#ddba!matt

This wasn’t the first time you’d noticed him.

The dim light of the bar shone warm against his skin, the crowd of people dipping in and out seemingly curving around him as he occupied the space along the dark line of mahogany.

He was a handsome guy, undeniably so.

Captivating in a way that seemed deliberate, dangerous even. His posture was languid and open tonight in a way that seemed different than usual. You’d watched him from a distance these past few weeks, mesmerised as he sat as always rigid and alone, his hand choking his whiskey glass with such force it was a wonder to you that it had never cracked under his touch. Now though, he seems far more relaxed, still a little dangerous, yet mischievously so; charming, inviting, and oh so gorgeous.

God help you.

As he lazily swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, the barest hint of a smirk on his face, you recognise him for what he is.

He sits across the bar from you like a challenge.

Like a dare.

“Hey”, you call out smoothly as you slink over to his side of the bar, adopting a boldness afforded to you by the alcohol and the anonymity.

And maybe also the fact that you knew he couldn’t see you.

Your heart does a little flip that you can’t quite contain when he tilts his head in your direction, a knowing smile playing on his face, tugging up at the corners.

“I was wondering when you were finally going to come over”, he rumbles out, taking a small sip of his drink, the glass fogging ever so slightly around his lips.

Goddamn, he is sexy.

You play coy, giving a small, playful shrug as you lean against the bar.

“I was just leaving, actually”, you say breezily, but your brow furrows slightly as his head throws itself back, a smooth chuckle slipping out from his lips, his lips that for a moment you couldn’t pry your eyes from.

“Past your bedtime, sweetheart?”, he challenges and you can’t hide the way your mouth falls open in shock, an indignant scoff passing your lips.

“Wow”, you drawl, watching the mischievous smile that flickers across his face.

You kind of wanted to slap it off of him.

“Have you always been that condescending, or did that come with the old age?”

“Old age?”, he hums in amusement as his eyebrows raise up behind his glasses.

You shoot your eyebrows up in kind, a snarky little gesture you forget he can’t see. Yet, he responds like he can.

“Are you even old enough to be in here?”, he asks, his tone playful and conspiring as his head tilts towards your shoulder.

“What are you, a cop?”, you jest, and the look he gives you is almost guilty, a sheepish cock of his head giving him away.

“Mmm close. Lawyer.”

You let out a slow breath, the heat in your chest sharpening instead of settling. That figured. The quiet authority, the tension coiled just beneath his skin, the way he spoke like every word could win a case if it needed to.

A lawyer.

That tracked a little too well.

“So, come on” he murmurs, voice low and smooth enough to curl around your spine, pulling you back from your thoughts.

“How old are you?”

You tilt your head with a slow smile, meeting him evenly, determined to play his game, and play it well.

“Old enough.”

A moment passes as he studies you, a wild, humming tension, like a wire pulled taught and ready to snap.

“And you?”

The smirk that spreads across his face is different now. Less teasing, as glimmers of heady intent shine through. Something darker flickers there, the kind of shift you feel more than see, like the air between you has thinned, turned electric.

“Old enough.”

His words hang there, a shared and hazy understanding forming between you both, a line that neither of you care to draw down neatly. You watch him as he considers you, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips, the barely there sigh he releases as you bump your fingers against the inside of his thigh.

“I’m Matt”, he says smoothly, his hand extending towards yours.

You take it, exchanging your name in kind before your breath catches on his grip, warm and firm, his hands roughened in a way that seems unnatural for someone in his tax bracket.

“Well Matt…”, you purr lowly, your hand still in his.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

He laughs again, a warm, low chuckle that has you glowing from the inside out.

God, that smile.

And then he straightens, deftly producing his wallet, absently tossing a couple of bills onto the counter with practiced ease.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

——————

He’s on you before the door even has a chance to shut.

Hands in your hair, at your waist, groping at your tits, everywhere, too fast and too much, unable to even catch your breath as he crowds you back against the wall, your back hitting into it with a thud.

“Fuck”, you whisper hotly, the word punched out on a sharp breath as he wrenches your neck back by your hair, lapping at your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“I know”, he murmurs hoarsely, his voice wrecked and rough, his eyes screwed tight behind his glasses.

“I know.”

He pulls back from you then, and the sight of him sends a thrill down your spine. His face wears the faintest flush, his hair wild from where your fingers had carded through it, and his formerly pressed shirt, a light sky blue that hugged him in all the right ways was now crinkled and untucked and begging to be ripped off.

He pulls you from that thought with a warning hum, predatory and sinful as he drags his tongue up the hot skin of your neck.

“Don’t even think about it”, he warns, his voice deceptively soft against the shell of your ear.

Soft in the way a lion treads soil before it rips you in half with its teeth.

You grab his face then, and to your surprise he lets you, the rough scrape of his beard rubbing against your lips as you moan into his mouth, your fingers dragging down the back of his neck, bumping into a thin chain.

“Take it off then”, you goad, and unbelievably he obeys, wordlessly and quickly toying with each button before tossing his shirt to the floor and…

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Your breath stalls entirely in your throat and you don’t bother trying to hide it.

You take him in, the warm, solid expanse of his chest, heat radiating from him even from inches away, the muscle that shifts and rolls subtly across his body as alive and responsive as the rest of him.

The rest of him that you can’t help but notice is covered with old scar tissue.

It’s curiosity that takes over you then, replacing that first flash of hunger as your eyes flicker over him, his head tilting low as if tracking your gaze. There are some that in a strange way are very beautiful, thin and pale and barely there, soft lines of silver dancing across his collarbone, his shoulder, his chest. There are others though that are nastier, slightly raised and sharp as they cut along his ribs, his side, and you’d wager his back.

They pull you in.

Under the hold of your attention, you find that Matt has gone still. Not tense, but certainly aware.

You break your gaze from his body to meet the dark red rim of his glasses, your hand lifting before you can think better of it.

“Can I?”

A ghost of a smile appears on his face then, softer than you’d seen him yet.

“You don’t strike me as the type to ask permission.”

You let out a soft huff, unsure how this moment had turned into something so undefinable, watching as his chest slowly rises and falls.

“What can I say, I contain multitudes”, you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your hand still hovering over his body, his warmth so inviting.

“Whitman”, he murmurs thoughtfully.

“I’m impressed.”

You blush just a little at his praise before he takes a breath, quiet and measured.

Maybe a little anxious.

“Just this once”, he says, his own hand lifting to move a strand of hair out of your face and your head tilts curiously.

“Hmm?”

“This. Tonight”, he gestures, his voice wavering ever so slightly, like he doesn’t entirely believe what he’s saying.

“What’s about to happen is a one time thing. Okay?”

Your sly smile returns to your face, a little mischievous as you watch his throat work around his own bargaining efforts.

“Sounds fair. Now, are you gonna let me touch you, or are you gonna keep talking yourself out of this?”, you tease and a soft huff escapes him before he once again wets his lips, a quiet anxious habit it seems.

“Go ahead.”

So you do.

Your fingers brush featherlight against his chest and his reaction is restrained, but immediate. You commit it to memory, how his body stiffens, not quite a jolt but you get the sense that in his younger years it might have been, his lips parting on nothing but a thick silence, any sounds held back in favour of ironclad control.

But he doesn’t pull away.

You press firmer, enamoured by his skin, smooth in some places, uneven in others. Your fingertips follow the path of one scar without thinking, the one at his side, and his breathing shifts; sharpens, but not from pain, you don’t think.

You trail upwards, your eyes catching the faint glint of the cross around his neck, the pendant resting square in the middle of his chest. You pass by the cool metal with your fingers, a smirk passing your features.

“I didn’t peg you for the religious type”, you murmur as his own hands skim up your sides, one hand finding the line of your jaw.

He smiles then, soft, and warm and genuine.

“What can I say”, he starts, a playful, somewhat amused lilt threading through his tone.

“I contain multitudes.”

A light giggle falls from your lips, something entirely different from the impression you’d been painting so far, something more intimate and dangerously real.

Suddenly brave, you lift your hand from his body, hovering for a moment by his face as you check for any hint of uncertainty or discomfort.

When you don’t find any, you slowly, carefully remove his glasses, giving him enough time to catch your wrist, to stop you if he so desired.

He doesn’t.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you counsellor?”

The hand cradling your jaw corrects its hold just a little, tilting your head exactly where he wants it. Your eyes soften a little as the gaze of his hazel eyes falls just past your nose, watching the way the competing colours shift and melt in the light.

Restless and a little elusive, just like him.

“Trust me”, he starts, and the funny thing is, you do.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

——————

The pace he set was brutal.

Furious.

Maddening.

And god, you needed more.

You feel like you’re on fire as he pounds into you from behind, your jaw slackened and parted open, wild and breathless moans punching out of you as he fucks himself deeper into you, always deeper. He was everywhere it seemed, this intoxicating, reckless presence that you craved somehow, and you know that it’s wrong, dirty even, but you can’t bring yourself to stop, to care.

You needed more.

You needed Matt.

“Fuck! Don’t stop, please don’t stop”, you beg, your voice muffled somewhat by the pillow he’d forced your face into, your words slurring out in borderline unintelligible sobs that had him biting his lip to keep the sounds of his own pleasure from spilling free.

His arm wraps like a vine around your front, hoisting you up, your back flush against his chest, the warmed metal of his cross digging lightly into your flesh as he mouths at your neck, his other hand slithering up to hold it firmly in place.

A thrill shoots down your spine as his lips travel up to your earlobe, nipping and sucking lightly as you whimper and grind into him.

“That’s it, my good girl”, he murmurs hotly into your ear as he bullies his cock into your soaking folds.

“You take what I give you.”

A sharp cry flies from your chest as you begin to chase your high that seems so in reach, so tangible, so close that you ache with the need to come for him if only he’d let you.

My good girl.

You could be, you think. You wanted so badly to please him, to be good for him, and in some fucked up way, to belong to him.

“Matt, please- please, I’m right there”, you breathe out into his skin as a tight band knots in your stomach, warm and tugging and driving you half insane.

“Oh I know, sweetheart”, he croons, his voice like velvet and fire as he paws at your tits, toying with your nipples mercilessly as you arch beneath him.

“You think you deserve to come, hm? Think you’ve been good enough?”

Your mind sounds off like a warning bell, a panicked, deafening alarm spreading all throughout your body.

He wouldn’t, would he?

When you don’t answer him, he digs his fingers into your jaw, a rough jolt that tells you he wants a response and he wants one now.

“I- yes, yes!”, you stutter out on a desperate wail, anything resembling shame or composure a long forgotten thing.

“You want it?”, he whispers hoarsely, your whole body throbbing with need as his movements slow.

“Beg me.”

God, that did it.

You desperately try to rut into him, but he holds you in place, his strength shocking you even now.

You know better than to deny him what he wants.

“Yes, I’ve been good enough, please Matt, please!”

He hums softly, the vibration making your skin tingle before he shoves you back down into the pillow, fucking into you relentlessly.

Your mind falls away from you then, the world blurring and tilting as you take him all the way into you, moaning and panting into the pillow, little lines of drool escaping as you try your hardest not to scream. You begin to shake then, your body wracking with pleasure, building and dragging you upwards into the stars, into heaven, as the relief of your orgasm finally crashes over you.

You realise, a little burst of pride warming your chest, that he’s not far behind. With stamina, the likes of which you’ve never seen, he just keeps going as droplets of sweat trickle down his forehead, his hair a sweat damp and dishevelled mess as he fucks into you.

With the last of your energy, you meet his movements, your hips rolling up into his and helping him along as he finally starts to show cracks in his armour. His barely there grunts dissolve into the softest pants, breathy and reverent as you give him what he needs.

“I’m- I’m gonna-“, he starts, his hips stuttered and frenzied as he involuntarily picks up the pace, his bed groaning with the force of him.

“Do it!”, you cry just as recklessly, suddenly entirely grateful for the birth control you were on as you shove your hips backwards into his cock, clamping around him like a vice.

“Please God, just do it!”

And just like before he complies, a desperate moan tumbling from his slackened mouth, noisier than you thought he could be as he spills into you, the stuttering pulses of his warmth making you shiver as you took everything he had to give.

You don’t remember falling asleep, or him wrapping his arms around you. And if anyone asked, Matt certainly didn’t remember drifting off to the sound of your heartbeat, or the kiss he’d pressed into the side of your neck when he knew you were already gone to the world.

It was nothing, the way he made you breakfast that next morning, or how you went another round or two. It was inconsequential that you both kept finding excuses for you to not leave yet, every inch made towards the door dragged back by a mile, lured in by the sound of his voice or the feel of his hands.

You don't mean to slouch. You really don't. It just... Happens. But Matt notices. Of course he does. So he does what any loving boyfriend would do. He tries to help.

"sweetheart, you're slouching"

"no I'm-... How did you know?"

"I can, uh, I can hear your breathing. It's kind of labored."

"oh... Alright, thanks." You say as you straighten up.

For a while, he'd remind you like that. Polite, soft, helpful. Then he starts to get a bit tired of it the longer it goes on. He'll just clear his throat while putting a hand on your back. From there, it turns into putting one hand on your lower back and the other on your upper chest, then pushing. It's quick, and automatically gets you to straighten up.

"quit slouching, it's not good for you."

"alright, dad."

"I mean it, kid."

After a while of that, he still catches you slouching sometimes. He'll just flick the back of your neck, and you catch the message. He's just trying to help. And to your favor, you have improved.

Just not enough.

***

He had a rough day. The client was a laidback asshole who was lying left and right, with no respect for Matt or anyone else on the legal team. It pissed him off. Rubbed him the wrong way.

As he walks home, he can't help but be annoyed still. He enters the elevator, going all the way up to his top-floor apartment. He walks in the door, only to hear you slouching. He can hear you typing something on your computer, which is usually when you slouch anyway. He lets put an exasperated sigh, tapping his cane on the floor to get your attention.

"Matty? What's wrong?"

He says nothing, taking off his coat and his jacket. He folds up his cane, tapping it again on the table as he sets it down. He makes his way over to where you sit, cool and composed with measured steps. He still doesn't say anything as he reaches over and closes your laptop.

"hey! What the he-"

Smack

"Posture." He practically growls in a low, gravelly voice. Letting out a tired huff as he tugs his tie off, he quickly undoes the knot in the silk before gagging you with it, tying a tight knot behind your head.

You were still trying to process the slap, your cheek still stung and he had caught you completely off guard. You snap out of it when Matt throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, starting to carry you towards the bedroom. You start to protest, words not being an option due to the tie in your mouth.

Your next best option is physical protest, so that's what you go with. You squirm and kick and hit, which only earns you a smack on the ass so hard that you feel it even through the clothes you're wearing. You gasp out in pain and wriggle some more on his shoulder, but he can smell the truth. He can smell how wet you are, he heard your heart race.

He tosses you on the bed unceremoniously, quickly crawling over you both to avoid you getting up, and to start undressing you. You know that you could realistically give him the signal and he'd stop dead in his tracks. Just tapping that certain rhythm you agreed on. But youre in the mood to play along, so you do. You struggle against him, which is conveniently helping him undress you. Only once you're stripped bare does he get off of you, pressing a large hand to the center of your chest and holding you down.

"Stay." He commands as he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, like you're some mutt he found on the side of the road.

And like a dog, you listen. But that doesn't stop you from glaring daggers at him while he rummages one of his drawers for something. You expected a lot of things, but his white Muay Thai ropes was not one of them. The blood on them was no longer the deep crimson they were on that night, implying that he'd washed them since then.

"turn."

You do.

He uses one rope to secure your arms behind your back, wrists to elbows. The other goes around your neck, then connects to your arms, arching your back slightly.

"That's good fucking posture." He growls, tugging on the ropes to jostle you into a kneeling position, facing the foot of the bed.

"do you know what you sound like when you slouch? I can hear your lungs being compressed and squeezed." He starts as he gets off the bed, the mattress silently raising. He walks around to where you're facing, popping the first two buttons of his shirt to reveal his salt and pepper chest hair. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, the other resting on his hip.

He has a 'what am I going to do with you' expression on his face as he speaks again, pacing back and forth.

"not to mention that your back pops like goddamn bubble wrap when you finally stand up. You know that's why you have back pain, right?" He says expressively as he paces, the hand that ran through his hair now waving around and making gestures like he's in court.

You let out a whine around his tie, only for him to take two steps forward to slap you across the face again and grab your jaw right after.

"don't interrupt me. I'm not done." He says dangerously.

"I tell you time and time again to sit up straight, kid. But you just don't listen to me! All I'm trying to do is help you and you just. Don't. Listen. It feels like I'm babysitting you at this point." He huffs, taking a deep breath that was supposed to calm him, but only floods his nose with your scent.

"seriously?" He scoffs, stopping in his tracks.

"are you seriously getting off on this?" He asks, almost incredulously.

You whine and squeeze your thighs together, trying to hide your scent and relieve some of the ache between your thighs.

He steps forward and wrenches your legs open, and as if the waft of your scent wasn't enough, he runs his fingers through the mess between your thighs.

"do you really expect me to touch you, kid? After that? I'll tell you what, I have had a shit day at work today. I am not in the mood for you to be brat on top of it all. If you wanted something tonight, the least you could have done was act like a human being rather than an animal."

You want to cry. You're soaking wet, drooling onto the silk sheets and not with your mouth. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit like a drum, and you know he can sense it too. He takes another deep breath, jaw tensing and brows twitching.

"you are going to stay like this for an hour. Then I'm going to untie you and we will go to bed. Nothing else will happen outside of that. And so help me god if I see you slouching again after tonight, I won't be so kind."

You couldve cum just from that.

"do you understand me? Or did you go stupid like you always do when I don't touch you?"

You frantically nod, humming an affirmation around his tie, which is now soaked in your saliva.

True to his word, he leaves you there for another hour, your back forced into a perfect posture just waiting for him while he takes a long shower to decompress from the day and even treats himself to putting on the one lotion he can actually stand on his skin.

When he returns, there's still a bit longer left, but he ignores your whimpers and whines. You tried once to grind yourself against the sheets, but that was quickly shut down by him gripping your hair and pulling your head back.

"you said you understood me. I didn't give you permission for this. Last warning."

You whimper and nod, forcing your hips to still. After your hour is up, he starts to untie you with such tenderness that it confuses you for a moment. He tosses the ropes aside, massaging your arms and checking your neck for any signs he can pick up of strain or discomfort.

"nothing hurts?" He asks softly as he removes his tie from your mouth.

"no, Matty... I'm okay..." You assure him equally as softly despite the fact that you are still more turned on than you've ever been.

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He can tell you're still so turned on, but he told you he wouldn't touch you, and always keeps his bedroom promises. So he removes the sheet that you dripped onto and he grabs a spare blanket. You both crawl into bed, and you cling to him like he wasn't berating, degrading, and slapping you just an hour earlier. Because despite it all, he wasn't wrong.

He just wanted to help your posture.

When the cherry blossom trees began to bloom in early March, their scent burned like acid on his tongue. He always loved how they offered a stark contrast to the green grass in Central Park, and even though Matt couldn’t see them, he loved listening to him ramble on about their unparalleled beauty as if he couldn’t imagine anything better. 

When he walked the cemetery again after a year had passed in a mere sixty seconds, the autumn rain froze into daggers, cut him open, and left a bottomless, bleeding pit where his heart once was. 

The pain and guilt have made a forever home in him. He let them eat away until all that was left was a pile of rotten flesh, and now the beauty he’d come to appreciate means nothing anymore.

Time and time again, Matt finds himself standing on that godforsaken rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen, in his daydreams and his nightmares. Because Foggy Nelson died, and there is no world or universe in which he can live without him. He haunts him. 

The wind brushes through his hair and seeps through the thin fabric of his new coat as he taps his cane along the sidewalk. He can taste the scent of cheap coffee from the café a few blocks down the street, and somewhere, someone is selling expired hot dogs to passersby.

The city sounds much like a broken record to him now. Cars honk, people argue, and the morning news play on repeat in brownstones all over the city, one device always a millisecond behind the other, and it never fucking stops. Everyone is screaming, laughing, or crying, but never louder than the fading heartbeat replaying in his mind.

The prayer card in his left-hand pocket weighs like a ton of bricks. Matt sometimes touches it just to make sure it’s still there. He puts it there in the morning, takes it out in the evening, and rests it on his nightstand when he sleeps. And when he wakes up in a cold sweat, his throat sore from the screams of anguish that have become second nature to him, he feels for it until his fingers find the Braille they put there just for him.

He hasn’t moved on. How could he? Moving on would mean he’d have to acknowledge the truth, and then he would have to feel everything all over again. 

He still remembers how the blood felt on his hands, his knuckles cracked, and his suit drenched with it. He still remembers how the air felt so much colder, and what it sounded like when Ben’s body hit the pavement. The night was eerily quiet then. Though it wasn’t the blood or the rage or the tears mixing with the copper on his tongue that he focused on, he focused on the one thing that was there until it wasn’t. He followed the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat until it was gone, and then he screamed. 

If Matt acknowledged that—if he allowed himself to let the agony out of the cage he stuffed it in—it would surely kill him. Karen left, Foggy is dead, and Matt doesn’t know what’s left for him to fight for. 

There is only so much suffering a person can take before they lose themself. 

The wind ebbs and picks up speed again. He breathes in, just for a moment, to taste the weight of the oxygen, but as the air fills his lungs, the gentle cocktail of jasmine, roses, and peonies with a hint of something entirely unique suddenly wraps a noose around his neck. The scent is so unique that no two people have ever smelled the same, and his senses start to burn with the familiarity of it all.

The first time he smelled it was his first year of law school. A soft breeze carried it across the lecture hall, incomparable sweetness clinging to salty skin and caressing his nose, and he got addicted before he knew what it meant or who it belonged to, even. 

Sixteen years. 

It’s been sixteen fucking years.

Matt’s dress shoes scrape over the asphalt underneath his feet as he comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, knuckles turning white around the handle of his cane. He must be hallucinating, he thinks. His mind must be conjuring up old, bittersweet memories to bury the new ones, but then he hears it. 

Your voice used to remind him of the softest silk. He would always compare it to the first rays of sunshine in spring as they whisked the cold away, painfully so sometimes. 

He never thought he would hear it again, neither the sound of your voice nor your heartbeat. The one that sped up whenever he made you laugh. The one he once fell asleep to like a lullaby, and the one that started racing almost as fast as his own whenever he touched you. But for every good thing he had with you, his heart shattered into a million more pieces when he lost you. 

The world around him disappears in the fog, and his senses zero in on you. You are approaching the limousine parked on the side of the street, smiling as you bid your thanks to the man holding the door open for you. Your head turns left, just to let the wind brush the hair out of your face, but when you see him, your heart stutters. 

Disbelief settles into the frown creasing your forehead. “Matthew?” you say oh-so-softly.

He tilts his head in your direction. Matthew. The sound of his name from your lips cuts his skin like fiberglass. 

Matt whispers your name in turn, trying to convince himself that you’re real—or perhaps he is trying not to. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself that you are nothing but a fragment of his broken imagination. It would be kinder, he thinks, if you weren’t real.

That is, until you whisper again, “Yeah, it’s me.”

He doesn’t remember how many times he would lie awake at night, praying to hear you say, It’s me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But he knows God wasn’t listening. Even in his wildest dreams, you always end up leaving, and his happy endings turn into a nightmare. 

You’re too real, and that hurts more than when you were gone. 

“Hi,” you breathe. You even put on a smile for him.

“Hi,” Matt’s voice cracks. He’s not sure if you heard it. “What’re you–”

“Oh, I’m just–” You point everywhere and nowhere. “I’m just passing through.”

“Oh.”

“On my way to DC.”

“Right,” he says.

Of course, you are.

The nostalgia makes you weak in the knees. He has wrinkles now, a beard, and he is wearing a coat made out of the finest cashmere that, some time ago, he wouldn’t even have thought about buying. His once rectangular glasses have been replaced by round, dark-rimmed, and red ones. They are different, but they suit him. 

You’ve always thought this shape would suit him so much better. 

The Matt Murdock standing before you carries himself with such grace, it’s almost hard to believe he was ever shy or awkward to begin with. And yet, staring at your reflection in his glasses, you can almost see his unfocused brown-and-green eyes looking right through you. Those eyes, that voice, that laugh—you would recognize them anywhere. 

His eyes, once open windows to his soul, were only for you to see through. You could have stared into them forever. But there is a wall where those windows used to be, and he is so much colder now. 

You clear your throat before asking, “How are you?”

Matt stutters. “I, uh, I’m good,” he says. But good has never looked worse. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I just… I wasn’t expecting to run into you. That’s all.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to run into you either. Especially not here.” 

He exhales a scoff. “Why? Because I’m still in New York?”

You shake your head. “Because you’re not in Hell’s Kitchen,” you say, and the scars on his heart start bleeding again.

Foggy. 

Karen. 

Daredevil. 

A year ago, his life fell apart like an elaborate house of cards. All the good he had made for himself out of all the bad he had been through turned to ashes that night, and the rain washed it down the drain. 

Hell’s Kitchen is not what it used to be. It serves as a reminder of a life that ended in a bloodbath, of having his heart ripped out of his chest over and over again. The city reminds him of his father, of Karen, and Elektra, and the happiness he lost. It reminds him of losing the one person who held him through it all—of losing Foggy. And it reminds him of you. 

Matt left it all behind in the hopes that a new life would somehow take the pain away, but running away has never solved much of anything.

New York feels tainted, yet when Karen decided to leave for San Francisco, he could not bear to do the same. No matter how hard he tries, he can never fully let go of the city that raised him, and so he moved away, but never too far. 

Matt taps his cane against the ground once. “Senator, huh?” he asks, though he is still as awful at deflection as he is a liar. 

He overheard the news on his neighbor’s radio a few months ago when he was drinking a glass of whisky on the rooftop of his apartment. 

At first, he tried telling himself that it wasn’t you they were talking about. When that didn’t work, he returned to pretending that not being able to touch you meant that you were gone, and you were never coming back. You were dead to him because that thought has been kinder to him than the truth. But you were never really gone, were you?

Your fingers brush over the delicate enamel pin on your jacket, the same way they once ran through his hair. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s been a hell of a year.”

Matt forces a smile, tipping his cane toward you. “Well, congratulations.”

Again, your heart flutters. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I mean, I know it’s always been your dream. To make a difference. So, it’s nice you got what you wanted.” But Matt can’t quite swallow the bitterness in his statement.

You’re quiet for a moment, retreating into your shell as you try to find the right thing to say. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, at last. It’s a loaded two-word sentence, yet not nearly good enough for the sorrow that hangs in the air between you. 

“For what?” he asks. 

“Foggy.” 

It hits him like a bullet straight to the heart.

Your voice quivers, then cracks. “I, uh, heard about what happened to him.”

The anger in his veins burns red, hot, traveling through his bloodstream like an unrelenting parasite, and it stings like a thousand paper cuts soaked in alcohol. 

“I am so sorry. He was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and he didn’t… He didn’t deserve what happened to him.” Your throat tightens. “I know how much he meant to you,” you say. “I know how much you loved him. If I could–”

“No!” His self-control shatters. “You don’t get to do that,” he snaps. “You don’t get to tell me you’re sorry. It’s been a year.”

He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. It has that quiet edge to it that makes every word shake just slightly, yet feel like a thousand deadly papercuts. 

“If you actually cared about him, about me, you would have called or texted, or–” He swallows. “You would have been here when it mattered.”

“I paid my respects to his family,” you try to defend yourself, but Matt only chuckles—bitter, broken. 

“Right, and what did you tell them?” he asks. “That you went to college together? That you were his friend? Did you also happen to tell them that you left sixteen years ago and haven’t talked to him since, or did you leave that out?”

“Matt–”

He cuts you off, “He was my best friend. Mine! And I won’t get to see him again. So, you don’t get to tell me you’re sorry when you spent the past sixteen years pretending we were already dead!”

He rips your heart out and shreds it. And the worst part is, he’s right. 

You want nothing more than to reach out, to touch him, but your hands fall weakly at your sides because you can’t. He’s too far away, and it’s killing you.

“You’re right,” you whisper, yielding. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” 

Matt shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

“Can we just… Can we talk? Just for a minute, please?”

It takes everything in him to ignore how utterly broken you sound, the desperation in your voice even more familiar than the sound itself. You don’t try to hide it, and he doesn’t want to care, but it tugs at his heartstrings anyway. You’ve always had that kind of effect on him. Right now, though, he loathes it. 

Matt lowers his head, sighing at the ground beneath his feet. He can feel you staring, and it hurts. 

“You know, I should go,” he says. “I’m already late for work, and this isn’t… This isn’t a good idea.”

You catch him by the arm when he tries to brush past. It’s a reflex, pulling him in, but the moment you touch him, he recoils. 

“Please,” you beg, and if the asphalt weren’t so cold, you would have fallen to your knees. “If you’d just give me a chance to explain–”

“It’s been sixteen years. You made your choice. I moved on. Foggy moved on, and now he’s dead. None of that has anything to do with you,” he says, “so just… drop it!” 

Every word from his mouth whips you across the face and tears into your flesh like harsh leather. 

He pulls away. “Good luck in DC, Senator.”

And you watch in horror as he slips through your fingers again, his words so cold and brutal that you no longer recognize him as the man you fell in love with all those years ago. 

Far too much time has passed for your excuses to mean anything now. You can explain, but you can’t fix this. You know that as much as he does, maybe even more, but it hurts just the same. 

Matt can still hear the clear thumping of your heart long after he has walked away. In this mirror dimension he’s trapped in, it is all that exists to him. He tunes it out, but there it is again. You are everywhere, even when you’re not.

You stand in the same spot for a little while longer, teeth digging into your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying. He can smell the faintest hint of copper in the air, but then you plaster the cracks in your façade and pull yourself back together. Just like that, as if nothing ever happened. 

You could be falling apart at the seams, but you would never let it show. Because that isn’t what you do. 

As you’re climbing into the car, one of the men asks, “Who was that, ma’am?” 

You don’t miss a beat. “He’s no one,” you answer.

The motor roars to life. Matt tilts his head. Thud, thud, thud, your heartbeat fades, further and further away until it is gone entirely. The iron fist around his heart releases its hold, and he can finally breathe again. Though when he inhales, your scent still lingers. 

You’ve dug your teeth into him. One hit of you and suddenly, the world, his world, is back to revolving around you. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he finds himself back in the old halls of Columbia University. He was twenty-three then, not a dollar to his name, a devoted Catholic who had faith in the future and the system because he believed in the greater good. Until you walked into his life, and every branch creating paths for his future rotted from the inside out.

Matt walks the entire way to Murdock & McDuffie on autopilot. His cane bumps against the door, and for a moment, he struggles to find the handle. Kirsten is already standing by the fancy espresso machine she insisted on getting, her heart beating steadily as she pours herself another latte, and he takes the window of opportunity to charge toward his office. 

She calls out before he can get even halfway there, “Matt?”

He stiffens.

“You alright?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” he says, “just need a minute. Excuse me.”

He’s burning up inside, sweat soaking through his dress shirt underneath his suit jacket and cashmere coat, but his skin remains cold to the touch. The memories he had long locked away in a vault inside his mind start to break free from their shackles, and the glass that stores his emotions threatens to overflow.

The smell of espresso reminds of the cheap coffee he and Foggy once pretended was the best damn thing they’d ever tasted because they could not afford much more. There was no expensive O’Melveny whisky or homemade dinners on the table (except for Thanksgiving and Christmas with the Nelsons), and hardly any privacy to go around in their tiny student apartment, but they were happy. 

You were a spoiled boarding school brat who’d never had to count a dollar in her life. Of course, you didn’t choose to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth; God knows Matt didn’t choose to be the son of a boxer who got paid to lose, either, but you both took what you were given and made the best of it. 

When he met you, he saw right through you. He never thought he would; to him, people like you had all been the same for the longest time. You were the first to prove him wrong. He grew up as far from privilege as you grew up from living hand to mouth, and he couldn’t have cared less for it. 

That silver spoon in your mouth had always been so painfully empty to the point that all you could swallow was resentment. It was one of the reasons why Matt fell in love with you, because you didn’t believe you deserved to be loved, and he’d suffered enough loss to believe the same. You were both products of the love you hadn’t received, and that made you as human as one could be. 

He was your home the same way you were his, but the last time he got to hold you, you left him a broken mess that Foggy had to put back together because, unlike everyone else, he never dared to walk out on him. 

Until he died, and Matt had to learn the hard way what it was like to be alone again. 

The empty mug on his desk, left from the night before, goes flying off his desk and shatters against the floor of the office. Cold coffee splatters all over the glass wall; it smells so much tangier now. 

Matt swallows a yell, almost as deafening in the back of his throat as the crash itself. Then, for a moment, quiet settles in. 

Kirsten bursts into the room not long after. “What the f–” She glances at the mess, then back at him.

He straightens his tie, or maybe he’s loosening it.

“What the hell happened?” she asks. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

She closes the door behind her. “Bullshit! C’mon, sit down. I’ve gotta clean this up before you cut yourself.”

She guides him to a chair before fetching a handful of paper towels from the first drawer of his desk. He opens his mouth to object, but nothing comes out. 

It isn’t until the floor, the wall, and his pants are clean, and Kirsten has the shards safely stuffed into the trash, that she asks again, “Mind telling me now what’s going on with you?”

“It’s nothing,” Matt insists.

“Matt.”

“I’m fine. Just had a rough day, that’s all.”

“It’s 9 am,” she tells him. “The day hasn’t even started.”

“I know, I–” He sighs. “I just lost it, I’m sorry.”

“Apologize to the poor mug.” 

That finally elicits a chuckle from him.

Kirsten takes another tentative step forward. “It’s okay to miss him, you know?” she says.

Again, he sighs. “I know.”

“If you want to go home for the day, I can–”

“Nah.” Matt waves her off with a forced smile that neither of them believes. “I’m good,” he says. 

She doesn’t buy it, not one second of it, but she knows it is futile to keep pressing him for answers when he doesn’t want to give them. So, she simply pats his shoulder. “Alright, well, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the conference room. We’ve got a new client coming in,” she says. “Take all the time you need. Preferably not more than an hour, though.”

He snorts, running a hand over his beard. “Alright. Thanks.”

The door opens and closes with her leaving, and in his newfound solitude, he is left wondering again; wondering why you left, wondering why Foggy had to die, wondering what his life would have been like if you’d stayed, and wondering why, after all these years, Matt had to run into you now. 

He reaches into his left-hand pocket. The prayer card is slightly crinkled, but the Braille underneath his fingers is clear as day.

In Loving Memory of Franklin Nelson.

He hates that this is all he has left. 

From across the room, he can almost hear him say, “You’re an idiot.”

A sad chuckle rumbles through him. “Yeah,” Matt murmurs, “I know.”

It’s not fair that after all this time, even after all that has happened, there is not a bone in his body capable of hating you. God knows he tried. 

Matt misses the way it feels to be with you, to smell and to touch you. And he yearns for you. He has no choice but to remember—remember what life was like when he was yours, and you were his, and that was all he’d thought he would ever need. 

But that was sixteen years ago. 

Like all good things in life, it was never going to last. You were a disaster waiting to happen, the calm and the storm, and he let it happen.

The room had long since lost any trace of coolness it may have started with.

The heat clings to you, wet and stubborn, rising with every move you both made until the shared air between you becomes stifling. Each breath comes in heavier than the last, the scent of salt and sweat seeping in through bursting pants and sharp groans.

“Again”, he huffs out, his voice rough and low as he cocks his head to the side, gesturing you closer, his hazel eyes somehow entirely focused, molten and burning into you.

Your focus falls to the droplets of sweat that have gathered around Matt’s temples, mesmerised as they lazily drip down his neck and into the hollow of his collarbone. You imagined how those drops of sweat would feel on your tongue, the warm, salty heat of him, what sounds he might make as he ruts into you, dreaming of his sharp pants and desperate moans. Your eyes flicker to the cross that hangs from his neck, the normally cool metal now warmed with condensation, swaying gently against his chest, before trailing lower to the grey sweatpants framed low on his waist, teasing and intentional, and god help you, the way your mouth begins to water at the sight.

If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

“Come on”, he begins, his bare chest heaving as he tries to expel his energy, hopping lightly from foot to foot.

“Come at me again.”

You pull in a deep inhale through your nose, your brow furrowing in concentration as you set your bare feet against the tacky material of the mat.

You raise your fists, just as he taught you, your stance strong and alert, your eyes locked exactly on one spot, the knowing curve of his lips.

And you…

Swing.

You don’t even get a chance to blink before he has your body trapped against him, your back flush to his chest, his arm like a band of steel around your front.

“Too slow”, he whispers hotly in your ear, and you feel sparks of heat flood straight to your core at the sound of him so close to you.

Your heartbeat slams hard and fast in your ears, your own breathing becoming ragged as he brushes his nose against your neck, shamelessly dragging in the scent of your sweat, your arousal, pretending like he doesn’t know that he’s driving you wild.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

You push off of him on a sharp huff, rolling your neck in frustration as you resume your stance.

“Let’s go again”, you insist tightly, your blood running hot as Matt smirks in your direction.

“You’re tired”, he says plainly on a gentle shake of his head.

“Come on, let’s take a break.”

He takes a swig from his water bottle, and you can’t help but fix your gaze on the way his throat works around the water as he swallows thickly, a relieved groan sounding from him as he puts it back down.

You ignore the way your cheeks flush, blaming the heat as you clear your throat, your voice low and determined.

“I’m fine. I wanna try again.”

He smiles then, warm and impressed, his eyes shining with something that may have been pride at your refusal to be beaten.

“You’re not gonna get it right until you stop holding back”, he explains smoothly as he comes up behind you, adjusting your back leg with his foot, his hold around your waist firm and guiding.

“You have to follow through on every punch, every time. If you don’t, you’ll wind up hurting yourself, and I can’t monitor your progress properly if you don’t go full out.”

You wring out your wrists, rolling and pressing them into your palms as you try to push down your building frustration. You had been at these drills for hours, your muscles aching and tired, though you try hard to fight against it. More than anything, you wanted to be able to hold your own, to release Matt from the burden of worrying about you in battle, and even more so, you wanted to feel like his equal.

But weeks had gone by of him training you like this, and you were yet to even land a clean hit on him.

“I don’t wanna hurt you by mistake”, you mutter petulantly, and Matt actually laughs, a warm, amused chuckle settling right in his ribs.

Prick.

“I think I’ll be fine, sweetheart”, he purrs lowly, his voice a sultry, teasing lilt as he raises his arms once more in defence in front of you.

“Give me all you’ve got.”

Alright, fine.

You charge at him on a low snarl, your body stumbling as your fist connects with the air where his shoulder had been half a second ago.

Damn it.

“Again.”

You exhale sharply, and you come at him quicker this time, yet still he slides away from you with ease, this time catching your wrist in his hand, his grip ironclad and unrelenting.

“You’re going too wide”, he says, and fuck, he’s not even breathing heavily anymore.

“Yeah, I know”, you snap.

“Then fix it.”

He nudges your arm back into position, his fingers lingering just a second too long at your waist, the barest touch of him electric against you.

You can feel it, the way the heat of him crawls up your spine, and you fight to suppress a shiver.

Not now.

“Centre yourself”, he murmurs into your ear, his breath close enough now to mingle with your own.

“You need to bring your heart rate down.”

“Christ, do you ever stop talking?”, you huff out, sharper than necessary.

He chooses to ignore it, your aggravation rolling off his back like water.

“Again”, he says.

So, you go.

Left. Right.

High. Low.

Every jab, kick, cross you attempt, he dodges with ease, his movements graceful and light as you pant harshly from exertion. Your movements are becoming sloppier now, you know it even as you move. Your footwork is completely off, your balance too far forward but you can’t think, you don’t care. Timing and angles elude you entirely as you throw hit after hit, each time meeting absolutely nothing but the ghost of where he had been moments ago.

You wonder if he’s fucking with you, if he’s even there sometimes, feeling more and more like you’re fighting a smoke cloud.

You swing once again, anger spiking quick and hot as he catches your shoulder.

“Stop- stop”, he interjects calmly, and god, you’re not a violent person but you’ve never wanted to hit someone more.

“You’re rushing.”

You yank yourself from his grip on a furious growl, dragging a hand through your hair.

“I have to rush, it’s the only way I can even get close to you!”

Tenderly, he steps in, moving a strand of your sweat damp hair from your face.

It takes everything in you to not smack his hand away.

“You’ll get it”, he says quietly, his voice soothing and soft, but it made you feel like a child.

“Just slow down.”

He steps back from you now, resetting once more, steady and firm.

The guilt that gnawed at you was a distant thing. You knew he wasn’t trying to upset you, that he was only trying to help, but the white hot fury, the inadequacy, the seething, burning desire to get this right far outweighed any other feeling you had right now.

“Again.”

Something in you snaps.

After considering him for a moment, you move, but not the way he taught you. Where he has control, you have instinct. Where he has precision, you have heat, and passion, and monumental stubbornness surging you forward one last time.

You throw wide once more, the same form he has corrected time and time again…

And he does exactly what you want him to.

Gotcha.

He shifts to counter, expecting the same mistake, only this time you cut the movement short, twisting and snapping your body forward until-

Crack!

You feel the unmistakable impact of your fist connecting with his jaw.

You feel the thrill of it shoot all the way up your arm, and down your spine as Matt’s head snaps ever so slightly to the side, his neck strong enough to take the impact straight on, and you both freeze where you stand, the shock landing hard in your chest.

“Oh shit…”, you breathe as Matt stands completely still before you.

His tongue darts out, assessing the damage as he presses it briefly to the corner of his lip, a quiet, yet sharp exhale leaving him at the sting.

“I- I didn’t mean-“, you begin to stammer out, but your breath stalls at his expression.

Slowly, a wicked smile spreads across his features, sinful and delighted, like a whole new game had just begun.

Ah, there you are, Devil.

Your pulse jumps immediately as pure lust settles into his gaze, your eyes flicking to his mouth. There isn’t a mark, nor a cut, not a visible one at least, but the way his fingers come to his parted lips, the remnants of disbelief still on his face, you know it’s there.

And you put it there.

He steps closer now, his eyes darkened and pooling with desire, and his voice betrays him with one word, coming out shallow and ragged.

“Again.”

But it wasn’t a command this time.

It was a plea.

His name passes your lips on a reverent whisper, as his hand comes up to the line of your jaw, cupping it gently, his fingertips all but searing the flesh from your bones.

“Matt…”

“Please”, he gasps out, needy and fervent, his eyes wild and burning now, with no care to how he might sound.

“Do it again.”

You breathe in sharply, an uncontrollable shudder coursing through you, a small exhale of disbelief escaping you as you push him once, hard against his chest.

And he lets you.

A shiver washes over him as he allows himself to be moved by you, the thrill almost uncontainable as he throws a gentler punch your way, testing, his heart swelling with pride as you block it, messy still, but you did it.

He feels the change in you instantly, the confidence creeping to the forefront as you learn that he can be touched, be caught, be cornered.

And oh, what that did to him.

The space between you hums with tension, two live wires fusing together at last, as you come to each other in quick, uneven bursts. You settle into something like a rhythm finally, with every strike, block, shift that he throws at you. It’s not effortless, far from it, but now Matt looks like he’s taking the time to recalibrate, like he’s paying attention.

That thought alone almost throws you off.

Almost.

You twist in his hold once more, wriggling free as you kick your leg up, just a little too high, a thrum of lightning sparking up your thigh, before he grabs at it, knocking you over.

The thing is though, you take him with you.

Because you expect it now, closing the distance between you instead of retreating, rolling onto him, and for a split second you’ve got him, right there, pinned beneath you.

You know he could move, could knock you off of him with ease.

But that’s not the game, you don’t think.

Not to overpower…

To match.

“That’s my girl”, he murmurs, and you hear the way his voice reverberates in his chest, his breath warm as it fans across your face.

“I’ve got a good teacher”, you breathe out softly, and the way his eyes soften underneath you had your chest tightening instantly.

You close the distance.

You moan into him, reckless and willing, relishing in his sharp intake of breath, the way his hands fly to your hair in adoration, finally pulling you in closer after so long of fending you off.

It’s different from the fight, and somehow exactly the same; languid and burning, balance finally settling over you as you push and pull into each other, before finally he flips you over, pinning your arms down onto the mat.

“What am I going to do with you, hmm?”, he murmurs hotly, but he can’t disguise the breathless note that his voice has taken on.

“Whatever it is, can you do it fast? I’ve been dying here for the last two hours, if you haven’t noticed.”

Something low and molten rumbles in his chest, his head tilting lowly to your ear, his lips curling on a delicious smirk.

“Oh, I’ve noticed, sweetheart”, he purrs, nipping at your earlobe and trying not to moan at the way your body jolts underneath him.

“You think I don’t know that this pretty cunt of yours has been soaking wet since the second you landed that hit?”

You are stunned into silence beneath him, your breath stalling in your throat as your brain tries to catch up. But he’s got you now, your complete and undivided attention as his gaze bores into the tip of your nose, his eyes burning golden in the glow of the sunset peeking in through the window of Frank’s hideout.

“You want me to show you what that does to me?”, he asks, his head tilting in a way that can only be described as predatory, like the last thing a gazelle sees before a lion rips it to pieces.

“Yes”, you choke out from beneath him, your head nodding desperately as you feel your cunt clenching, aching for him.

“Yes, Matt I want that. Please baby, show me.”

A startled yell rips from your throat as he bites into it abruptly, sharp and fast as his hand plunges beneath the seam of your sweats, applying firm pressure to your soaking clit.

Your hips roll into the sensation instantly, your brain short circuiting as waves of pleasure crash over you with every brush of his fingers to your slick heat. You chase the friction incessantly, rutting into his palm on breathless moans and reverent sighs. Your eyes flutter open to see him above you, his own eyes screwed shut, panting out harshly, every breath he takes pulling in the taste of your arousal, decadent and rich on his tongue. A light sheen of sweat coats his forehead, one that you suspect has nothing to do with the exercise, and you feel the press of his hardened cock against you through his tented sweatpants, swollen and throbbing, and you…

You needed to feel him.

Your name on his lips is a startled, desperate thing, as you snake your hand in between your bodies, fumbling for the band of his sweats before allowing your fingers to toy with the weeping head of his cock, already leaking and glistening in the light.

“Fuck”, he whispers tightly, his groans spilling out of him eagerly, unstoppably, as he ruts into your touch.

“God, sweetheart, I need you”, he moans, and you grip him a little tighter now, your hand moving up and down as much as it can given the angle.

“Let me have it Matt”, you pant into his ear, a shiver passing through him, everything so unbearably sensitive to him now.

“Let me taste you, baby.”

Matt would have believed you if you’d told him he’d died in that moment and gone to heaven, his eyes fluttering closed in pleasure, the mere thought of your mouth on him sending sparks of heat and need through his body.

He nods fervently, yanking his sweats down his body, the sudden chill raising the hairs on his legs, goosebumps prickling at his skin. Rolling off on you, he allows you to get on top now, his tongue darting out in anticipation, the softest sigh leaving his lips as you begin to trail featherlight kisses down his chest, paying special attention to a litter of old scars, long faded with time.

“That’s it, my good girl”, he manages on a gravelly whisper, his voice roughened and husky around the edges, his breath hitching out the lower you go. You hum softly against the sensitive skin of his abdomen, nipping and sucking lightly as you trail your lips across his hipbone, delighting in the way his hips stutter upwards into you.

He is bared to you fully now, his sweatpants strewn across the floor, and you can’t help the way your eyes darken with greed at the sight of him, flushed and ready for you. Your tongue passes over your lips as you take him in, the scent of him tangy and rich, the salt and sweat melting in deliciously with his skin.

You ghost your breath over his tip, pressing a chaste kiss there, gentle and light, before pressing another, a little more firm, your tongue gently massaging the head of him, swirling and teasing, sucking lightly every so often.

He chokes out a moan, a pleading, wrecked thing as he gently cants his hips upwards, testing, trying to guide you deeper, his hands threading in your hair.

You comply.

You huff out slightly as you lower yourself fully, the warmth and wet of your mouth inviting Matt into a dangerous sense of surrender, his body relaxing beneath you as you set your rhythm, boneless and practically melting into the mat.

The more you unravel him, the more he praises you, slurred, desperate ramblings of “yes”, and “god”, and “more” tumbling from his lips as you drive him closer and closer to that maddening, glorious high.

The vibration of your soft, pleased hum around his cock, the slick filthy sounds of your mouth slapping and sucking against skin, and the stifled sounds as you gag around him threatens to drive him over the edge, a drunken howl clawing its way out of his throat as his hands fist tighter into your hair, a sure sign that he was close.

You release him from your lips with a wet pop, and Matt almost lets out a sob at the absence of you.

“Wait- wait”, he begins, his voice wrecked and panicked, but you just shush him gently.

“Don’t you want to come inside me, sweetheart?”, you ask innocently, and Matt’s cheeks tinge the brightest, glowing pink, his hair wild as he nods rapidly, words seemingly failing him.

You crawl back up his body, the heat of him scorching your skin, pausing every so often to lick at the salty droplets of sweat cascading down the muscle of his arms. Ripping off your own sweats and sports bra as you go, you settle on top of him as he lays flat on his back still, utterly mesmerised as he ghosts his fingers over any patch of skin he can reach. Reaching down for him, you line his slick cock with your soaking entrance, and you both jolt from the contact.

The glide in is seamless, a long moan releasing from both of you, as you sink down onto him fully.

He hisses out sharply, his hips stuttering as he fights with all his might not to fuck up into you, to take things at your pace.

“Oh my god, Matt”, you breathe out, your voice slurred and hoarse, as your walls flutter and clench around him, gripping him like a vice.

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby.”

The moan that flies free from his lips is barely recognisable to his own ears as you begin to roll your hips down onto him, lazy and unhurried at first, before quickly picking up the pace, that fire catching up to you now, flames coasting up your body and threatening to burn you both alive. His hand winds itself around your throat, a firm, grounding pressure, just holding as you press down on his chest, using it as leverage to grind even deeper onto his cock.

You know he won’t last long like this, and honestly you wouldn’t either, his breathing coming out in short bursts and stuttered groans and frantic pleading noises sounded around the shape of your name, chasing that elusive cliff’s edge that he wanted so desperately for you to dangle him from.

The looming threat of danger that lurks outside these walls is further away than it’s ever been, war, and battle, and rebellion a distant thought now. The only thought that burned in your mind, star-bright was Matt, beautiful, wonderful Matt, Matt who had long believed that you had a place with him, Matt who trusted your capabilities, Matt who you’d do anything to protect in your own right.

Matt, who right now, you were determined to fling off that cliff.

Beneath you, a groan of absolute bliss sounds out from him, louder than the crack of a bell as he lets you ride him. He’s right there, you know it, and god, you are too, you can feel it in the stuttering rolls of his hips, your short bursts of breath that you can no longer get back, the air in the room once again thickened and lived in. The room is coated in the scent of desire and need, and you know it must be too much for Matt. He just needed a little more.

“Oh god, yes that’s it. My good girl. My strong girl”, he rambles out, and you think for a moment his mouth has just entirely run away with him as you lean down and suck at the gathered sweat at his neck.

“You have no idea what that did to me”, he gasps as you bite and suck little marks into his skin, and he shivers at the intensity that is coiling in his stomach so rapidly now.

“Feeling the way you landed that hit. Finally getting one over on me. The adrenaline. God, I knew you could do it, sweethe- fuck!”

He is cut off on a high, keening moan as you bounce faster on his cock, the pace brutal and maddening as you moan and whine around his skin, the feel of him so overwhelming, and so goddamn intoxicating.

“I’m gonna come- sweetheart, please!”, he chokes out, his face slackened and flushed and you don’t think he even knows what he’s begging for, but you know you’d grant it to him every time.

“Me too Matt, it’s okay”, you whisper, your words punched out of your lungs by the force of him slamming up into you. His words from before echo in your mind before it all burns away into glorious stardust, leaning forward to ask one last thing of him.

“Give me all you’ve got.”

His mouth falls open in shock as his orgasm tears through him in wild, stuttering bursts, holding onto you tightly so that he doesn’t knock you off of him as you ride your own pleasure out on a long, drawn out whine that has Matt moaning and writhing out in turn.

You were all at once very grateful that there were no neighbours to speak of.

Your thighs ache as you finally collapse on top of him with an undignified “oof”, seeking comfort in the soft chuckle that vibrates in his chest, his fingers carding gently through your hair, the pair of you boneless and spent.

“Jesus Christ…”, you breathe out, your blissed out smile splitting your face open as Matt presses gentle kisses into your shoulder.

“That was incredible.”

He hums softly, still not entirely with it after having his senses melted so thoroughly, his head lolling into you with a soft thump.

Suddenly, a thought flashes over your mind, a soft, guilty smile tugging at your features.

“I really am sorry for hitting you by the way”, you say sheepishly, your eyes peering up at his exhausted face.

Slowly, a lopsided grin spreads across his lips, his eyes crinkling in the corners and shining with mischief and pride.

“It’s alright, sweetheart”, he sighs out, his voice light and airy, a teasing lilt in his tone before his next words come on a delicious rumble that sent shivers down your spine.