again, and you don’t bother masking the disgust. “You can shut up and do as you’re told too.”

Dex raises an eyebrow. “Bossy. I like it.”

Matt takes a step toward him like he’s about to make good on the wall threat, but you touch Matt’s forearm before he can. “Matt,” you say, grounding him, and his head turns back to you immediately. “Bathroom. Now.”

His throat works, and he nods once, sharp and obedient, because he trusts you. “Dex first. I’m not letting him wander.”

Dex pushes himself up with a lazy stretch, then pauses just long enough to look you up and down again, slow as he pleases. “Your nightgown’s a nice touch,” he murmurs.

Matt’s hand shoots out and clamps on Dex’s shoulder, and Dex makes a sound that’s half laugh, half choke. “Move,” Matt growls.

Dex lifts both hands like he’s surrendering, but the grin never leaves. “Okay, okay. Lead the way.”

You step back to give them space, holding the broken glass out away from your body like it’s something that might bite you. Matt herds Dex down the hall, and you watch them disappear into the bathroom, the door shutting with a firm click that sounds like Matt trying to lock his temper away in the same place.

For a second, the apartment is quieter, except for the muffled sound of water turning on and the rough edge of Matt’s breathing bleeding through the door. You look down at the test tube shard in your hand, then at your nightgown, then toward the kitchen where you keep plastic bags and gloves under the sink, and you mutter to yourself because you can’t believe this is your life. “Okay,” you say under your breath, moving toward the kitchen. “Cold water. Towels. Gloves. Something to cool them down. Then we figure out what the hell you two brought home.”

From the bathroom, Dex’s voice carries, too clear, too smug. “So, this is the girlfriend.”

Matt’s reply is low and sharp enough that even through the door you hear the warning. “Don’t.”

Dex laughs again, softer this time, like he’s savoring it. “God, you’re fun.”

You grab a roll of paper towels with one hand, dig for a plastic bag with the other, and you tell yourself you’re not going to let Dex get under your skin, because you’ve dealt with Matt’s stubbornness, his bruises, his secrets, and the way he tries to carry the whole city alone, and you can handle one sarcastic asshole on your couch.

Then the warmth hits you, subtle at first, like your apartment suddenly got too hot even though the thermostat hasn’t changed, and you pause with your fingers still in the cabinet because your skin prickles in a way that makes no sense.

You take a breath, then another, and the air feels thick in your lungs, not choking, just… heavy, like it’s carrying something you didn’t notice before. “Matt,” you call, raising your voice toward the bathroom. “How sure are you that stuff wasn’t airborne?”

There’s a pause, water still running, and then his voice comes back through the door, tight with a kind of grim certainty. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “But I think it was.”

Your stomach drops, and you stare down at the glass shard in your hand like it just turned into a live wire. You shove it carefully into the plastic bag, seal it with shaking fingers, and tell yourself you’re being dramatic, because you’re fine, you’re just warm, it’s probably stress, it’s probably adrenaline—

Except your nightgown suddenly feels too soft and too clingy, and your thighs press together on instinct like you’re trying to get friction from nothing. You swallow hard, forcing your hands to keep moving, forcing your brain to stay on the list of practical tasks you can control.

Cold packs. Water. Clothes. Get them out of the contaminated suits.

You grab two bottles of water from the fridge, then a third, because Dex can suffer but dehydration is still dehydration, and you yank the freezer open for ice packs. The cold air hits your face, and it should feel good, but it only makes the heat under your skin feel sharper by contrast.

You stand there longer than you mean to, letting the freezer’s cold wash over you while your pulse kicks harder for no reason you want to name. Your nipples tighten under the nightgown, your stomach flips, and you force your mouth into a hard line because this cannot be happening, not tonight, not with Dex in your living room and Matt barely holding himself together.

The water shuts off and then there are two sets of footsteps. One steady, one dragging with theatrical exaggeration.

You straighten up, slam the freezer closed, and turn with the water bottles in hand like you’re about to run a triage station, because if you keep moving, you can pretend your body isn’t suddenly acting like you’re the one who came home from a fight covered in whatever the hell was in that lab.

You hand them the water bottles like you’re running a field hospital out of your kitchen, and the second Matt’s fingers brush yours you feel how hot he is, like his skin is holding heat instead of just warming you the way it normally does. Dex takes his bottle without a thank you, of course, twisting the cap with a lazy flick and drinking like he’s trying to look unbothered, even though sweat is still beading at his hairline.

“Sit,” you tell them, nodding toward the couch and the armchair like you’re assigning stations. “Both of you. If either of you falls over, I’m not catching you.”

“I’m not going to fall,” Matt says, and he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. He’s in a dark t-shirt and sweatpants now, hair damp from the quick rinse, suit shoved somewhere in the bathroom, and he’s still breathing like his lungs are running behind his body. He stands there for a second, head slightly tilted, listening to the room like he’s trying to find the chemical in the air by sound alone.

Dex drops onto the couch and sprawls like he lives there, one arm slung over the back cushion. Matt doesn’t sit, not yet, and you can tell he’s vibrating with it, the need to keep moving, to keep control, to not let his body win.

“You said you don’t know what it was,” you say, and you keep your voice even because if you let yourself sound scared, you’ll make Matt spiral. “Did you see labels? Any markings? Anything at all?”

Dex snorts into his water bottle. “He didn’t see shit.”

Matt’s jaw tightens hard enough that you can see it. “There were racks. Glass. It was like a display enclosure more than storage. Maybe a demonstration.” He pauses, then adds like he hates the words, “there was a sweet smell. Like… hot metal and sugar.”

“That’s helpful,” you say automatically, even though it isn’t, and you can feel your own skin prickling again, that wrong warmth spreading across your chest and down your stomach. You shift your weight, trying to ignore it, trying to treat it like the apartment just got stuffy because two overheated men dragged themselves in and your adrenaline is still high.

Dex’s gaze drifts to you again, and this time it lingers longer, sharper. “You’re sweating,” he says, like it’s an observation and a victory at the same time.

“I’m fine,” you snap without thinking, and it comes out too fast, too defensive, which is annoying because it makes it sound like you aren’t fine.

Matt’s head turns toward you immediately, and his voice drops into that careful calm he uses when he’s trying not to panic. “You’re sweating?”

“Matt,” you say, trying to laugh it off, but it sounds thin. “It’s late, my boyfriend came home half-dead with a lunatic, I’m running on caffeine and anxiety. I’m allowed to sweat.”

Dex’s mouth curls. “He’s not your boyfriend right now. He’s a furnace.”

“Okay,” you say, too bright, already done with him. You point toward the hallway. “No more commentary from the peanut gallery. You’re sitting there, you’re drinking water, and you’re shutting up.”

Dex lifts his hands in fake surrender again, then settles back with an obnoxiously pleased look on his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

Matt finally lowers himself into the armchair, but he doesn’t relax into it. His hands stay on his thighs like he’s bracing, and when he exhales it’s rough, like the air drags. You set the ice packs on the coffee table and slide one toward him, and another toward Dex, trying to keep this practical because practical means you’re not thinking about the heat crawling under your nightgown.

“Put those on your neck,” you tell them. “Or your wrists. Something.”

Dex picks his up, presses it to his throat, and groans like he’s being dramatic on purpose. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Matt takes his, but he doesn’t immediately put it on. He lifts it, then pauses like he’s listening again, and his head tilts toward you in a way that makes your stomach drop because he’s noticed something, and Matt noticing something is never casual. “You’re breathing differently,” he says.

You stare at him. “What?”

“You’re breathing differently,” he repeats, steady, like he’s trying to keep it neutral. “It’s… faster.”

Dex’s eyes flick between you and Matt, and his smile turns sharp, like he’s watching a show start. “Uh-oh.”

“I’m fine,” you insist again, and you hate how your voice shakes at the end, because it makes Matt’s posture go even tighter.

Matt’s hands curl around the ice pack, and he forces himself to stay seated. “Tell me if you feel anything,” he says, and there’s a hard edge beneath the calm. “If it’s airborne, you’re exposed too.”

“I know,” you say, and you hate that the admission makes the warmth in your body flare like it’s responding to being acknowledged. You swallow and shift again, rubbing your thighs together without meaning to, then stopping when you realize you did it. “I’m going to look it up. Something has to match those symptoms.”

Dex’s gaze drops to your legs like he’s cataloging the movement, and your cheeks go hot in a way that isn’t just temperature. You pick up your phone before you can think too hard about that, because thinking too hard about Dex watching you is a problem you don’t want tonight.

You walk into the kitchen with your phone in hand, because if you stay in the living room with both of them staring at you in different ways, you’re going to lose your mind. You type fast, thumbs slipping a little because your hands feel clammy.

You stare at the results like they’re in another language, and you scroll anyway, because you’re stubborn and you need something concrete. Your mind keeps snagging on the words sweet smell, heat, exposure, and every time you try to force it back onto “poison” or “irritant” your body does something else entirely, like it’s dragging you toward a different conclusion. Your nipples ache against the thin fabric of your nightgown, your stomach tightens low, and the slick heat between your thighs becomes impossible to pretend is stress.

You type again, more frantic.

Your phone gives you a bunch of useless articles, clickbait and vague warnings and the word aphrodisiac showing up in places that make your pulse jump. You read half a sentence, then realize you’re not reading at all because the heat in your body is swallowing your attention. You grip the counter and try to breathe slowly like that will fix it, but the second you inhale, the air feels thick again, and the warmth in your lungs makes your thighs clench.

From the living room, you hear Dex’s voice carrying, casual and taunting. “So, how long you think before she starts climbing you like a tree?”

Matt’s voice is low, dangerous. “Don’t talk about her.”

Dex laughs, and you hate that the sound makes something flutter in your stomach, like your body is reacting to the idea before your brain can slam the door on it. You squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to think about anything else. Cold water. Ice packs. Gloves. Cleaning supplies. Bag the glass shard. Call someone. Call—

You realize you’re holding your breath, and when you exhale it trembles.

Your nightgown clings to your stomach and thighs, damp where you’re sweating, and the sensation is suddenly unbearable, too soft, too much. You tug at the fabric like it’s suffocating you, then stop because your hands shake, and you’re not sure if it’s fear or need. Your phone is still in your hand, screen glowing with the word arousal, and you want to throw it across the room.

Instead, you set it down on the counter, hard, like you can punish it into giving you a better answer. “Okay,” you mutter to yourself, voice tight. “Okay. I’m not doing this. I’m not—”

You walk out of the kitchen, meaning to go back to the living room, meaning to keep control of the situation, meaning to tell Matt what you found and keep Dex from running his mouth. Halfway down the hall, the heat spikes again, sharper, and you stop like you ran into a wall.

Your skin feels too sensitive, like every brush of air is a touch. Your panties suddenly feel like a cruel joke, a thin strip of fabric that’s rubbing exactly where you can’t stand it, and you press your thighs together hard enough that it almost hurts. You try to keep walking, you really do, but your knees go a little weak and your breath catches, and you end up turning into the bedroom without making the decision out loud.

The room is dim and familiar and smells like you and Matt, clean sheets and laundry detergent and something warm underneath, and that makes it worse, because it makes the need feel safe enough to bloom.

You shut the door halfway behind you, not all the way because you don’t want to look suspicious, and you stand against the wall with your back against it like you’re steadying yourself. Your nightgown rides up when you shift, and the cool air hits your thighs, and your body reacts so hard you actually gasp.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

You try to be rational again, you try to talk yourself down like you’ve never been turned on before in your life, like this is just horny and not chemical and not dangerous. You tell yourself you can take a cold shower, you can drink water, you can breathe it out, and then your fingers slide under the hem of your nightgown anyway, because your body is done waiting for your permission.

Your hand slips into your panties, and the second your fingertips find your slick pussy you go still, eyes squeezed shut, because the relief is immediate and dizzying. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, because the sound that wants to come out of you is not something you can let Dex hear from your bedroom, not when he’s sitting on your couch like a smug parasite.

You circle your clit carefully at first, trying to keep it quiet, trying to keep it controlled, and it doesn’t work. Your hips rock into your hand without you telling them to, and the wet sound of your fingers moving makes your cheeks burn. You press your head against the wall, breathing through your nose, trying to keep your mouth shut, but the heat keeps climbing, building like pressure under your skin.

“Come on,” you whisper to yourself, harsh and frustrated, like you can bully your body into settling down. “Just—just calm down.”

You don’t calm down. Your fingers slide lower, two of them pushing into your cunt with a slow, shaking thrust, and you have to clamp your other hand over your mouth momentarily because the moan nearly spills out anyway. The stretch makes your stomach flip, makes your thighs tremble, and you can’t decide which is worse: the relief or the fact that it’s making you want more instead of fixing anything.

You pull your fingers out, then push them back in again, deeper this time, and your knees flex like you’re about to sink to the floor. You grip the fabric of your nightgown at your waist with your free hand, bunching it up so you can spread your legs wider, because you’re chasing friction now, chasing anything that makes the burning need feel like it has a direction.

The thought of Matt flashes through your head, automatic, grounding and devastating. Matt’s hands. Matt’s mouth. Matt’s voice telling you what to do when you can’t think straight.

Then Dex’s voice flashes too, the way he looked at you, the way he said you’re sweating, the way he keeps pressing at Matt like he wants a reaction. The idea of Dex hearing you through the wall makes your stomach clench again, and it’s not all disgust, and that realization pisses you off so much that you shove your fingers in deeper like you can punish yourself back into sense.

You’re panting now, sweat slick on your back, nightgown twisted up around your ribs, and you can’t get enough air. Your clit throbs under your thumb, oversensitive, and you move faster even though you’re trying not to. The sound of your own wetness fills your ears, and you tilt your head back like you’re trying to keep your mouth away from the urge to moan.

From the living room, you hear a muffled sound, probably Dex shifting, maybe Matt saying something sharp, and you freeze for half a second, panic jolting through you. You listen hard, holding your breath, fingers still buried in your cunt.

No footsteps yet.

You swallow, shaky, and start moving again because stopping feels like dying. You bite your lip again, harder, and the sting makes your eyes water, but it keeps you quiet. Your body builds toward the edge anyway, tightening and tightening until it feels like your skin is going to split open with it.

“Fuck,” you breathe, almost silent, and you chase the pressure harder because you need it to break. Right as you feel your orgasm start to crest, the sound of footsteps hits the hallway, steady and purposeful, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been caught doing something criminal.

Matt’s footsteps.

They’re careful, controlled, and they stop outside your bedroom door for half a beat like he’s listening, like he already knows exactly what you’re doing, because he always knows. Matt’s footsteps stay outside the door for a beat too long, and you can feel him there the way you always can when he’s focused, like the air in the room shifts around his attention. You freeze with your hand still in your panties, fingers slick, thighs trembling, breath coming in shallow, broken pulls that you’re trying to force quieter.

The door nudges open, not hard, just enough that it moves on its hinges with a soft click, and Matt’s voice follows immediately, low and careful like he’s holding himself back by the teeth. “Sweetheart… are you okay?”

You swallow, throat tight, and you try to make your face normal even though you can’t stop shaking. Your fingers twitch against your cunt, and the tiny movement shoots a hot jolt straight up your spine. “Yeah,” you say too fast, and it comes out wrecked anyway, breathy and cracked like you’re already begging. “I’m fine. I just—I’m hot. I’m just—”

Matt steps in and closes the door behind him with the gentlest touch, like he doesn’t want the sound to carry, and then he stops again, head tilted, listening to you the way he listens to everything. You know he can hear your pulse slamming in your throat, can hear how wet you are, can hear the way you’re trying to keep your breathing from turning into moans.

“You’re not fine,” he says, and it isn’t accusing, it’s steady, like he’s naming a fact. “Talk to me.”

You laugh once, short and sharp, because it’s either that or cry. “I tried to look it up. I tried to be normal about it. I—” You cut yourself off when your hips rock into your own hand again, helpless, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Matt, I can’t—I can’t think.”

He crosses the room fast, but not frantic, and the difference matters because it’s Matt; even when he’s losing control, he tries to make you feel safe first. His hand finds your wrist unerringly, gentle but firm, stopping your movement for a second, not taking it away, just holding you still long enough that you have to breathe.

“Hey,” he murmurs, closer now, and his other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s checking if you’re real. “Look at me.”

You do, because you always do, and the sight of him in the dim light makes something inside you twist. He looks wrecked too, sweat still at his temples, hair damp, t-shirt clinging to his chest, and his mouth is set in this tight line like he’s trying to be your anchor while his own body is on fire.

“You don’t have to lie,” he says softly, and his thumb drags across your lower lip, slow and grounding. “Do you want help?”

Your throat bobs, and you try to answer like a normal person instead of somebody with their panties soaked through, but it comes out raw. “Yes.”

Matt doesn’t move right away. He holds your face, keeps his thumb at your lip like he’s keeping you from spinning out, and his voice drops even lower. “Say it again.”

Your breath shudders, and you nod even though you know he doesn’t need the nod, he needs the words. “Yes, Matt. I want help.”

His jaw flexes. His shoulders rise and fall once like he’s pulling himself together on purpose, and then he asks you the question that always matters more than anything else, even now, even like this. “Tell me what you want,” he says, and his voice is steady enough that it makes your eyes sting. “Use words.”

You wet your lips, and your cheeks burn because it feels too explicit to say out loud when he can already hear it, when he already knows, but he makes you do it anyway because that’s how he keeps you safe in the middle of chaos. “I want your fingers,” you manage, breath shaking. “I want you to make it stop—or make it better, I don’t know, just… please.”

Matt makes a sound in the back of his throat like the words hit him in the gut, and then his grip on your wrist loosens. He slides your hand out of your panties and brings it up, pressing your slick fingers to his mouth in a way that makes your stomach flip so hard you almost lose your balance.

He kisses your fingertips, slow and wet, and then he licks them, once, deliberate, like he’s tasting exactly what you need. His breath is hot against your skin, and he exhales through his nose like it hurts. “Okay,” he says against your fingers, voice rougher now. “I’ve got you.”

You barely have time to nod before his hand replaces yours, sliding down into your panties like he belongs there, like he owns the space because you gave it to him. He moves slow at first, two fingers brushing through your wetness, spreading it, teasing your entrance like he’s forcing himself to be careful even though your hips buck toward him immediately.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and it’s tiny, but Matt hears it anyway. His mouth finds yours, messy and hungry, like he’s starving and trying not to scare you with it. The kiss turns into something hot and open-mouthed almost instantly, your lips parting because you can’t do anything else, your hands grabbing at his shoulders to keep yourself upright.

Matt’s fingers sink into you, steady and deep, curling just right, and you make a strangled sound into his mouth because it’s too much relief and not enough at the same time. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to swallow your noises, and the way he breathes tells you his control is fraying too, his exhale stuttering against your cheek.

“Good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, then kissing you again before you can answer. “That’s it. Let me.”

You whine, hips chasing his hand, and your back hits the wall harder as you try to grind into him. Matt adjusts instantly, stepping closer, pinning you with his body without crushing you, and it’s the best kind of pressure because it keeps you from sliding apart.

Your hands are everywhere, grabbing at him like you need proof he’s here, and then your palms find the front of his sweatpants and you can feel him through them, hard and thick, and it makes you gasp into his mouth.

“Matt,” you breathe, half warning, half plea, and you rub him without thinking, dragging your hand over his cock through the fabric because the friction makes your whole body light up. He shudders, and his fingers thrust deeper like his restraint slipped a notch.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing hard enough that you feel it. “Jesus,” he mutters, and it’s the closest you’ve ever heard him come to sounding undone. “You’re soaked.”

“I can’t—” you start, and your voice breaks when his thumb finds your clit and presses in firm, circling just right. “I can’t, I’m gonna—”

“Go on,” Matt says, and his tone turns quietly possessive, not harsh, just certain. “Come for me.”

Your body snaps tight, knees shaking, and you clamp a hand over your mouth too late because the sound still leaks, broken and desperate. You grind into his hand, rubbing his cock harder because you can’t help it, and Matt’s breath turns ragged as he holds you steady and keeps working you through it.

You come fast, like your body was right at the edge already and he just pushed you over, shaking so hard your shoulders hit the wall again. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, wet and tight, and you moan his name into your palm like it’s a prayer and a plea all at once.

Matt doesn’t stop when you finish. He slows down, but he keeps moving, stroking you through the aftershocks with a tenderness that’s almost cruel because it drags the sensation out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, hips twitching away and then back again because you don’t want it to end.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, mouth at your cheek, kissing the corner of your jaw, then the side of your throat. “That’s my girl. Breathe.”

You try to, but every breath comes out shaky, and you can feel him shaking too. His chest rises hard against yours, his heart hammering so loud you can feel it through the thin fabric of his shirt, and his hand at your clit presses a little firmer like he’s fighting his own need by pouring it into you instead.

“Matt,” you whisper, voice ruined, and you tug him closer by the shirt like you need him to anchor you. “You’re… you’re not okay either.”

“I’m fine,” he lies automatically, and then exhales like he hates himself for it. His thumb keeps circling your clit, his fingers still inside you, and his hips jerk once when you brush his cock again through his sweats. “I’m managing.”

“You’re breathing like you ran a marathon,” you say, a shaky attempt at normal that falls apart when his hand hits a spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back. “And you’re hard.”

Matt lets out a rough laugh that doesn’t sound amused. “Yeah,” he admits, and his voice goes lower, tighter. “I noticed.”

You slide your hand over him again, slower this time, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, and Matt’s fingers stutter inside you like he lost the rhythm for a second. He pulls his mouth away from yours just enough to speak, and the words come out controlled only by force.

“Tell me you want me to keep going,” he says, because even now he needs it said. “Tell me.”

Your stomach flips, your cunt clenches around his fingers, and you nod too hard before you remember he wants words.

“I want you to keep going,” you say, breathless and shameless. “Don’t stop. Please, Matt, don’t stop.”

His hand flexes inside you again, and you feel him shudder against you like the fever is chewing through his restraint. He kisses you hard, messy, and keeps fingering you like he’s trying to chase the chemical out of both your bodies one orgasm at a time, even though you can hear it in his breath that he’s right on the edge of losing control too.

“You guys gonna do that all night, or are we sharing?”

Dex’s voice carries through the door like he’s leaning right up against it, like he wants you to know he’s listening on purpose, and it makes your whole body clench around Matt’s fingers.

Matt doesn’t flinch the way a normal person would. He goes still in that specific way he does when he’s deciding whether to be a man or a weapon, and his hand doesn’t stop moving even while his head turns toward the sound like he can see Dex perfectly through the wood. “Get out,” Matt says, and his voice is calm enough to be terrifying.

The doorknob turns anyway, and then the door opens just enough for light from the hallway to cut across the room, and Dex fills the gap with a grin and a body language that screams entitlement. He’s in Matt’s clothes like it’s a joke he’s telling with his whole presence, sweat darkening the collar of the t-shirt, hair damp, cheeks flushed. His eyes flick right to Matt’s hand between your thighs, then slide up your body, lingering on your bunched nightgown and your bare legs like he’s taking inventory.

“Wow,” Dex drawls. “And here I was thinking we were gonna be civilized about it.”

Matt’s hand tightens at your jaw, thumb still at your lip like he’s anchoring you there, and his other hand stays inside your panties like it belongs. “I said get out,” he repeats, and it’s not louder, it’s just sharper.

Dex leans on the doorframe like he lives there, like this is his apartment too and he’s just wandered into the room for a snack. “What, you gonna hit me? You gonna throw me out with your big righteousness routine?”

“Dex,” Matt says, and the warning in his tone is the same one you’ve heard on rooftops when he’s cornered someone and hasn’t decided yet how merciful he’s feeling. “Leave.”

You should say it—you should tell Dex to fuck off. You should tell Matt to shut the door, lock it, and keep taking care of you like he was. You can feel your body screaming for that simple outcome, begging for just Matt’s hand and his mouth and no complications.

Instead you hear yourself say, breathless and wrecked, “don’t leave.”

The words hang in the air for a beat, and it’s so quiet you can hear your own pulse thundering. Matt freezes like somebody stabbed him with the sentence, and Dex’s expression changes instantly, the grin turning sharp and delighted like you just handed him a key.

Matt’s head turns back to you, and his thumb presses at your lower lip, a soft demand. “Sweetheart,” he says carefully, “tell me what you mean.”

Your throat works, and your cheeks burn because you know how it sounds, you know how this looks, you know you’re standing here with Matt’s fingers inside you and your panties soaked and your nightgown twisted up like you got caught doing something you shouldn’t. You still say it anyway because the heat in your body doesn’t care about dignity, and because Matt asked you for words.

“I mean,” you manage, voice shaking, “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to stop. I don’t want him—” You swallow hard, and your hips twitch against Matt’s hand like your body is trying to talk for you. “I don’t want him to leave either.”

Matt’s jaw flexes, and his fingers don’t move for a second, like he’s forcing himself to prioritize the conversation over the way you’re clenching around him, and then he speaks like he’s laying down law in his own bedroom.

“You don’t touch her,” Matt says to Dex, voice flat. “You don’t come near her unless she says so again while you’re standing right here and I can hear her say it. You understand me?”

Dex’s smile turns almost polite, which is somehow worse. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Consent. Boundaries. Gold star, counselor.”

Matt doesn’t look at him, but his hand at your jaw tightens a fraction. “Tell me,” Matt says to you, slow and steady, “if you want him involved right now. Say it clearly.”

Your lungs pull in a shaky breath. You can feel Dex’s eyes on you like a physical pressure, and you can feel Matt’s body heat pressed close, the steady weight of him holding you upright. You don’t want Dex to have power over this, you want it to be yours. You nod, then force the words out because Matt needs the words. “I want him,” you say, and it comes out filthy in a way that makes you shiver. “I want… both of you. I want it to feel good. I want it to stop feeling like I’m gonna crawl out of my skin.”

Matt inhales through his nose, the sound tight. “Okay,” he says, like he’s agreeing to something dangerous because you asked. “Then it happens my way.”

Dex pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room like he’s been invited to a party he already planned to crash. “Your way,” Dex repeats, amused, and his gaze drops again to your thighs, to the wet line at the edge of your panties. “Sure. I’m flexible.”

Matt’s hand slips out of your panties, and you make a small, involuntary sound because the sudden emptiness is almost painful. He immediately replaces it with his palm over your cunt through the fabric, pressing firm enough to keep you from chasing him, and he leans in close to your ear. “We’re moving,” he murmurs. “Bed. Hold onto me.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, and Matt lifts you like it’s nothing, like your body is just another thing he knows by weight and balance and memory. He carries you the few steps to the bed, guiding you down onto the mattress with a gentleness that doesn’t match the heat burning through the room. The sheets are cool for half a second before your skin turns them warm.

Dex circles closer, eyes bright. “This is adorable,” he says, and the sarcasm doesn’t hide the hunger in his voice.

“Shut up,” you tell him, and it comes out breathless, half a laugh and half a warning, because your body is already arching for touch again.

Dex’s grin widens. “Yes, ma’am.”

Matt kneels on the bed beside you, then over you, and the way he positions himself is so Matt it almost makes you dizzy. His palm slides up your thigh, fingers splaying like he’s mapping you, grounding you. He hooks a finger under the strap of your nightgown and drags it down your shoulder just to kiss the skin there, slow and possessive, like he’s reminding you whose mouth you’re about to be moaning into.

Dex reaches for you, and Matt catches his wrist without even looking, grip iron. “Ask,” Matt says.

Dex holds your gaze, and his voice drops just enough to feel more real. “Can I?”

You swallow. You’re still trembling, still slick, still aching in a way that feels endless, and you nod once before forcing it into words, because Matt made you do that, and it matters. “Yes,” you say.

Dex exhales like that was the only permission he needed, and then he’s climbing onto the mattress like he belongs there, pushing your knees apart with hands that are firm and unashamed. His grip isn’t rough enough to hurt, but it’s controlling, pinning you open like you’re something he’s been hungry for since the moment he saw you.

“You’re gonna hate how much you like this,” Dex murmurs, and then he tugs once, hard, and your panties tear with a quick rip that makes you gasp.

“Dex!” you start, half shocked, half turned on by the audacity, and Matt’s hand slides up your throat at the same time, not choking, just holding you steady, thumb under your jaw like he’s keeping you anchored in your own body.

“Breathe,” Matt says against your mouth, then kisses you before you can say anything else.

Dex doesn’t waste a second, he grabs your thighs and drags you closer, burying his face between your legs like he’s trying to inhale you. His mouth is hot and wet and mean about it, tongue flattening and pressing hard against your clit like he wants you to break fast. The sound is obscene immediately, loud enough that you jerk and try to clamp your legs shut on instinct.

Dex’s hands tighten on your thighs and hold you open. “Nah,” he mutters into you, voice vibrating against your pussy. “Not running.”

Your back arches off the bed with a strangled noise, and Matt is there instantly, crowding your space above, one hand still at your throat and the other sliding up under your nightgown to cup your breast. His thumb circles your nipple slow at first, then harder when you whimper, and he kisses you like he’s stealing your breath on purpose.

“Put your hand on me,” Matt says, guiding your wrist down to the front of his sweatpants. His cock is hard and heavy under the fabric, and the second your fingers curl around him you moan into Matt’s mouth like you can’t help it. “Slow,” Matt warns, voice rough. “Touch me slow. Keep breathing.”

Dex hears Matt directing you, and he gets worse on purpose. His tongue pushes deeper, his mouth noisier, suction turning brutal on your clit until your hips buck hard enough you nearly slide up the bed. Dex holds you in place like he’s built for restraint, palms on your hips now, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel it.

Matt makes a sound in his throat that you feel against your lips more than you hear, and his hand at your breast squeezes like he’s fighting the urge to grab Dex by the hair and drag him off you. Instead he uses it, and the fact that he uses it makes your stomach flip.

“What do you think it is?” Matt asks, voice low against your mouth.

You try to answer, you really do, but Dex sucks harder on your clit like he’s punishing you for even attempting to talk, and Matt kisses you again like he doesn’t want the words out of you either. You break the kiss with a gasp, trying to speak, and Dex shifts his mouth just enough to drag his tongue along you in a slow, vicious stroke that makes your eyes roll back.

“Matt,” you choke out, voice fractured, “I—I don’t—”

Matt’s thumb presses under your jaw, steadying your head. “Use your words,” he says, and his tone turns gentle in the middle of all this like he’s still your anchor. “Tell me.”

Dex’s mouth goes back to your clit, relentless, and you clutch at Matt’s shoulder and stroke his cock through his sweats harder just to keep yourself from losing it. Matt’s hips jerk once into your hand, and his breath turns ragged, but he doesn’t stop you. He wants you to feel how much you’re getting to him.

You force your eyes open, force your brain to drag itself back from the edge. “It’s—it’s gotta be an aphrodisiac,” you gasp, and Dex growls into your thigh like he approves. “Airborne. It’s—it’s making us… like this.”

Matt hums like he already knew, mouth brushing your cheek. “And?”

You swallow, shaking, because your orgasm is building again, fast and merciless, and Dex is not giving you a single second to calm down. “And I think—” you try, then choke when Dex’s tongue hits exactly right and your whole body jolts. “I think it needs… multiple… releases. To burn off. To… feel normal.”

Dex mutters something into your thigh, words you feel more than hear, and his grip tightens like he’s proud and furious at the same time. Matt’s hand slides from your breast down your stomach, then between your legs, and for a second you think he’s going to push Dex away.

He doesn’t—Matt’s fingers slide into you from above while Dex keeps working your clit, and the double sensation is so sharp you make a broken sound that you can’t hide. Matt’s palm presses to your lower belly like he’s holding you in place, and his other hand returns to your throat, steady, not choking, just making you feel owned and safe in the same breath.

“That’s it,” Matt says, mouth at your ear now, voice so low it feels like a secret. “Let it happen. I’ve got you.”

Dex’s mouth doesn’t let up, and you can’t stop your hips from bucking against him. Your hand clenches around Matt through his sweats, stroking him in short, desperate movements, and Matt’s breath stutters like he’s right there with you, trying to hold control and failing.

You come hard, the orgasm ripping through you so fast your vision goes white at the edges. Your cunt tightens around Matt’s fingers, your thighs shake against Dex’s hands, and the sound that finally comes out of you is loud and wrecked and absolutely not quiet enough for anyone to pretend this isn’t happening.

Matt keeps you steady through it, hand firm at your throat, mouth on yours, kissing you messy while you shake. Dex stays between your legs like he’s starving, licking you through the aftershocks with a stubborn, hungry intensity that makes you twitch and try to squirm away.

“Don’t,” Matt warns softly, and the word isn’t a reprimand, it’s an instruction. “Breathe. Stay with me.”

Dex lifts his head just enough to look up at you, lips wet, chin shining, eyes bright with something sharp and satisfied. He smirks like he’s won a round, then glances toward Matt like he wants a fight. “See?” Dex says, voice rough. “Sharing. We can all be adults about it.”

Matt’s hand tightens on your throat just a fraction, enough that you feel the threat and the control. “Don’t push it,” he says, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes people smarter.

Dex’s smirk only widens, because of course it does, but Matt doesn’t let Dex’s little victory sit in the air for long. His hand stays firm at your throat as you ride out the aftershocks, thumb resting under your jaw like a reminder that you’re still right here with him, still safe, still his responsibility even when you’re begging for things that make him grit his teeth. “Up,” Matt says, voice low, and his palm slides over your hip, guiding you before your legs can decide to give out. “Come here.”

Dex makes a sound like he wants to argue, like he wants to make a joke about being ordered around in another man’s bedroom, but Matt doesn’t give him the space. Matt doesn’t look at him, he doesn’t have to, and the stillness in his posture makes Dex go quieter in the way predators do when they realize they’re not the only one in the room.

Matt shifts back against the pillows, bracing himself with one hand behind him while the other finds your waist again. He pulls you up by feel, thumbs digging in just enough that it grounds you, and you end up straddling him before you can overthink it. Your nightgown is still bunched up around your hips, your thighs are slick from Dex, your pussy is swollen and oversensitive, and Matt’s sweatpants are a problem you can’t ignore.

Dex stays close, kneeling behind you on the mattress, crowding your back without touching yet, like he’s waiting to see what Matt allows. He’s breathing hard too, the heat in the room making everything feel too close, too intimate, too dangerous.

Matt’s hands map you like he’s memorizing all over again. He starts at your hips, then your waist, then slides up your spine with a slow drag of his fingertips that makes you shiver. He cups the back of your head, and he angles your face down so he can take your mouth the way he wants, slow at first, then deeper when you whimper into him. “Tell me you’re with me,” he murmurs against your lips, and it isn’t poetic, it’s practical. It’s Matt making sure you’re still choosing.

“I’m with you,” you breathe, and your voice shakes because the need keeps pulsing through you like a fever.

“Good,” Matt says, and his thumbs press into your hips, guiding you forward. “Now take it.”

He tugs his sweatpants down just enough, and you do the same motion with clumsy fingers, because your hands don’t feel coordinated anymore. His cock is hot in your palm, heavy and hard, and the second you brush the head you feel him flinch under you like he’s been holding back since the moment he walked into the apartment.

You line yourself up and sink down, slow because your body is already wrecked, but you still gasp when he fills you. Matt’s hands lock in on your hips, steadying you, and he exhales like it hurts and feels good at the same time.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and your forehead drops to his shoulder, because the stretch is perfect and too much, your cunt fluttering around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper.

Matt kisses the side of your head, mouth rough and greedy now that he’s inside you. “That’s it. Slow. Let me feel you.”

You rock your hips on instinct, searching for the angle that makes your nerves light up, and Matt gives it to you without you even having to ask. He shifts his grip, thumbs digging in, guiding you into a steady rhythm, easing you up and down on him like he’s taking control so you don’t have to.

Dex leans closer behind you, breath hot at your ear. “Jesus,” he mutters, voice thick, and you can hear the way he’s trying not to sound needy. “He gets to sit there and you just… slide right onto him.”

Matt’s head turns slightly, attention flicking toward Dex without his face changing. “Keep your mouth under control,” Matt says, quiet and deadly. “Or I’ll remind you whose bed you’re kneeling on.”

Dex lets out a low laugh, but it comes out strained, like the chemical has him by the throat too. “Yeah, yeah. Big scary—”

You gasp because Matt’s hips buck up, suddenly deeper, catching a spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble and your pussy clamp around him. Matt’s hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you down so he can kiss you again, messy and hungry, like he’s using your mouth to keep himself from snapping at Dex with his fists.

Dex’s fingers sneak around your front like he can’t help himself. His hand slides between your thighs, finding your clit with a practiced ease that makes you jerk. His touch is rougher than Matt’s, more impatient, rubbing hard enough that it makes your nerves spark and your stomach tighten.

“Dex—” you start, voice breaking, and your hips stutter.

Matt’s grip tightens on your hips, keeping you steady on his cock. “Breathe,” he tells you, and he says it like an order because your body needs one. “Stay on me.”

Dex’s fingers keep going, rubbing your clit faster, and he presses his mouth to your shoulder like he wants to bite but settles for breathing you in. “You’re gonna come again,” Dex whispers, too pleased with himself. “You’re gonna come on his cock and he’s gonna feel it, and I’m gonna—”

“Dex,” Matt says, and the warning in his voice makes the air feel sharper.

Dex doesn’t stop, he can’t. He’s too much of a problem, too much of a little shit, and the heat is making him reckless. “What?” he taunts, rubbing your clit harder like he’s trying to make you cry. “You want her to beg? She’s already—”

Matt’s hand slides up from your hip to your jaw, and he tilts your face toward his, kissing you hard enough that it steals your breath. When he pulls back, his voice is low, controlled, and it lands like a line drawn in ink. “Shut him up.”

You blink, dazed, and your lips part on a shaky inhale. “Matt…”

Matt’s thumb presses at your chin, guiding, not forcing, and the look on his face—tight, heated, possessive—makes your whole body clench around him. “If you want him here,” Matt says, “then you listen. Shut him up.”

Dex makes a pleased, ugly sound behind you, like he’s thrilled to be included and furious that it’s on Matt’s terms. “Go on,” Dex murmurs, leaning in closer. “Do what he says.”

You reach back with shaking hands and grab Dex by the collar, yanking him forward. His breath hits your mouth, and then you kiss him, rough and immediate, because you’re too hot for hesitation and because Matt told you to.

Dex melts into it in a way that’s almost shocking, mouth opening for you like he’s starving, kissing you like he wants to prove something with his tongue. There’s anger in it, too, a bitter edge that feels like he’s biting down on his own resentment just to keep kissing you anyway.

Matt fucks up into you while you’re kissing Dex, slow at first, then harder when you whimper into Dex’s mouth. The movement jolts your whole body, makes you cling to Dex’s collar tighter to keep from falling forward, and Matt’s hands keep you anchored on his cock like he refuses to let you slip away into the haze.

Dex’s fingers never stop rubbing your clit. He’s using you and being used at the same time, and you can feel him shaking behind you like he hates how much he wants it.

Matt’s mouth finds your throat, kissing the skin there, and his voice drops against you. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Who do you belong to?”

Dex goes still for half a second behind you, like the words hit him in a place he didn’t want exposed. His kiss turns sharper, almost punishing, like he wants to keep you from answering.

Matt’s hand cups your skull, steady, guiding you through it. “Say it,” he repeats, and it’s quiet, certain.

You pull back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes unfocused. Dex’s hand keeps rubbing your clit like he’s trying to make you forget language entirely, but you force it out anyway because the control in Matt’s voice is grounding in the middle of all this.

“I belong to you,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Matt. I belong to you.”

Dex shudders behind you like it physically hurts, and the sound he makes is torn between a growl and a laugh. He kisses you again anyway, swallowing the words like he’s furious you said them and even more furious he liked hearing you say them.

Matt’s hips snap up, deeper, harder, and you cry out into Dex’s mouth because the pressure hits perfectly. Your cunt clenches around Matt, slick and tight, and Dex’s fingers press your clit in relentless circles until your nerves feel like they’re sparking.

You break the kiss with a gasp, head falling back onto Dex’s shoulder, and Dex grabs your jaw, possessive and mean, forcing you to look at him while Matt keeps thrusting up into you.

“You hear her?” Dex mutters, voice low and rough. “She said it. She’s yours. Doesn’t mean I can’t make her come, though.”

Matt’s hands clamp on your hips, and he takes control of the pace fully now, rocking up into you in a steady, relentless rhythm that makes your breath stutter. His mouth is at your ear, and you can hear the strain in his control finally cracking.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs. “Hold on. Don’t you dare stop.”

Dex’s fingers go faster, brutal on your clit, and your body tightens like it’s being drawn into a knot. You grab at Matt’s shoulders, nails digging through his t-shirt, and you feel your orgasm build fast, almost too fast, the chemical making it sharp and unavoidable.

“I’m gonna—” you gasp, and you don’t even finish the sentence because your body does it for you.

You come hard on Matt’s cock, shaking, pussy clenching tight around him, and the way Matt groans is low and wrecked, like your orgasm pulled him right to the edge. Dex’s hand stays on your clit through it, not letting you escape the sensation, and you cry out again, broken and breathy, head tipped back against Dex’s shoulder.

Matt keeps thrusting through your orgasm, chasing his own, breath turning ragged. His hands hold you in place like he refuses to let you slide off him, and his mouth finds your throat, biting lightly, then kissing the spot like an apology he doesn’t have time for.

“Fuck,” Matt groans, and then his whole body tenses under you. His hips snap up once more, deep, and he comes hard, spilling inside you with a rough sound that turns into your name against your skin.

He doesn’t collapse afterward. He stays braced, arms around you, holding you chest-to-chest like he needs to keep you there, keep you claimed, keep you safe while the heat still burns. His breathing is too fast, his hands still tight on you, and you can feel the way his body is already refusing to settle, like one release didn’t fix anything.

Dex’s fingers finally slow on your clit, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays behind you, crowding your back, mouth at your shoulder, and when he speaks his voice is low with something sharp and pleased. “Damn,” Dex murmurs. “He came in you. That’s… cute.”

Matt’s head turns toward him, and the calm in his expression is the kind that makes your skin prickle for a different reason. “Don’t,” Matt says, voice even. “Not right now.”

Dex smiles against your shoulder like he can’t help himself, like he’s already planning the next push, and your body is still too hot, still too needy, still trembling on the edge of another want you haven’t even named yet. Dex’s fingers hook under the hem of your nightgown, and he doesn’t ask permission with words this time because he already did, because you already told him yes, but he still looks at you first anyway, eyes bright and sharp. “Still want it?” he murmurs, voice rough. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you manage, and it comes out small and wrecked, because you’re still trembling on Matt’s cock and everything feels too sensitive. “I want it.”

Dex yanks the nightgown up and off in one impatient motion, tugging it over your head like it’s in his way, then tosses it somewhere behind him. The air hits your bare skin and you shiver hard, goosebumps rising and then flattening instantly under the heat. Matt’s hands spread over your ribs and stomach like he’s making sure you’re steady, like he’s keeping track of you the way he always does, and then he shifts you carefully off his lap because he isn’t going to let you fall in the middle of this.

“Easy,” Matt murmurs against your jaw, kissing you once, slow and grounding. “I’ve got you.”

Dex doesn’t wait for you to fully settle before he’s pulling you back into him, knees on the mattress behind yours, his chest pressed to your back. He loops an arm around your neck in a headlock hold that’s controlled, not crushing, forearm across your collarbone, hand braced at your shoulder so he can keep you upright and close. The position is meant to make you feel pinned, meant to make you feel owned, and your body answers with a violent clench that makes you gasp.

Matt’s head turns toward the sound immediately, like the gasp is a flare he can’t ignore. His hand slides to your hip and stays there, thumb rubbing slow circles into the skin like a quiet claim. “Breathe,” he says, calm and firm. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” you breathe, and your voice shakes anyway. “It’s not too much.”

Dex laughs softly against your ear, the sound more bite than humor. “Of course it isn’t,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking soaked.”

He frees himself from his sweatpants with a quick, impatient shove, and you feel the blunt heat of him press against your ass, then slide down between your thighs. The second his cock drags through your slickness, you whimper and your knees flex like you’re going to collapse forward, but Dex tightens his arm and holds you in place. He doesn’t thrust in right away; he grinds against you first, spreading you open, pushing the mess around, making it obscene on purpose, like he needs you to feel exactly what’s still inside you.

“You feel that?” Dex whispers, mouth brushing your ear, and his tone turns mean in a way that makes your stomach flip. “That’s him. Still in you. Still there, even when it’s me.”

Matt’s thumb stops for a second against your hip, then starts again, slow and steady like he refuses to react the way Dex wants. “Dex,” Matt says quietly, warning without raising his voice. “Don’t.”

Dex ignores him, because of course he does, because he can’t help digging for the bruise. He lines himself up and pushes in with one hard, deliberate thrust that knocks the breath out of you. You cry out, sharp and broken, and Dex’s arm around your neck keeps you upright while his hips press tight to your ass, burying himself deep like he’s trying to overwrite what Matt just did.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, hands scrabbling for something to hold, and Matt’s hand catches yours immediately, fingers lacing with yours so you don’t have to search. The touch is steady and warm, anchoring you even while your body is being pulled in two directions.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs, lips near your cheek, voice close enough that you feel the air of it. “Take what you need. Keep breathing.”

Dex starts to move, slow at first, grinding deeper on every thrust, making sure you feel the drag of him against your swollen cunt. The mess inside you turns it slicker, filthier, and you can feel it in the obscene sound of it, the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the way your body takes him like it’s desperate for anything that pushes back against the heat.

Dex’s mouth finds your shoulder and he bites down, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to make you gasp again. “Listen to you,” he mutters, voice low and sharp. “You sound like a fucking slut when you’re full.”

Matt’s hand tightens around yours, and his other hand slides up your side to your jaw, tilting your chin slightly like he’s guiding you back from the edge. “Hey,” Matt says, calm and deadly at the same time. “Watch your mouth.”

Dex’s thrusts get harder, like the warning turned him on or pissed him off or both. He keeps talking anyway, because he wants Matt to hear it, wants Matt to hate it, wants to provoke something ugly. “She’s taking me so fucking easy,” Dex whispers, breath ragged at your ear. “Like she’s made for it. Like she wants it dirty.”

You try to pull air in through your nose, but every time Dex drives into you your breath breaks, the sound spilling out of you in helpless little moans. Your cunt clamps around him, slick and tight, and Dex makes a rough noise like he’s losing control faster than he wants to admit.

Matt doesn’t insult him, he doesn’t even rise to it with words. He corrects Dex with touch, the way he always does when he’s angry and refusing to show it. His fingers slide to your chin and guide your face toward him, and his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s slow and possessive, claiming without needing to look at Dex at all. His lips are warm, firm, steady, and it makes you melt even while Dex is fucking you hard from behind. “Say my name,” Matt murmurs into your mouth, barely audible. “Let me hear you.”

Dex’s arm around your neck tightens just enough to remind you he’s there, and he thrusts harder like he’s punishing you for obeying. The sensation spikes sharp, makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your pussy clench around him so hard he stutters.

“Matt,” you moan, the name spilling out as a broken sound against Matt’s lips.

Matt kisses you deeper, like he’s swallowing it, like he’s keeping it. “Good,” he murmurs, and his thumb strokes your jawline, calming and possessive all at once. “That’s it.”

Dex makes a furious, ragged sound behind you and snaps his hips faster, chasing his own relief in hard, brutal thrusts. “Say it again,” Dex growls into your shoulder, and you can hear the ugly need in it, like he wants you to say his name and hates that Matt’s making you say something else.

Matt doesn’t change his tone. He doesn’t have to. “Breathe,” he tells you, then kisses your mouth again, slower, and it makes your whole body soften into him even while Dex is trying to wreck you from behind. “Stay with me.”

Dex’s thrusts turn frantic, the heat and the jealousy and the chemical all smashing together into something that makes him reckless. His arm holds you pinned upright, cock driving deep, and the mess inside you makes every shove obscene, slick and loud. Your legs start to tremble, not from fear, but from overload, your cunt tightening and fluttering like it’s trying to drag both men into the same spiral.

Dex bites your shoulder again, harder this time, and you hiss at the sting. “Fuck,” Dex mutters, voice shaking. “You feel so good it makes me fucking mad.”

Matt’s hand slides down to your hip again, thumb rubbing slow circles, calm and steady, and you hate how much you love the contrast. Dex is all sharp edges and spite, Matt is quiet control, and your body is greedy enough to want both.

Dex’s breathing goes ragged, and his thrusts turn brutal for a few seconds like he’s trying to force his orgasm out of himself. He jerks once, then again, hips stuttering, and you feel him go rigid behind you. He clamps his teeth into your shoulder, not as a threat this time but as a way to stop himself from making a sound he’d hate, and his whole body shakes as he comes hard inside you, hot and thick, filling you in messy pulses that make you gasp.

He stays buried for a second, trembling, arm still around your neck, forehead pressed to the side of your head like he can’t pull away yet. Matt’s hand remains on your hip, thumb still moving, and his lips brush your cheek in a kiss that feels like reassurance and possession at the same time.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs in your ear, steady. “Good. Breathe.”

Dex finally loosens his hold, just enough that you can take a fuller breath, but he doesn’t move away. He’s still behind you, still crowding your back, still panting like he ran a mile. When he lifts his head, his eyes flick to Matt with something sharp and furious, like he hates that Matt is still calm, still in control, still close.

Dex swallows, voice rough and bitter when he finally speaks. “Happy now?” he mutters, not really to you, not really to Matt, just to the room.

Matt’s hand stays on your hip, thumb still moving in slow circles like he’s keeping you anchored while your body tries to float right out of itself. Dex is still inside you, still trembling from his release, still crowding your back like he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he got what he wanted and it didn’t fix the burn.

Matt shifts first, practical even when he’s wrecked. He eases Dex out of you with a controlled pull of your hips, not yanking, not careless, and you whine at the empty feeling because your cunt is greedy and overstimulated and already angry about losing the pressure. Dex makes a sharp sound behind you, half frustration, half hunger, and he starts to reach like he’s going to drag you back.

“On your back,” Matt tells him, and it’s not a suggestion.

Dex laughs breathlessly, but he listens, because even he can hear the edge in Matt’s voice. He drops onto the pillows with a rough exhale, legs spreading a little like he’s trying to pretend it’s his idea, cock already hard again and shiny with slick. His eyes track you the whole time, bright and feral, like he’s daring either of you to deny him.

Matt guides you forward with both hands on your waist, turning you and pushing you down until your knees sink into the mattress. He nudges you back so you’re over Dex, straddling him, your pussy hovering over his cock. You’re slick enough that the slide of your cunt over him feels obscene even before you take him, wetness smearing over his shaft with every tiny shift.

Dex’s hands clamp onto your hips immediately, grip firm, thumbs digging into the soft skin like he’s marking where you belong right now. “Yeah,” Dex mutters, voice rough. “Right there. Don’t be shy.”

You try to roll your hips, trying to find friction, and Dex helps, guiding you in short, grinding strokes so his cock drags against your clit and the swollen lips of your cunt. You’re not fully taking him yet, just teasing, just rubbing, and it still makes you gasp because everything is too sensitive. Your thighs tremble as the wet, hot slide keeps building pressure that you can’t relieve.

Matt kneels behind you, close enough that you feel his heat at your back before he touches you. His hands land on your hips over Dex’s, and the difference between them makes you shiver. Dex is possessive and impatient, Matt is steady and precise, and you’re trapped between them like a bad decision you can’t stop making.

“Stay right there,” Matt murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “I’m going to fuck you from behind.”

Your breath stutters, and you nod too fast. “Please,” you whisper, because you’ve lost any ability to pretend you’re in control.

Matt lines himself up behind you, guiding you back onto him. The first press of his cock at your entrance makes your whole body clench, and Dex’s grip tightens like he’s furious that Matt is taking what Dex wants. Matt doesn’t rush. He slides in slow, inch by inch, making you take him fully, making you feel him again after Dex, and the stretch turns sharp and perfect.

“Fuck,” you choke, hands flying to Dex’s chest because you need something to hold. Dex’s skin is hot under your palms, his heartbeat too fast. He glares up at you like he wants to bite, like he wants to pull you down and ruin you, but he stays still because Matt’s hands are on your hips and Matt is in charge.

Matt sinks all the way in and stills for a beat, pressed tight to your ass. He leans forward until his chest meets your back, his mouth at your ear again, voice low and commanding. “Moan my name,” Matt says. “Right there. Into his shoulder.”

You make a helpless sound, and your body obeys before your brain catches up. You lean forward, mouth landing against Dex’s shoulder, and the next breath that leaves you is Matt’s name, broken and desperate like you’re confessing something you can’t take back.

Dex snarls, half-laughing, half-livid. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Matt starts to move, slow at first, deep thrusts that use the angle of your body to hit exactly where you’re already trembling. Every push drives you forward onto Dex, and every pull drags Matt’s cock through your soaked cunt in a way that makes your vision blur.

Dex’s hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bruise later. “You’re using me as furniture,” he growls, then his voice goes strained because the grind of your pussy over his cock is driving him insane. “And it’s—fuck—it’s working.”

Matt leans over you more, pressing his weight into your back, pushing your chest closer to Dex until your back arches. His hands slide from your hips up your sides, then one of them reaches forward and clamps around Dex’s throat. Not choking him out, not cutting off air, just holding him there, forcing him to stay still and feel it.

Dex’s eyes widen, then narrow, the rage and the thrill mixing into something ugly. “Touchy,” he spits, but his cock jumps under you anyway.

“Shut up,” Matt murmurs, calm as sin. “Take it.”

Your hips stop grinding on their own because Matt’s hold and the arch of your back locks you into the position he wants. Now all you can do is take Matt’s thrusts from behind, feel the deep roll of him in your cunt, and feel Dex under you getting more desperate with every movement.

“Matt—” you gasp, cheek pressed to Dex’s shoulder now, lips dragging over the skin because you need something to do with your mouth besides scream.

Matt’s pace picks up, still deep, still controlled, and his breath turns rough against your ear. “Good,” he says, like he’s praising you for falling apart exactly the way he wants. “That’s it. Stay open.”

Dex’s hands shift, one sliding down your thigh like he’s about to pull you down onto him properly, and Matt’s grip at his throat tightens just enough to stop him.

“You get what I give you,” Matt says softly, and it’s the kind of possessive that makes your cunt clench hard around him.

Dex laughs through his teeth, breathless and furious. “You’re insane.”

Matt doesn’t argue, he just fucks you harder, using you like you’re his, and every thrust makes your pussy flutter and drip, wetness smearing over Dex’s cock underneath you. The sound is filthy, slick and loud, and it makes Dex jerk under you like he’s about to lose it again.

Your hand moves between your bodies and you push two fingers into Dex’s mouth, because you need leverage and because the idea hits you like a spark. Dex’s lips part instantly, tongue sliding over your fingers with a hungry, spiteful eagerness. He sucks like he’s trying to prove a point, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on yours as if daring you to flinch.

You pull your fingers out shining with spit and use it to stroke Dex, slow and cruel, palm sliding down his shaft, thumb smearing over the head. Dex’s head falls back into the pillow with a broken sound, eyes rolling, hands tightening on your hips like he’s trying not to buck.

“Fuck,” Dex breathes. “You’re—you’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yeah,” you manage, voice shaking, because Matt’s cock keeps hitting that spot inside you and you can’t think straight. “Shut up.”

Dex’s gaze snaps back to you, bright and pissed and turned on. He drags you down by the hips just enough to steal your mouth, grabbing your jaw with one hand and forcing a messy tongue kiss that tastes like heat and spit and something too sharp to be sweet. You whimper into it, and the sound gets swallowed between you.

Behind you, Matt’s breath catches like the sight and the sound hits him somewhere deep. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you from behind, hand still around Dex’s throat, using the hold to keep Dex right where he wants him while you fall apart on top of him.

“Eyes on me,” Dex mutters against your mouth, possessive and mean.

Matt’s mouth brushes your ear again, and his voice is quieter, steadier, like a blade. “Say my name.”

Your body clenches hard, and the next moan that spills out is Matt’s name again, muffled into Dex’s mouth. Dex shudders like it hurts, like it makes him want to bite, and he kisses you harder anyway. Matt’s thrusts turn relentless, hips snapping in tighter rhythm, and you feel his control thinning. His hand at Dex’s throat tightens, then loosens, then tightens again like he’s gripping the last thread of restraint.

You stroke Dex faster now, spit making it slick, your fist sliding up and down his cock while your cunt takes Matt from behind. Dex’s breath turns ragged, hips twitching under you, and his hands clamp down like he’s trying not to shove you down and take what he wants.

“Jesus—” Dex gasps. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Not yet,” Matt says, and it isn’t loud, but it lands like a command anyway. “Hold it.”

Dex’s eyes flash, furious, and he trembles through it. “Go to hell.”

Matt’s answer is a hard thrust that makes you cry out and clench around him so tight his breath breaks. You feel his cock pulse, feel his whole body go rigid behind you, and then Matt groans low against your back as he comes again, deep and hot, holding you still with both hands while he rides it out. One hand stays on your hip, the other keeps Dex pinned by the throat, and the control in it makes your whole body melt even while you shake.

Matt doesn’t collapse afterward. He stays pressed to you, chest to your back, breathing hard, lips at your shoulder like he needs to keep contact. His grip loosens slowly, like he’s easing himself back from the edge by inches.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs, voice rough, thumb stroking your hip again. “Breathe. Stay with me.”

Dex is staring up at you like he wants to kill someone and kiss you at the same time, cock twitching in your hand, frustration and need making his jaw clench. He swallows, then drags his thumb across your lower belly like he’s claiming a piece of you he doesn’t have the right to claim.

“You two are disgusting,” Dex mutters.

Dex doesn’t wait for Matt to answer, because Dex isn’t actually asking. He’s already moving, already reaching, already turning that restless, hungry energy into action like he can’t stand sitting in the aftermath for even one more second.

He hooks an arm under your thigh and drags you off him with a sharp pull, flipping you onto your back in one quick motion that knocks the air out of you. The mattress dips hard, sheets bunching under your shoulders, and your head ends up near the edge of the bed, slightly hanging off. Dex climbs over you immediately, sweat shining on his throat, eyes wild and focused like you just became his target.

“You think you’re done?” Dex mutters, and his hands clamp down on your thighs, spreading you open like he owns the right to. “You’re not done. I’m not done.”

Matt is close enough that you can feel him shift, and you can hear his breathing change, sharper, more controlled. He doesn’t grab Dex off you, but his hand lands on your ankle for a second, thumb pressing into your skin like a quiet check-in. It’s Matt’s way of asking without interrupting, and you answer the same way, flexing your foot gently against his touch because you’re too wrecked to form a full sentence without it turning into a moan.

Dex lines himself up and pushes back into you with a rough thrust that makes your whole body jolt. Your cunt takes him easily because you’re soaked and overstimulated, and the obscene slick sound that comes with it makes Dex’s mouth twist like he’s pleased and pissed at the same time.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders because you need something to hold while he starts moving. Dex doesn’t build slowly, he drives into you like he’s determined to make you forget how Matt felt, like he’s trying to pound the comparison out of your body with brute force.

Matt moves to your head, not away, not sulking, just repositioning like he’s doing damage control the way he always does. He sits beside you on the bed and cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, then your lower lip. His voice is low and steady, close enough to be private even with Dex right there.

“Breathe,” Matt murmurs. “You’re okay. You tell me if you need anything.”

Dex hears it and gets worse on purpose. He leans down and kisses you mid-thrust, mouth hot and messy, swallowing the sounds you can’t keep back. His tongue pushes in like he’s trying to claim your mouth the same way he’s claiming your cunt, and you whine into it because the pace is brutal and the heat in your blood makes it feel too good.

When Dex pulls back for air, he keeps one hand on your jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make you look at him. “Look at me,” Dex demands, voice rough. “Say it. Say my name.”

Your eyes flutter, unfocused, and you try to glare at him because he’s being an asshole, but your body betrays you immediately. Dex thrusts deep again, hitting a spot that makes your thighs shake, and the sound that breaks out of you is helpless. “Dex,” you gasp, and his grin turns sharp and satisfied like he just scored a hit.

“Again,” he says, and he thrusts harder, making the bed creak, making your breath break. “Come on. Louder. I want him to hear it.”

Matt’s hand slides down to your shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle like he’s keeping you grounded. He doesn’t argue with Dex, he just stays there, close, letting you hold onto him, letting you decide what comes out of your mouth.

Dex keeps driving into you, rhythm turning relentless, and you grab Matt’s wrist with shaking fingers because you need something solid. Matt’s palm flips and catches your hand, squeezing once, and you feel your stomach flip because even with Dex fucking you like he’s trying to win, Matt’s touch still feels like home.

Dex’s eyes flick to Matt’s hand holding yours, and something mean flashes across his face. He leans down again, kissing you hard, swallowing your moans, then breaks the kiss just to speak right at your mouth. “You like me?” Dex spits, like it’s an insult. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me.”

“Fuck, yes,” you choke out, because you’re too hot to lie and too far gone to be polite. Dex’s thrusts stutter for half a beat like the answer hit him hard, then he snaps back into a faster pace that makes you see stars.

Matt shifts slightly, moving closer to your head, and you turn into him automatically. His mouth brushes your forehead, then the corner of your lips, and you can tell he’s holding his restraint by force, breathing too hard for someone who’s “fine.”

“You can hold onto me,” Matt murmurs, voice rougher now. “Do what you need.”

Dex hears that too, and it makes him furious. He grabs your thigh and hikes it higher over his hip, angling you so he can go deeper, harder. The change punches a sharp moan out of you, and Dex makes a satisfied sound like he’s collecting it. “There,” Dex says, grinning. “There you go. That’s what I want. That’s mine.”

Matt’s thumb slides along your cheek again, and his voice stays calm even if the tension in it is obvious. “Don’t,” he warns quietly, like he’s reminding Dex he’s allowed to be here but not allowed to claim.

Dex doesn’t care, he leans down and kisses you again, filthy and hungry, and the way he thrusts turns almost frantic. He’s chasing something now, not just relief, but proof, and he wants it so badly it’s making him reckless.

Your hand slips down between your bodies, reaching for Dex’s wrist like you’re trying to steady him, and he catches it, pins it above your head with one hand while the other stays on your jaw. You’re spread wide, legs shaking around his hips, pussy clenching and fluttering around him like you’re teetering on the edge of another orgasm you can’t control.

“Say it,” Dex demands again, breath ragged. “Say my name. Please me. Come on.”

“Dex,” you moan, and then it turns into a breathless string of it because he won’t stop hitting that spot. “Dex—fuck—Dex—please—”

Dex’s eyes blow wide, and his mouth twists like he hates how good it feels to hear you beg. He thrusts harder, faster, the slick sound turning obscene, and you feel his control shredding.

Matt’s hand tightens around yours at your side, a steady squeeze that keeps you from floating away completely. He doesn’t interrupt, but his mouth brushes your temple, and his voice is low enough that only you can catch it. “I’m here,” Matt murmurs. “Stay with me.”

Dex’s breath turns jagged, and he makes a harsh sound like a laugh that got twisted into a groan. “Yeah, yeah,” he grits out, then thrusts deep and holds it there, shaking. “Fuck—”

Dex comes hard, angry and shaking, cock pulsing inside you in thick, hot spurts that make your body clench around him. He squeezes your jaw, then releases it like he just realized he was holding too tight, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder with a rough exhale that sounds like he wants to scream and refuses to give anyone the satisfaction.

He stays there for a second, still buried, breathing like he’s furious at his own body. Then he lets out a low, bitter laugh under his breath, the kind that doesn’t sound happy at all. “God,” Dex mutters, voice shaking. “That felt… so fucking good.”

Matt doesn’t let the silence after Dex’s last laugh turn into another round of posturing. He’s breathing hard, his palm still warm against your skin, and you can feel the difference now that the worst of the chemical spike isn’t clawing at your throat anymore. The heat is still there, still sticky under your ribs, but it isn’t as sharp as it was ten minutes ago, and that almost makes it worse because you can think again just enough to realize how fucking wrung out you are.

Dex shifts off you with a rough exhale, rolling onto his side like he’s trying to hide how shaky he feels. He looks at you like he wants to say something clever, something mean, something that puts him back on top of the moment, but the words don’t come as easily now. He settles for a tight smile and a hand on your thigh, thumb pressing into your skin like he’s reminding you he’s still here.

Matt’s voice cuts in, low and steady. “We’re close.”

Dex scoffs, but it’s weak. “Close to what, the end of your little domestic nightmare?”

“Close to it wearing off,” Matt says, and he shifts closer by sound and feel, his hand finding your hip like it always does. His fingers spread, grounding, and his thumb starts that slow circle that’s become the rhythm of the whole night. “You’re not shaking as much. Your breathing’s different.”

You swallow and nod even though he can’t see it, then force the words out because that’s how you’ve stayed sane through all of this. “It’s not gone,” you say, voice raw. “It’s still there. It’s just… not screaming.”

Matt hums once, like he agrees. Dex drags the back of his hand across his mouth, eyes flicking between you and Matt like he’s trying to decide if he hates the idea of it ending more than he hates the fact that Matt’s right about it.

“We finish it,” Matt says, simple as that.

Dex’s smile sharpens. “We?”

Matt turns his head slightly toward him, and even without eye contact it’s obvious who’s in control. “You’ve been in my apartment for hours,” Matt says, tone flat. “You can handle ten more minutes without trying to start a fight.”

Dex opens his mouth and then closes it again, jaw working like he’s biting down on the urge to run it. His gaze drops to you, then to Matt’s hand on you, then back up to your face like he’s looking for the crack he can wedge himself into.

You breathe in, slow, then say it before Dex can poison the moment. “If it’s fading, I want the last part to… end. Like, actually end.”

Matt’s hand slides from your hip up your side, his palm flattening over your stomach for a second like he’s checking you’re steady, then he kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and grounding. “Alright,” Matt says, and his voice drops into that calm command that makes your body settle even while it’s on fire. “Dex. On your back. Head on the pillow. Hands where I can find them.”

Dex stares at him for a beat, then smirks like he’s about to refuse on principle, but he doesn’t. He flops back onto the pillows with exaggerated ease, arms spreading out like he’s presenting himself for inspection, cock already half-hard again and twitching like the chemical is refusing to fully let go. “Bossy,” Dex mutters. “Thought you were the Catholic one.”

Matt’s answer is quiet. “Keep talking and you don’t get anything.”

Dex shuts up immediately, which would be hilarious if it wasn’t also obscene. Matt guides you by your waist, turning you carefully, helping you get your knees under you again because your legs are still shaky from everything. He doesn’t look at Dex to place you, he doesn’t need to; he uses touch the way he always does, hands firm on your hips, moving you inch by inch until you’re positioned over Dex’s face.

Dex’s eyes go bright, and his hands lift like he can’t help himself, then he freezes when Matt’s fingers press into his wrist as a reminder. Dex’s mouth opens slightly, tongue visible, and he looks up at you like he’s about to ruin you just to prove he can. “Sit,” Dex murmurs, voice rough. “C’mon.”

Matt’s hands tighten on your hips. “Slow,” he tells you, close to your ear. “You tell me if you get dizzy. You tell me if you can’t breathe.”

“I can breathe,” you manage, and you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, because the position alone makes your cunt throb. “I’m good.”

Matt helps you lower, guiding you down until you’re hovering right above Dex’s mouth, then another inch, until Dex’s lips brush your slick skin and you jerk with a gasp. Dex’s hands clamp onto your thighs immediately, holding you open, and he moans into you like he’s been denied air for hours.

“Fuck,” Dex breathes against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs tremble. “That’s—yeah. That’s it.”

He starts eating you out like he’s making a point. His tongue is flat and heavy, pressure too much and perfect, and you have to grab Matt’s forearm to keep from collapsing forward. Matt steadies you instantly, one hand on your waist, the other sliding up your back, holding you upright while Dex’s mouth works you open and greedy.

Your head ends up near Dex’s cock, and the sight of it—hard and flushed, twitching—makes your stomach flip. Dex notices, of course he notices, and his fingers squeeze your thighs like he’s trying to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Go on,” Dex says, voice muffled against your cunt. “Use your mouth.”

You lean forward and wrap your lips around him, and Dex makes a harsh sound that turns into another groan into your pussy. The combination is instantly overwhelming: Dex’s mouth on your clit, your mouth on his cock, and Matt behind you, hands steady on your hips like he’s preparing to do the last thing your body needs to finally stop buzzing.

Matt shifts behind you, and you feel him press in close, his breath hot at your shoulder. His fingers slide down your spine, then to your hips again, and he nudges you forward just enough to get the angle he wants.

“Breathe,” Matt murmurs, and he kisses your shoulder once, slow.

You moan around Dex’s cock, the sound vibrating, and Dex’s hands tighten on your thighs like he’s losing patience. Matt pushes in slowly, stretching you in a way that makes your eyes water, and the moment he’s inside you, the world narrows down to sensation again. It’s not the frantic, desperate edge from earlier; it’s heavy and deep, like you’re so sensitive that every inch feels doubled.

Dex’s tongue goes meaner the second he feels Matt moving inside you. He sucks hard at your clit like he’s trying to pull your orgasm out of you first, like he’s trying to prove he can still win something even in a setup Matt arranged.

You pull off Dex’s cock just long enough to gasp, “fuck—Dex,” then you take him again, because the heat is still there and the only way through it is more. Dex’s cock jerks in your mouth, and his groan turns into another muffled sound against your pussy as he eats you out harder.

Matt sets a pace behind you, steady and controlled. His hands stay on your hips, guiding the motion when your body tries to squirm away from the overstimulation, and every time you wobble, he corrects you with touch instead of words, keeping you upright, keeping you open, keeping you from falling apart too early.

Dex tries to talk again, of course he does, and it comes out broken between breaths. “You taste—fuck—you taste so good,” he mutters against your cunt, loud enough that Matt can hear it. “You’re gonna—yeah, you’re gonna come all over my mouth.”

Matt leans closer and his mouth brushes your ear. “Stay with me,” he says, and his voice is calm even though his thrusts get a little deeper, a little firmer. “Don’t rush it. Let it build.”

Dex’s hands slide up your thighs like he wants to drag you down harder onto his face. Matt’s grip on your hips tightens, and he pushes you down just enough that Dex’s mouth is fully buried, your pussy pressed into his face. Dex groans into you like he’s in heaven and hell at the same time, and the vibration nearly makes you lose your grip on his cock.

You gag slightly when Dex twitches hard in your mouth, and you pull back for air, spit shining on your lips. Matt’s hand slides to the back of your head immediately, not forcing, just guiding, and his voice turns low and firm. “Back on him,” Matt murmurs. “Just like that. Take what you need.”

You do it because you can’t not, because the structure is the only thing keeping you from going dizzy. You take Dex again, sucking him slow and deep, and Dex makes a strangled noise that turns into a growl into your pussy. His tongue keeps working your clit with brutal, perfect pressure, and his fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying to hold you still while his whole body wants to buck.

Matt’s thrusts deepen, steady and relentless, and the way his cock hits inside you makes your entire body tighten. You moan around Dex’s cock, the sound wet and obscene, and Dex shudders under you like that noise just tipped him closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” Dex gasps into you. “Matt—stop—she’s—”

Matt doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even acknowledge the plea with words. He simply changes the angle, lifting your hips slightly with his hands and driving into you a little harder, and the shift makes Dex choke on a groan because your pussy grinds down on his tongue in a way that feels like punishment and reward at the same time.

You can’t keep quiet anymore. The orgasm builds fast and heavy, not the sharp frantic spike from earlier, but a thick wave that keeps rising, and you’re trapped between them—Matt filling you, Dex swallowing you—until your whole body starts trembling.

“Matt,” you gasp, pulling off Dex’s cock just long enough to say it, voice broken. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” Matt says immediately, and his voice turns softer even while he keeps thrusting. “Let it happen. Breathe.”

Dex doesn’t give you time to breathe. He sucks hard at your clit like he’s trying to make you black out, and your thighs shake around his head as your orgasm hits. You come hard, cunt clenching around Matt, hips jerking downward onto Dex’s face, and the sound you make is messy and loud and completely uncontrolled.

Matt holds you through it, hands locked on your hips to keep you from collapsing. His thrusts turn shorter and tighter, chasing his own edge as your pussy clamps around him, and you feel him go rigid behind you. His breath breaks against your shoulder, and he groans low as he comes, deep and hot, holding you still while he rides it out.

Dex’s cock twitches in your hand as he hears Matt lose control, and Dex makes a furious, needy sound like he hates that it turns him on. You take him back into your mouth without thinking, sucking him through it, and Dex’s hands squeeze your thighs hard enough to leave marks.

“Don’t stop,” Dex grits out, voice shaking. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

You don’t. You keep sucking him, spit slick, rhythm steady even while your body is still shaking from your orgasm. Dex’s mouth is still on your pussy, tongue slower now but stubborn, like he refuses to give up the contact. The chemical is fading, but Dex is greedy and spiteful and desperate to get his last release before it fully lets him go.

Dex bucks once under you, hard, and Matt’s hands tighten on your hips again to keep you balanced. Dex’s cock throbs in your mouth, and he comes with a rough, broken groan that he tries to swallow, but fails. His orgasm makes him tremble under you, hands clamping down like he’s trying to hold onto something while it slips away.

For a few seconds none of you move. You’re panting, slick, shaking, and the heat in your body finally starts to ebb in a way that feels real, like the pressure is draining out instead of building again.

Matt stays behind you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your shoulder, breathing hard but slower now. His hands soften on your hips, turning from control into support.

Dex lies under you with his eyes half-lidded, still flushed, lips wet, chin shining, and he looks up at you like he wants to say something cruel just to prove he can. What comes out is a rough exhale and a bitter, shaky laugh. “Holy shit,” Dex mutters, and he sounds like he hates that he means it. “I think it’s actually… wearing off.”

Matt’s hands stay on you for a while after, not gripping anymore, just steadying, like he’s making sure you’re actually present and not drifting. He shifts carefully to get you off Dex, guiding you by the waist and shoulders so you don’t topple on shaky legs. The second your feet touch the floor your knees threaten to give, and Matt catches you like he’s done it a thousand times, one hand at the back of your neck, the other braced at your hip.

“Slow,” Matt murmurs, mouth near your temple. “Breathe for me. In and out, don’t rush it.”

“I’m breathing,” you rasp, then immediately prove you’re not by sucking in a short, shaky inhale that turns into a laugh because it’s either that or cry. Your skin feels too warm, tacky with sweat, and the air in the room feels thick even though the worst of the fever is finally fading.

Matt steers you to the edge of the bed and sits you down, then disappears for a second. You hear the faucet run, cabinets opening, the muted clink of a glass, and then he’s back with water and a cold washcloth. He presses the cloth to the back of your neck first, then your forehead, then your cheeks, gentle and methodical.

“Drink,” he says, and he guides the glass into your hands like he’s worried you’ll spill it.

You take a few sips and immediately realize how dry your throat is. “Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing again. “I feel like I ran a marathon.”

“You kind of did,” Matt says, dry but not teasing. His thumb drags over your pulse point at your wrist in a small check, then his palm settles there like he wants to feel you steady. “Any dizziness? Any nausea?”

“No,” you say, then pause because your stomach flips once as the room tilts slightly. “Okay, maybe a little dizzy.”

Matt’s hand tightens lightly on the back of your neck. “Then you sit,” he says, calm and firm. “You don’t try to be brave right now.”

Across the bed, Dex is quieter than he has been all night, which is almost unsettling. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the mattress, head tipped back, forearm over his eyes like he’s trying to hide the fact that he needs a minute. His breathing is still too fast, but it’s not frantic anymore, and the sharp edge of him looks blunted, like somebody finally turned the volume down.

He lifts his arm just enough to peer at you and Matt, and even now he can’t help himself. “You always this domesticated?” he asks, voice rough. The line is clearly meant to be snarky, but it lands thin, like he didn’t have the energy to sharpen it.

Matt doesn’t take the bait. He wipes your cheek with the cloth again, then sets it on your shoulder and keeps his hand there. “You’re leaving as soon as you can stand without falling,” he says, like he’s reading a grocery list.

Dex’s mouth quirks. “So romantic.”

“You’re still in my apartment,” Matt replies, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes the room feel smaller. “Don’t make me regret letting you walk out instead of dragging you.”

Dex’s eyes flick up toward Matt’s face, then down to Matt’s hand on your shoulder like he’s cataloging the claim again, even if he’s too wrung out to argue with it. “Relax,” he mutters. “I’m not staying for brunch.”

You take another sip of water, then set the glass down on the nightstand with a careful clink. Your muscles feel heavy, and your skin feels too sensitive in that post-overload way that makes the idea of putting on clothes feel like work. You grab the sheet and pull it over your lap because you need one normal human action to latch onto. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier now. “We’re not doing the ‘stand around and glare at each other’ thing. We need to clean. We need air. And we need to get rid of anything that might still have that chemical on it.”

Dex makes a noncommittal sound, but he pushes himself upright with a small wince, like his body is protesting. Matt’s head turns toward you immediately, attentive. “You want windows?” Matt asks.

“Yes,” you say. “All of them. Bedroom, living room. And we need trash bags. Gloves. Anything that touched your suits needs to get bagged.”

Matt nods once and stands, moving with that careful efficiency he slips into when he’s trying not to think about what just happened. You hear the bedroom window slide up, then the living room windows. Air drifts in, cool and city-dirty, and it helps. It doesn’t erase the heat in your blood, but it takes the edge off the room.

Dex gets to his feet and stretches like he’s trying to shake out the last of the chemical from his bones. He looks steadier now, but his gaze keeps drifting to you like he’s trying to memorize the situation and file it away for later. You point at him. “Bathroom. Wash your hands. Like, actually wash them.”

Dex’s brows lift. “Bossy.”

“Not negotiable,” you shoot back, and you’re proud your voice doesn’t wobble.

Dex’s smile twitches, then he actually goes, disappearing down the hall. You hear the faucet turn on and, shockingly, soap.

Matt comes back in with trash bags and a roll of paper towels. “I’ll bag the suits,” he says, and you can hear him trying to keep it neutral, trying to turn it into a task so he doesn’t have to sit in the reality of having Dex here at all.

“I’ll wipe down surfaces,” you say, already standing carefully, sheet clutched at your waist. “Coffee table, counters, doorknobs. Anything you two touched.”

Matt’s hand finds your elbow immediately, steadying you without smothering. “If you start to sway, you sit,” he says quietly.

“I will,” you promise, then add, because you know he needs to hear it, “I’m okay.”

He pauses like he’s listening to your heartbeat, then leans in and presses his forehead lightly to yours. “Okay,” he says back, softer than he’s been all night.

You move into the kitchen and find the plastic bag with the broken test tube shard where you left it. Seeing it again makes your stomach tighten, because it’s a stupid little piece of glass that caused all of this, and it feels unreal that it’s still sitting there like any other mess.

Dex comes back from the bathroom wiping his hands on a towel he definitely didn’t ask permission to use. He stops when he sees the bag on the counter, eyes narrowing slightly like his brain is finally catching up to the mission part of the night.

“That the souvenir?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, and you keep your tone flat. “And you’re not touching it.”

Dex gives you a look that says he’s annoyed you clocked him so easily. “Wasn’t going to.”

Matt’s voice comes from the hallway, calm and cold. “You were.”

Dex turns his head toward the sound with a sharp little grin. “You can’t prove that.”

Matt doesn’t move closer, doesn’t raise his voice. “Try it,” he says simply.

For a second the room feels like it’s on the edge of snapping again, not chemical this time, just old hatred and pride and the fact that Dex is Dex. You step between it before it can happen, because you’re done with men trying to make your apartment a battleground.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” you say, and you make your voice firm enough that it cuts through both of them. “Dex, you’re leaving. Not later when you feel like it—when you can walk straight, which looks like it’s basically now. You don’t take anything from this apartment. You don’t touch that bag. And you do not come back.”

Dex’s eyes flick to you, then soften into something sharper. “Aw,” he says, quiet and ugly-sweet. “You’re making rules.”

“Yes,” you say. “Because you clearly don’t know how to exist without someone making them for you.”

Dex’s jaw flexes, and you can see the irritation, the spite, the obsession all mixing behind his eyes. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something cutting, then his gaze flicks past you to Matt. “You hear that?” Dex says, voice low. “Your girl’s got a spine. I like that.”

Matt’s answer is immediate and controlled. “Leave.”

Dex takes a step backward toward the door, then pauses like he can’t help himself. “This isn’t over,” he says, and it’s not even a threat that’s trying to sound cool. It’s just a fact in his tone, like he’s already decided he gets to stay in your orbit.

You stare at him, letting your expression go flat. “It is for me.”

Dex’s smile twitches like you slapped him. He looks at you too long, then turns and walks out. He doesn’t slam the door; he lets it click shut behind him like he’s leaving on purpose instead of being thrown out.

Matt locks it immediately. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home is the first thing all night that makes your shoulders drop. Matt stands there for a second with his hand still on the lock, head bowed slightly like he’s listening for Dex’s footsteps in the hall, for the elevator, for proof he’s actually gone.

Then Matt turns and comes back to you, and the moment he reaches you he cups the back of your neck and leans his forehead to yours again, breathing like he’s finally allowing his lungs to work.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“You can apologize later,” you murmur, and you squeeze his wrist. “Right now, I want a shower and clean sheets and, ideally, a world where nobody ever breaks a glass cage full of mystery chemicals again.”

Matt lets out a strained laugh that sounds like relief more than humor. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

---

Two weeks later, the apartment feels normal again in the way it always does after something violent tries to stain it. The sheets are clean, the couch has been scrubbed, the trash bags are long gone, and you’ve managed to file the whole night into that mental drawer labeled “never talk about this unless you absolutely have to.”

Matt comes home with groceries and bruises and a tired kiss that makes you feel like your body belongs to you again. You make dinner, you argue about whether he needs more sleep, and you pretend you don’t flinch when you hear sirens outside.

On a Tuesday afternoon, you bring the mail upstairs in a messy stack, flipping through the usual junk with your thumb. Matt’s at the kitchen counter, rinsing fruit, head tilted toward you like he’s listening for the tone of your voice more than the words.

“Bills,” you mutter. “Ads. Something for you from the bar association.” You pause, because one envelope doesn’t match the rest. It’s a plain envelope with no return address, and your name printed neatly on the front like somebody took their time. “Matt,” you call, trying to keep your voice casual and failing.

“What is it?” He asks, turning off the faucet.

“There’s… a letter,” you say, and you pick it up carefully, like it might bite. “No return address.”

Matt’s footsteps are quiet, controlled, and he stops close enough that you can feel him beside you. “Don’t open it yet,” he says, and his voice goes tight in that way it does when his instincts are screaming.

You don’t, not until he’s right there, one hand hovering near your wrist like he’s ready to pull you back if something goes wrong. You slide a finger under the flap and open it slowly, trying not to tear the paper. Inside is a single card, thick and clean, like it came from a nice stationery shop.

There’s no long message; no rant, no explanation. Just a small circle drawn in black ink, and inside it, a clean bullseye.

Your stomach drops.

Matt’s hand closes around your wrist gently but firmly. “What is it?” he asks, already knowing it’s bad from your breathing.

You swallow and slide the card toward him even though he can’t see it. “It’s… a symbol,” you say, voice tight. “A bullseye.”

Matt goes very still. His jaw clenches. His thumb presses once at your pulse point, not to calm you, but like he’s grounding himself too. “Is there anything written?” he asks, voice low.

You flip the card over with shaking fingers. There’s one line in the same neat print as the envelope: Thanks for the hospitality.

You look at Matt, and his face is calm in the way it gets right before violence, right before he turns into Daredevil instead of your boyfriend.

“Was he here?” you whisper.

Matt’s hand slides from your wrist to your cheek, warm and steady. “No,” he says quietly. “He wants us to think he was.”

You stare at the stupid little card, anger and fear twisting together in your chest. “He’s not done.”

Matt’s mouth tightens, and he leans in until his forehead touches yours again, voice low enough that it feels like a promise. “Neither am I.”

extra notes: look, all i'm gonna say is, i prob will come back to this as my horny release, lol. mostly because i feel betrayed by myself and really want to write a dexmatt kiss. like could you imagine them fucking you from each end while kissing over you?????? yeah can't believe i didn't write that

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo @demiebarnes

matt murdock: @ultimatewolverine @steviebbboi @crowleythesexydemon @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @hawke1917 @hexedangelx

dex poindexter: @ultimatewolverine @nightmerzer @hexedangelx @avidreader73

His monster dick is the best thing that ever happened to your pussy. You’ve never experienced something like it. You aren’t sure you have words to describe it, even. He loves to wrap his wings around you while he fucks you, his whole body wrapped around yours in the warmest of embraces. He fucks you all night long. His dick buried so deep inside of you, his shaft rubbing against his G-spot at every little movement, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine until your thighs can’t stop shaking, and he chuckles in your ear, your utter debauchery is peak comedy to him.

And every once in a while, you enjoy a little rendezvous in the garden. Or anywhere semi-public where the threat of being caught is enough to drive him a little bit wilder, and to get you a little bit wetter. Your heartbeats matched in the cadence of sex while you gasp for breath at every thrust of his hips. To the point that you lose track of time. So much so that you are completely lost in pleasure when the sun starts to rise. Well, to be fair, you were so wrapped into each other that you forgot there was something that would put an end to the garden debauchery.

The second the sun breaks the horizon, your gargoyle boyfriend blinks a total of two times, his mouth open in the middle of an orgasm before he lets out a choked breath and his body freezes over yours. His dick is buried so deep inside you can feel it against your pleasure points. You try to move, but he’s… struck. The sun is up and your gargoyle boyfriend is right inside of you. In the middle of the garden. And he’s going to be frozen there for the next seven to eight hours (luckily for you, it’s still winter).

At first, you are just resting there, but then you roll your hips a little bit and gasp. You can feel him so deep inside, and the ridges on his dick still feel so good… You wonder if you could cum by just moving your hips slightly. A few moments later you discover that the answer to that question is yes. Not only you can come, but it feels incredibly good to be squeezing around his hard as stone (pun intended again) dick.

The party blurred.

You'd lost count of your shots three margaritas ago, and now the world swam in circles, music thumping through the floorboards, bodies grinding, laughter bouncing off walls. Your head felt stuffed with cotton. Your limbs were loose, liquid, and you'd just spilled half a beer down your shirt without caring.

Fun. This was fun.

Until the air changed.

You felt it before you saw him—that prickling at the back of your neck, the sudden drop in temperature, the way the hallway seemed to get darker somehow. Your half-lidded eyes dragged upward.

He stood in the doorway like a nightmare.

Black hair spilled past sharp cheekbones. Black wings folded tight against his back—too massive for the narrow corridor, feathers gleaming under the dim lights. And those eyes. Red. Burning red as if they were straight from hell.

Kuro.

Your stomach curled.

"You're drunk." His voice scraped. Low. Gravelly. The kind of voice that vibrated in your sternum.

"So?" You tried to sound defiant but it came out slurred.

His lips curved. Not a smile.

"So I've been watching you ignore me for eight months, little mate." He stepped closer. The wings rustled—shff-shff—blocking out the hallway behind him. Trapping you against the wall. "Pretending you don't feel it. Pretending this bond means nothing."

"I don't—"

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist.

"Lying." He leaned down, nose dragging along your jaw. Inhaling. Deep and deliberate. "Haaah... you reek of cheap tequila and that floral lotion you think hides your scent. It doesn't." Another inhale. A groan rumbled from his chest. "Mmm. You're wet already. I can smell that too."

Your thighs pressed together. Shame and arousal tangled in your gut.

"Don't—"

"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" He tugged your wrist, pulling you off the wall and down the hallway. The party faded behind you—doors slamming, music muffling—until he shoved open a door to what looked like a study. Shelves. A leather couch. Partial darkness.

He kicked the door shut.

Then he was on you.

His body crowded yours, taller by a foot, broader by miles. The wings spread, blocking out the ceiling, feathers brushing the walls. His hands grabbed your hips, spun you around, and shoved you face-first against the bookshelf.

"Stay."

Just that one word. Stay. And your drunk, traitorous body obeyed.

You heard him behind you, sniffing again. His nose dragged down the curve of your spine, over your ass, and he moaned. A guttural sound that vibrated through fabric.

"Hnnngg—fuck. You have no idea how many nights I've dreamed of this." His fingers found the hem of your shirt. Tugged it up. Cool air hit your lower back. "Dreamed of getting you alone." He pressed his face against your bare skin, tongue flicking out, licking a stripe up your spine.

You shuddered. "Kuro, please—"

"Please what?" His teeth grazed your waist. "Please stop? We both know you don't want that." His hands slid around your front, palms flattening against your stomach, then sliding up. Up until they cupped your breasts through your bra. He squeezed. Hard.

"Ah!"

"Sensitive?" He chuckled darkly, thumbs finding your nipples through the lace. Circling. Rubbing. You felt them pebble, pressing against the fabric. "These fat fucking tits of yours. I've been staring at them for months. Watching them bounce every time you walk." He squeezed again, watching over your shoulder as the flesh spilled between his fingers.

"What are you—"

"I'm claiming you." He said it like it was obvious. He spun you around again, backed you toward the leather couch, and you fell onto it—bouncing once, twice, your skirt riding up your thighs.

He stood over you. Red eyes drinking you in.

"Take off the bra."

Your hands shook as you obeyed, fumbling with the clasp, dragging the straps down. Your breasts spilled free. Heavy. Full. The nipples swollen and stiff from his teasing.

Kuro growled.

He dropped to his knees between your legs, hands cupping your tits again, palming them, squeezing, jiggling them just to watch them move.

"Ggghhh—yes. Just like I pictured." He lowered his head, tongue lathing over one nipple and you arched into his mouth with a broken cry.

"Nnnh—Kuro!"

He sucked. Hard. Pulled the peak between his lips and drew on it like he wanted to drink you dry. His other hand groped your other breast, thumb flicking the nipple, pinching, twisting.

"Mmmrrph—taste so fucking sweet."

"Please—please—"

"Please what?" He released your nipple with a wet pop and looked up at you through his lashes. "Use your words, little mate. Tell me exactly what your drunk cunt needs."

Your brain short-circuited. "I—I need—"

"Pathetic." But he was smiling now. His hands slid down your body, pushed your skirt up around your hips, hooked his fingers into your panties. "Lift your ass."

You did. He ripped them down your legs. Tossed them somewhere in the dark.

Then he just looked.

His wings twitched. His chest heaved. His gaze fixed between your thighs—at the dark thatch of hair, the swollen lips already glistening, the evidence of your arousal smeared across your inner thighs.

He exhaled shaky. "So fucking wet. And all for me." One finger dragged through your folds—shhlck—collecting moisture. He brought it to his mouth. Sucked it clean. "Mmmmm."

"Kuro, I'm going to—"

"Come? Not yet." He pressed two fingers inside you, crooked them upward, and you screamed. Your hips bucked. Your hands fisted in his black hair. "FUCK—"

"That's it. That's my mate." He pumped his fingers slowly, knuckle-deep, watching your face contort. "Feel that? Your body knows me. Even if your stupid human brain keeps running away."

Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. The wet sounds filled the dark room.

You were so close. So dizzy with need and alcohol and him.

Then he pulled his fingers out.

"No—"

"Beg."

You sobbed. "Please—please fuck me—I need your cock—"

"Louder."

"PLEASE FUCK ME, Kuro—"

He moved inhumanly fast. Belt clattering. Fly unzipping. His cock sprang free, a bulky pillar of flesh, the head flushed dark and leaking precum. He stroked himself twice, eyes never leaving yours.

"Last chance to tell me no." His voice dropped low. "Because once I'm inside you, I'm not pulling out. You'll be mine. Bond or not. Conscious or not."

You spread your legs wider.

"That's my girl."

He lined himself up, head nudging your entrance and pushed.

Your back arched off the couch. "AAHHH—"

"So tight—ggghhh—" He gritted his teeth, feeding you inch by inch, his wings flaring wide, feathers scraping the ceiling. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—" He bottomed out. His balls pressed against your ass. His pelvis ground against your clit.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

He was everywhere—filling you, stretching you, burning you from the inside out. His weight pressed down. His breath fanned your face. His red eyes bored into yours.

" He pulled back slow. Slick friction. Shhlck. Then slammed forward. "Nnnggh—"

"Kur—ah!"

He set a brutal rhythm. Fast. Deep. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs, made your tits bounce with every impact and he watched them like a starving beast.

"Look at that. Fuck. Look at those fat tits bounce." He grabbed them both, squeezing in time with his thrusts. "You're taking my cock so well. This cunt was made for me."

SLAM. SLAM. SLAM.

The couch creaked beneath you.

"You feel—nnnh—so—"

"So what? So good?" He leaned down, tongue dragging up your throat, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm—I'm yours—"

"Louder."

"I'M YOURS—"

He kissed you, tongue shoving past your lips. His hips never stopped. The squelch of your wetness echoed off the bookshelves.

His hand slid up your throat. Squeezed lightly.

"Such a pretty little mate. Finally taking what's hers." He released your throat, grabbed your hip instead, angled deeper. Your eyes rolled back. "There it is. That spot. Feel that?"

You couldn't verbalize. Could only moan as he hammered into that soft, spongy place inside you.

"I'm going to fill you up." His rhythm stuttered. Went sloppy. "Pump you so full of my seed that your body knows. Even if your brain forgets again." He grabbed your tits one last time, squeezing, twisting your nipples, hard, and you shattered.

Your orgasm crashed over you. It felt like drowning. Like fire. Your pussy clamped down on his cock and you screamed his name into the dark.

"Kuro—FUCK—"

"That's it—gggnnnhh—TAKE IT—"

He slammed into you twice more and then he was coming. You felt it. Hot ropes flooding your insides, spurting deep, pulsing with every grunt that tore from his chest.

"Hnnnngghh—HAAAH—"

He collapsed on top of you. Wings folding down like a feathered blanket. Sweat-slick. Breathing ragged.

Then he lifted his head. His red eyes were softer now, almost tender. He brushed sweaty hair from your forehead.

"You're mine now, little mate."

You should've felt scared. Or trapped. Or something other than complete.

But as his lips pressed gently to your forehead and his softening cock twitched inside you, you realized the bond wasn't some abstract fantasy.

It was him.

And drunk or sober, naive or not...

You weren't running anymore.

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