V1sualeye

robe outfit reference ↓

You’d been dating Matthew Murdock for a while now.

He was nice. He was caring, thoughtful, sweet and definitely easy in the eyes.

He takes you on cute dates around the city, brings you lunch when he can, makes an effort to host you at his apartment, cooks for you.

You liked him. A lot.

One thing you noticed very quickly was that Matt was very receptive to touch.

It made sense, you supposed, the other senses start overcompensating for losing one, but something about the way Matt reacted was different.

You noticed it when you first started going on dates, how he’d always freeze a little when you accidentally brushed your skin to his, which would have maybe offended you, if it weren’t for the fact you felt him suppressing an actual shudder when you kissed him for the first time.

Then, one night, after a cozy night in with wine and take away, you ended up sat on his lap on his sofa.

Both of you were kissing deeply, tongues tangling and tensions rising, and your hands went up to curl in his hair. This time, Matt moaned. Just a small, deep sound he tried to hold back, but you heard it clear as day.

Matt froze, embarrassed and cleared his throat as though trying to pretend that was why he made such a noise, so you did it again. Lightly dragging your nails over his scalp this time.

He had nowhere to hide as his body involuntarily shuddered, eyes starting to roll back as he moaned again, louder this time.

He couldn’t hide the way his sensitive cock was rapidly filling out underneath you either.

The two of you had yet to do anything sexual together, but you could feel this was becoming the night you’d start to.

The pure tension between the two of you was rising and the fact you kept using his weakness of touch to your advantage didn’t seem to be helping.

“Fuck” Matt breathed out lowly as you softly bit his bottom lip between your teeth, the slight sting making him buck his hips up into you.

The movement pulled on his cock, exposing the sensitive head to his clothing as he got even harder.

The feeling of his rough underwear being pressed firmly against the leaking, flushed tip made him let out a little whine in the back of his throat.

“You’re so sensitive Matty” you whisper in a sultry voice, before starting to kiss along his stubbled jaw, and Matt bucks his hip again when you suck at his pulse point, already breathing hard.

All he can do is whine again at your words, and nod harshly in agreement as his head falls back against the couch.

Slowly, your fingertips dip underneath the hem of his shirt, featherlight touches gliding over the tensing abs, higher and higher till you took the shirt off completely.

Matt’s own hands were fisted tightly in your top, as if trying to ground himself while you attack his senses with pleasure.

Returning your hands to Matt’s chest, you explored his sculpted body with your fingers and lips, tracing along the scars and ridges of him. The supposedly intimidating man beneath you was openly panting now, hips rocking like he couldn’t help it in a slow steady rhythm against your rapidly warming core.

His sounds, god his noises. He’s so whiny, whimpering and moaning as you touch his perked nipples, letting out loud gasps when you rock your hips ever so slightly against the bulge between you both.

Suddenly, Matt’s hands fly to your waist to still you as you rock just once on his lap a little harder.

“Fuck- wait- I’m- I’m gonna come” Matt whimpers out, barely managing to get the words out between his heaving breaths.

You can’t hold back the little giggle that escaped your lips at the sight of him. He already looks wrecked.

“I’ve barely even touched you Matty” you tease gently, continuing your motions again anyway.

Matt whines again, loud and high pitched this time at the harsh friction on his ungodly sensitive erection. His hips are twitching at the sensation, half wanting to go towards it and half wanting to pull away, already overwhelmed. He’s gonna come in his fucking pants any second.

“I-I’m- fuck- I’m so sensitive baby- please” Matt whimpers, his hands dipping underneath your shirt to hold your waist tightly instead, so tight it makes your skin bulge between his fingers slightly. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for at this point.

At the same time, you pinch his nipple and rock your hips down hard into him, and your reward is wonderful.

Matt keens, mouth open wide as his orgasm rushes through him, a deep groan which tapers into a whine as you keep moving through it, even after he’s stopped filling his own underwear with his hot spend.

Even just the feeling the temperature of his own come against his overstimulated flesh makes his body jerk as it’s trapped against his skin, and he’s a complete mess now. You hadn’t even gotten naked yet.

As Matt’s chest heaved, trying to come down a little from his high, you strip your own top, and large, calloused, scarred hands waste no time slipping up your waist to play with your breasts. One grabbed a handful of your flesh, while the other teased your hardening nipple, making you hum in pleasure.

Leaning forward, you kiss Matt again, which he heatedly returns through his rough breathing, his hands exploring all the newly uncovered skin.

Pulling away, you duck to whisper in his ear.

“Bedroom Matty” you say, before pressing a kiss behind his lobe.

“Fuck- you’re gonna kill me sweetheart” Matt groans deeply as he drops his head to your shoulder, a contrast to the pretty high pitched whines he was just making.

Lifting you like it was absolutely nothing, Matt carries you to his bedroom, knowing the space well enough to navigate it seamlessly despite his lack of sight, at least that’s what you thought anyway.

He gasps slightly as the material of his boxers brushes against his still overly sensitive dick. He needs to take these fucking clothes off.

Gently laying you down on his soft, silk bed, Matt stands above you before pulling down the sleep shorts you had on, along with your underwear.

The way he drops to his knees makes your breath hitch, heat rushing to your face as you watch him inhale your scent right from the source.

“You smell so fucking good” Matt groans out roughly, his cock throbbing as you filled his senses.

“Matt-“ you start, before you cry out as he lurches forward, burying his face in your wet cunt like he can’t resist it anymore. Your back arches as your head slams down into the bed at the unexpected pleasure rushing through you.

His tongue is everywhere at first, tasting anything you’ll give him before he slowly starts to thrust the muscle into your core, his nose brushing against your clit. Deep groans are escaping him as he eats you like no man has ever done before.

Where you can’t see, Matt has shed his own trousers, finally freeing his raw cock from the confines of his underwear. Even the cold air feels like too much against his overstimulated length, steadily leaking pre come still, onto the floor between his knees.

Under Matt’s magic tongue, you come with his name on your lips in no time, hands gripping his hair harshly which makes him moan into your dripping cunt, the vibrations making your toes curl.

As you try to even your breathing, Matt eventually detaches himself from your heat and stands again, with the intent to crawl onto the bed over you, but you move towards him unexpectedly.

“Sit” you order as you spin him, before firmly pushing him backwards till the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he falls down onto it. You know you wouldn’t be able to move this brick house of a man without him wanting to go, even if you tried.

Matt swallows roughly as he sits on the edge of the bed, his hands coming to rest on your waist as you step between his legs.

“You’re driving me crazy” Matt all but whispers as his hands move up and down your body. Your own hands run through his hair again, tugging slightly to make him groan, before you drop to your knees.

As much as you were wanting to fuck him when you were sat on his sofa, now your only goal is to make him lose his mind. You’re so ungodly intrigued by his reactions and you want to see what else you can do to him.

The sight that greets you is sinful. Matt’s heavy cock is flushed dark, leaking obscenely, half covered in his previous release and is twitching under your attention.

“Baby you don’t have to-“ Matt starts but you cut him off with your hand wrapping round the base of his length. The breath catches in his throat at the sensation, before letting out a little moan. His head tilts ever so slightly to listen to your movements, finding it hard to focus properly right now.

“I want to” you say like it’s obvious, because it should be, before you press your warm tongue to his sensitive, leaking tip, tasting his musky pre on your tastebuds.

Matt’s whole body jerks immediately as he collapses fully onto the bed, with his back meeting the sheets, as another one of those pretty little whimpers escapes his mouth.

Wow, he really is so sensitive. You hadn’t even started yet and the way he’s throbbing in your hand makes you think he’s about to come again.

Just to test your theory a little, you pull back and gently blow cold air over the flushed head, and Matt chokes on his next sound, before his hand flies down to wrap around yours at the base of his cock and squeezes, hard.

“Baby, please” he outright whines, hips thrusting a little, despite the fact he was the one who cut off his own orgasm. He’s already sweaty, flushed down to his chest as he fists the bed sheets so hard with his free hand that his knuckles are white.

“Please what Matty?” You ask innocently, moving his hand away, which swiftly returns to the death grip on the sheets.

As he opens his mouth to answer, you press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, right against that bit that’s sensitive on most guys anyway, but it’s clearly even more intense for Matt.

His whole body goes tight, abs tensing, his back arching like he’s just had electricity running through him as a broken whimper comes from his lips unrestrained.

The rest of your mouth encloses over his leaking tip, tongue massaging the underside and within seconds, before he can even warn you, Matt moans roughly as he comes in your mouth. Warm spend coats your tongue, hitting the back of your throat as you swallow it down, able to react quick enough to work him through his orgasm.

Matt breathes heavily at his release, but you don’t stop.

The prettiest broken whine you’ve ever heard comes out of his mouth as you continue to move your mouth up and down his cock even after he came, taking him in deeper and deeper till he hits the back of your throat.

He’s trying so hard to stay still for you, to take it, but he can’t help the way his muscles are jerking and twitching at the intense, painful pleasure sensation of your mouth.

Noises are falling from his lips now in a way he can’t control, whining and whimpering as you assault his most sensitive part with your tongue.

The words fuck, please and your name are the only words you’re able to pick up from the sounds coming from him.

As you hollow your cheeks around his throbbing length, Matt starts to breath fast and heavy, whining high on every exhale.

“Fuck- fuck- fuckfuckfuckfuck- oh g-god” is all he manages to moan out before he’s filling your mouth once again, coming with loud, broken cry.

This time, you’re merciful and you pull off after working every drop from him, letting Matt relax into the bed again.

He’s breathing heavy, borderline hyperventilating as he tries to catch his breath. His entire muscled body is covered in sweat, and his face is flushed red. His hair is sticking to his forehead, heavy lidded eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling, and he still hasn’t let go of the intense grip he has on the sheets.

His cock spent slowly starts to soften against his stomach, still twitching occasionally, like the rest of him.

“I don’t- don’t think I can go again, ’m sorry” he pants out, swallowing between words as his voice cracks, mouth dry. You smile softly as you climb up the bed and lay next to him, hands playing with his hair but comfortingly this time.

“I know baby, you did so good, such a good boy for me, I wasn’t expecting you to keep going after that” you smile before pressing a sweet kiss to his warm cheek.

Matt hums at your words, before lifting his arm and pulling you against him. You lay there in the afterglow, listening to his breathing and heart beat even out, and before you know it, he’s already asleep.

Tomorrow night, you plan to having whimpering and whining again, but underneath you as you ride your good boy’s overstimulated cock till he cries.

This is my first request so thank you I hope it’s okay! 🫶🏻 this was not supposed to be this long lmao, I only meant to do a little drabble and it just kept going, and I meant to only focus on Matt in this but I fear it’s not Matt Murdock smut if he isn’t a munch 😌 Thank you anon for your idea, I love overstimulated Matt sm ❤️

Pain. So much pain flooded through him as he jolted, suddenly awake with a sharp gasp.

The stuttering gasp got caught halfway in Matt’s chest as more sharp pain flooded his ribs and body at the slight movement.

He coughed weakly, harsh against his dry throat and tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Most of it old, but when he just coughed, new red liquid added to the awful texture in his mouth.

Suddenly, Matt realised he wasn’t alone. He felt something moving, shifting, over to the side of him and panic started to grip his chest.

He hadn’t even known anyone was there.

He couldn’t hear anyone. He couldn’t hear anything at all.

Matt felt his blood starting to pound through him as his breath and heart rate spiked in distress.

He could barely even move due to his agonising injuries.

He’s fucked, he thinks. So fucked.

You’d been half asleep on the bed next to him when he awoke suddenly, his movements making you stir back into consciousness.

Curled into a ball, half drifting in and out of sleep as you watch your boyfriend on the pillow next to you, breathing shallowly, every breath rattling in his lungs. Hoping, praying it doesn’t just… stop.

Claire worked with you to patch Matt up as much as best as you both could with limited resources, but he was in rough shape.

You didn’t even really know what happened to him.

You’d texted your good friend Frank, if there had been any sight of your devil, after he was home later than usual.

Castle said he’d keep a lookout. Code for I’ll find him.

About an hour later, Frank had dumped Matt on your shared bed, calling you before hand in warning that he was hurt, badly.

You’d called Claire immediately after he hung up, managing to convince her not to call an ambulance, just.

As a compromise, you ended up calling Night Nurse to help him too.

Matt wouldn’t be mad at you for taking him to a hospital. He knows you’d never jeprodize his career, and identity lightly, a last resort before he’s literally dead. He’d just… well he’d be mad at the whole situation.

Matt could somehow heal himself faster than a normal person, you knew this, so after the three of you stitched his wounds, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, set his broken bones, checked for punctured lungs and severe head injuries, doing all you could for him, the only thing left to do was wait, and hope.

You sat up quickly when Matt suddenly gasped awake, spluttering blood as he was thrown back into consciousness. His blood shot eyes fly open, darting around the room, not focusing on anything in particular.

Watching him for a second with wide eyes, you freeze as he quickly starts to panic, chest rising and falling faster with every breath.

“Matty, baby, it’s okay, it’s me” you say in a soft voice, desperately wanting to bring him comfort.

Reaching out, you go to touch his sweaty forehead, but his hand clumsily gripped your wrist at the contact, hard.

He groaned quietly at the quick movement which had clearly pained him to do so as well, only acting on instinct.

“Who’s there?” Matt managed to croak out.

“Matt? It’s me” You said louder, confused but he just held your wrist, panic rising in both of your throats as you repeated his name louder and louder each time, to no avail. All of which he was unaware of.

He couldn’t hear you, you realised.

You raised your free hand to the one that gripped your wrist, and he tensed even further, waiting with baited breath for the stranger to do something to him.

Matt could tell, at least, that he was in a bed of some kind, that your touch was soft, and he wasn’t already dead, which helped him feel like he wasn’t about to be stabbed, though only just.

He could feel the way stitches pulled at his skin, the bandages and adhesive keeping him together.

Whoever was near him had obviously tried to patch him up, he tried to rationalise, to calm himself.

As a way to let Matt know it’s you, you begin to tap your fingers over his hand in a wave, back and forth, in the same way you did while you were holding hands and you got anxious. A grounding technique you had adapted from touching your thump to each one of your fingers, except now you always have his hand in yours instead.

He lessened the hold on your wrist immediately, and let out a big shaky breath of relief as he choked out your name in a question, the word more of a sob.

You tapped him twice on his wrist, your bedroom signal for yes that you both used when you were…otherwise unable to speak.

“I can’t hear anything, I can’t hear, I think I got hit in the head, I can’t even smell, there’s nothing” Matt rushed out, fear rising in his voice, able to tell you what was wrong now that he knew he was safe.

He’d had his nose broken in the fight, his face and head were covered in dark, purple bruises, surrounding the deep split skin from the impact. He’d been brought to your shared apartment so bloodied, you thought he was dead. Hit was putting it lightly.

Bringing his bloodied hand to your mouth, you kiss softly over his injured knuckles, using the other that wasn’t trapped to stoke the backs of your fingers over his face, trying to keep your touch light. Matt leaned into the touch heavily, unfocused eyes staring at where he thought you were, well as much has his swollen eyelids allowed him to.

Matt suddenly started trying to sit up, gasping in pain again as he did so.

Quickly but carefully, you put your hand that was on his face, on his bruised chest and pushed him back down. Cupping his hand to the side of your face, you shook your head as you tapped his wrist once for no.

He started to shake his own head, chest still rising and falling in panicked breaths. Eyes squeezing shut as he fought back stinging tears.

“I can’t- I can’t-“ he choked out, whimpering slightly as his voice broke.

God you wished you could just talk to him, explain how bad of a shape he’s in and he can’t be moving like this.

Matt started to try and pull you on top of him instead, which was equally as bad. You resisted, tapped him no again and he nearly sobbed.

“Please, please I need to feel you” he barely got out in between fast breaths, pulling you towards him again.

Resisting the pull again, you grab his other hand gently and run it down the length of his bare chest, so he can feel the extent of his serious injuries and stitches.

“I don’t care, it doesn’t hurt, I don’t care” he panted insistently, deep in a panic attack now, desperately wanting you to ground him with your touch and weight.

Tears were also falling from your eyes at this point, desperately wanting to give him what he so obviously needs, but you know you’d only end up ripping his stitches open if you do what he wants.

He sobbed your name, begging pleas between his frantic breathing and your resolve starts to crumble.

Ever so slowly, you laid your body as carefullly as you could over the very top half of his, across him, burying your face in the side of his bruised neck.

Wanting to try and at least keep some of the weight off the deep stitches in his stomach, where they were worst.

His big, bruised arms immediately wrap around you to hold you tightly against his chest. Matt took a big, deep, shuddering breath as your comforting weight on top of him started to calm him down slightly.

Matt hated this. He couldn’t tell about anything that was going on around him. Completely submerged in nothing. Apart from you.

He didn’t care about the pain of his injuries, he just needed you touching him. Needs something he could feel, real and solid against him. Needs you in his arms more than anything else in the world right now.

You stroked the side of his face, moving to run your fingers carefully through his hair, as he relaxed further into the bed, shock slowly leaning his system.

As you laid there, slowly drifting off, your fingertips touched him comfortingly anywhere you could reach, trying to keep him calm somewhat. They traced his face, along his jaw, back into his scalp for a bit because he loves that, down his throat.

Matt slowly starts to fall asleep again, injuries and the adrenaline leaving his body exhausting him further.

The next morning, Matt wasn’t much better at all.

He’d began to panic again as soon as he woke up, realisation dawning on him once again that he couldn’t hear anything.

Feeling the weight and warmth of you on his chest immediately helped soothe him. He wrapped his strong arms around you, fingertips brushing over your face and playing with your hair, before his hands dipped to feel the rest of your perfect body, anywhere he could reach.

You woke gently to his actions, but stayed and let him comfort himself by running his hands all over you, never staying in one spot for long as his breathing slowed again to a somewhat normal rate.

Satisfied that at least while he was like this, you’re safe, you’re with him right now, in his arms.

Once he’d settled again, you carefully sat up to grab the glass of water you’d left on the bed side table last night. Matt quickly trapped you with his arms as soon as you moved, scared you were leaving.

“Please don’t go” he said roughly, voice louder than he would usually say, due to being unable to hear himself. His hand moves to hold the side of your face, waiting to feel your response.

You held your hand over his, and tapped his wrist solidly once for no. He seemed to relax slightly, understanding your signal and let you move again. His hands still did not leave your body though.

You reached to grab the glass, then cradled the back of his head to help him sit up slightly. He let you move him, managing to sitting up with a bit of a grunt.

“What’s wrong?” He mumbles curiously.

You brought the glass down to his hand for him to feel. Matt flinched slightly at the unexpected cold but quickly caught on, his fingers on top of yours on the glass as you help bring it to his lips.

As soon as the cool water touches his tongue, Matt realises how thirsty he is. He starts taking big gulps, draining the whole cup.

“Thank you” he says softly, after he’d had his fill, before slowly laying back down. He takes another deep breath, trying to keep himself calm.

“Fuck this sucks” he tries to joke, but his voice is strained and waivers.

“I’ll be okay. Believe it or not, this has happened to me once before, and it got better. I didn’t have you last time either” he tries to reassure himself as much as you.

You frown at him, imagining him going through this alone.

Dragging your eyes down to his sculpted, bruised chest, you see the stitches have mostly held. It might be a good idea to try and get him in the shower, wash off some of this blood that had dried on his skin.

You didn’t even know if it was all his and the thought made you cringe a little. It would be easier to change dressings and you could check the rest of his injuries that way as well, if he was cleaned up a bit.

Continuing to run your fingers through his hair as you looked down at him, you gnawed at your lip trying to think how to communicate to him you want him to get a shower, when he suddenly announced in a smaller voice, “I uh- need to pee…”

You helped him up slowly, trying to ignore the stabbing feeling in your chest every time he made a pained noise, and lead him to the bathroom.

You turned to switch the shower on, his hands never leaving your waist and Matt could at least feel the sudden temperature change in the air.

“You getting a shower?” He asks, tilting his head slightly in question. You tap no on his wrist and then lightly poke him in the chest.

“You want me to get a shower?” He asked, trying to figure out what you mean. You tapped yes.

“Trying to get me naked?” He joked lightly, but his smirk didn’t reach his eyes. You could tell he was just trying to get you to feel better.

Stroking his cheek affectionately, you manage to smile slightly as he leans into you, but then you brought his hand up to feel the flakey, crusty blood all over his skin.

He cringes at the texture that he’s suddenly all too aware of, skin crawling at the realisation.

“Ah okay angel, you wanna clean me up?” Matt asks, clocking onto what you mean.

You tapped him yes again, suddenly immensely glad you had come up with this communication system for completely unrelated situations.

Matt’s hands wasted no time, and hooked his thumbs into the band of his boxers before he slipped them off unceremoniously, clearly agreeing.

As unsexy as this whole situation is, you’re reminded that you’re only human as your eyes dragged over your boyfriends naked form. Any arousal you might have felt is quickly dampened by the sheer amount of injuries he has though.

Once you got him under the water, after helping him pee, since you know, his aim was off, you led his hand to the controls to let him adjust the temperature to his liking. He sighed in relief once he turned the water hot, steam quickly filling the room.

You shed your clothes and got under the spray with him, picking up the body wash to use your hands to wash him. You could be extra gentle that way, no risk of scratchy material irritating his already sore skin.

By the time you’d finished, he was practically purring.

No doubt his sense of touch is skyrocketing right now, it being the only thing he could actually focus on.

Scrubbing his scalp as he kneels down in front of you, his face is pressed into the skin of your soft stomach, just under your breasts.

You could feel his tongue slipping out to collect the water droplets from your skin, giving you slow, open mouthed kisses.

Wrapping his strong arms around your waist, Matt keeps you pulled close to him. Your heart fluttered when he started to kiss you, but then your stomach sank when you realised he can’t even hear your heartbeat anymore.

After you’d washed his hair, Matt stood up and held his hand out expectantly.

“Let me do you?” He asked softly, his other hand never leaving your waist.

You smile and put some soap in his waiting hand and he gently starts to wash you.

Matt has no problems whatsoever remembering the shapes of your body, already having it memorised like it’s his own, and it makes him feel ever so slightly better being able to do something for you too.

He absolutely didn’t have to be on his knees again to wash your front.

You watch the slight blush start to rise on his cheeks when he starts to wash your slippery chest.

Despite his alarming, unsettling, completely not arousing predicament, apparently his quickly swelling cock didn’t get the same memo.

He leans in to press his face along your breasts once the soap is washed away, giving you more of those open mouthed kisses. You ran your fingers through his wet hair as he did this, sighing at the intimate feeling. You were glad he seemed to have relaxed a little bit.

Both of you stood in the shower, content to be wrapped in eachother for a while. Matt pressed soft kisses everywhere he could, hands running all over your body, never staying still too long.

He was still hard, heavy against your stomach but his touches weren’t sexual, just comforting, self soothing even. He just couldn’t help his bodily reactions to the feeling of your smooth, water slicked body under his palms.

Settled back in bed, Matt had his head on your bare legs while you continuously ran your hands through his hair again, while you watched some shitty movie on the TV.

You’d ordered some food for lunch, and now Matt was dosing, or maybe meditating, you couldn’t ever really tell. But he was tired, and still in a lot of pain.

The only difference you had noticed between them was he was actually a little more wriggly when he was asleep, mild twitches and movements coming through to this world from his dreams.

You spent the rest of the day in bed with him, Matt adamantly protesting any time you even shifted in a way that suggested you were getting up, not wanting you to leave him alone even for a second, even to go the toilet alone.

He let you lead him around like a lost puppy, unwilling to be apart from you but unable to just follow you like usual. This behaviour wasn’t really new, but you could tell how insecure he was feeling, how truly lost.

It pissed Matt off with how dependent he felt, but he needed to be with you more. You’d changed his bandages, made sure he was fed and watered, given him pain killers, even helped him pee, which he hated. He spent most of the time over the next couple of days asleep, too achey to do much else.

The days that followed were much of the same, just focusing on healing him, getting him better.

Very early in the morning, a few days after he’d been carried home half dead, before it was even light, Matt shot up with a start.

“Holy shit” he grunted in shock as an extra loud siren drove past the apartment, just as something popped in his ears and suddenly, he could hear again.

The intense sound being the first thing he heard made his head ring and he winced, scrunching his face up in pain.

You’d been laid across his chest again to keep off his deeper wounds, since Matt literally wouldn’t let you go, but you were rolled onto your back to look up at him when he sat up.

Startled awake at the movement, you looked up at him confused and half asleep. Concearn laced your features when you managed to make out his pained face in the low light.

“Matt?” You question softly, raising your hand to cup the side of his face, stroking his cheekbone. His unfocused eyes snap to your mouth immediately.

“I’m okay just… loud” he mumbled still half asleep, hearing the concern in your voice. You hummed, eyes falling shut again, but then they snapped open again a second later.

“Matty, can you hear me?” You said quickly, sitting up to sit next to him. His own eyes widened then as well, realisation cutting through the fog of sleep.

“Oh thank fucking God for that” he sighed loudly, immensely relieved, smiling wider at you as he pulled your face close to his.

His eyes darted around your features as he hummed softly, as if he was looking at you, which you guess he kind of was, which explained the small sound he made to help enhance the, for lack of a better term, echolocation.

He’d been submitted to complete and utter darkness while his sense of hearing and smell were gone, radar sense completely out of commission.

You both smiled widely into the loving kiss he gives you, finally hearing your heart beat flutter again was truly music to his ears.

After he kissed you for a while, Matt eventually got up to go to the bathroom unassisted for the first time in a few days.

As you started to get up to come help him, he gently laid you back down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Go back to sleep baby, I’m fine” he muttered against your hair, smiling softly as he heard your heavy lids slip shut again.

Matt slowly stumbled to the bathroom, he might be able to hear again but his body is still giving him some grief. He still couldn’t smell anything either, so he pulled out an old neti pot. He filled it up with water and tipped it back into his nose, then suddenly he coughed, spluttering blood everywhere.

“Shit” he mumbled at the mess, nearly gagging as the intense smell iron hit him. But, at least he could smell again. His nose had clearly been blocked with clotted blood, not blocked from the damage anymore.

He cleaned himself up, and the bathroom, before slowly crawling back into bed with you. It’s way too early to be awake, and the toll from his injuries was still going strong. The broken bones, the stab wounds. Even with his meditative healing, he’s going to be hurting for a while.

Matt pulls you into his chest, careful not to wake you and after taking way too many deep inhales of your scent he’d missed dearly, he falls asleep listening to the sound of your steady heart beat, able to completely surround himself with you once again.

The heat woke you up this time, slowly, feeling warm and sweaty all over. You scrunched your face up at the uncomfortable sticky feeling, trying to move away from the absolute furnace behind you, but the muscular arms caging you in wouldn’t budge.

The next thing you noticed is something warm and hard grinding into your ass cheeks, in a slow, uneven rhythm.

Matt’s breath was hot against your neck, coming out in short little puffs. The sluggish, unaware movements he was making told you that he was still asleep.

His hands were wrapped in your clothing, one gripping his shirt you had on, pulling it up to show your stomach, and the other was in the waistband of your underwear, gripping it tightly, pulling it against your flesh.

Matt shifted behind you slightly, moaning your name softly between his rugged breaths, pressing his hips even harder against your ass. He pulled you impossibly closer towards him, and you felt yourself getting hopelessly turned on at the thought of him dreaming about you like this.

This wasn’t the first time you’ve woken up like this, Matt is an… active dreamer. For some reason though, it seemed to happen more often when Matt had been hurt.

Usually, he would stop after a few minutes, and end up waking up in the morning hard as hell, so he’d wake you up too with his head between your legs.

You let him rut his cock against you for a few more minutes, but he just kept going, your name leaving his lips in soft little whimpers, and you were getting increasingly sweaty and needy too.

“Matty, baby” you whisper quietly into the partial darkness, reaching back to run your hand through his damp hair.

He half moaned, half groaned at the action, tightening his grip on you and pushing his face further into your neck. You kept stroking his scalp, easing him awake, till he suddenly froze when he became all too aware of what he was doing.

“Shit, angel I’m sorry” he gasped in your ear, suddenly extremely aware of how ungodly close he was to cumming in his boxers in his sleep.

Before you could even say anything, he was then hit by the smell of your arousal seeping from you.

“Or not?” He huffed in amusement, humming in approval as he slid his hand under his shirt you’re wearing to grope at your soft breasts, as he started to press gentle kisses to your throat.

You sighed quietly at the feeling, pushing yourself further into him and bending your neck to give him better access to kiss and suck at your neck.

“Aren’t you still hurting?” You manage to ask, through the haze of arousal that was quickly pulling you under. It’s one thing to be humping you in his sleep, but Matt didn’t exactly do sex half arsed.

“‘m fine baby, promise” Matt mumbled in between kissing and sucking love bites onto your neck.

Moaning softly at the feeling of his fingers playing with you nipple, you trail your hand behind you, grabbing the base of his thick length through his boxers.

He gasps a rough “fuck” into your neck, surprised by the action from being focused on his own actions to pay much attention to yours.

You use his distractedness to spin in his arms, and push him back so you could very carefully climb over him to straddle his hips.

“Oh okay, hi” he smirks up at you, looking delighted as he runs his hands up and down your soft thighs.

“Hi yourself, Mr Murdock” you try to purr, though it ends in a soft giggle as he pulls you down to catch your lips in a heated kiss. His hands help you to grind down on his covered length, making you both moan into each others mouths as you make out like horny teenagers.

Usually, you’d have sex at least once a day, more if Matt had his way all the time, so maybe he’s feeling a little eager.

“Feeling a bit better?” You break away to ask softly, running your hands through his hair, feeling the wounds on his head gently. Matt nods while chasing your lips again with his own.

“Mhm” he mumbled against your lips, other things on his mind, then moved his face to your neck and took a big, clear breath of you through his nose to help enunciate his point, as he pulled your hips down to grind against his throbbing cock even harder.

You start to make your way down to sit between Matt’s legs, wanting to make him feel good since he’d had a rough few days but he stops you as your fingers curl in his waistband.

“Wanna hear you baby, missed that perfect voice of yours, don’t want you to be quiet today, can’t have that pretty mouth full” he explains, tone deep with want as he pulls you back up to him.

“Take these off angel” he mumbles against your lips again, snapping the elastic of your underwear against your ass lightly. Lifting your legs, you discard them, flinging them off to the side as Matt pulls his own underwear down and kicks them off too. You quickly shed the t shirt as well.

When you sit back on his hips, you’re both bare and moan at the feeling of your soaking core against his impossibly thick, hard cock.

Pulling you down to kiss him again, Matt’s other hand sneaks between your bodies and starts to rub slow circles on your clit lightly. You moan against his lips, but the feeling doesn’t last long as he moves further and sinks two fingers into your core without warning.

Gasping at the feeling, you move to bury your face in his shoulder, kissing and biting at his neck. Matt holds you tightly against him as he works you open slowly, never impatient enough to hurt you (unless you ask for it.)

You’re writhing in his arms by the time his fingers leave you, ceasing their assault on your g spot, and Matt’s hand moves to line up his throbbing cock with your now soaking entrance.

His hand moves back up to your clit once the leaking tip is in, and he rubs in circles as he slowly raises his hips while pushing yours down. You sink down onto his length, gasping as the feeling of every hot, hard, vast ridge of him stretching you open deliciously.

The intense feeling of being split open, paired with the teasing way he had fingered you, and his digit now circling your clit, makes you come embarrassingly fast.

You moan out Matt’s name loudly, walls fluttering erratically around his twitching cock and you start grinding your hips against him as you chase your pleasure.

“Oh fuck baby, that’s it, let me hear you, missed your pretty sounds so much, missed your pretty voice, your pretty heart beat” Matt babbles between deep groans at the feeling of you tightening impossibly around him, already drawing him closer to his orgasm than he would like.

Matt hates going even a day without sinking some part of himself in between your thighs.

His last little bit of self control had finally snapped, and he starts eagerly fucking up into you, while he holds your hips tightly with one arm, other hand coming to tangle in your hair at the back of your head holding you to him tightly. The mouth watering size of his cock always sets every nerve alight within your clenching walls.

With lethal accuracy, his cock is hitting the sweet spot inside of you every time, every intense roll of his hips is sending you closer and closer to oblivion.

His actions cause you to cry loudly, your orgasm not completely finished, and you’re unable to do anything other than moan and whine for him, taking what he’s so eagerly giving you.

He fucks up into you hard and fast, feet planted into the mattress as he tries to pull out every little sound he physically can from you.

You’re a wreck above him, crying out his name and incoherent babbling, drooling into his neck, biting occasionally when you have half a mind to worry about the neighbours. Every time your teeth sink into his flesh, his hips rock into you just that little bit harder, earning a rough sound from his lips.

The nails on your fingers bite into his shoulders and chest, where you desperately use the very last of your brain power to avoid his injuries.

Matt’s moaning and grunting his pleasure too, desperately willing himself not to come just yet, wanting to hear your perfect sounds, feel you exactly like this, for as long as possible.

You go to lean up, pushing yourself up with your hands on his body, wanting to watch him like this, but you accidentally press on one of the deeper wounds on his sternum.

Your wide eyes meet his matching, shocked expression, as he suddenly moans out “fuck” loudly, followed by a quick babble of “wait, wait” then finally a kind of defeated “shit.”

A rough, deep groan spills from Matt’s mouth as his hips stutter, before thrusting up into you hard enough to tip you back into his sweaty, firm chest.

You manage to catch yourself on your hands, and watch in fascination as his face contort in pleasure as his orgasm rips through him uncontrollably.

You feel his cock twitching deep inside you as he comes, filling you with his load as he keeps trying to push himself deeper through the waves of pleasure.

As he comes down from his surprising high, you bite your lip to hold off a small giggle.

Matt hears it though, of course he does. He huffs and cracks one unfocused eye open and it stops at your mouth, the source of the sound.

“You really are such a masochist Matty” you giggle playfully, smiling as you run your fingers through his sweaty hair.

Suddenly you’re flipped, back pressed against the mattress before you even realise what’s happening, and Matt is on top of you, caging you in.

“Maybe I am a masochist, but unfortunately for you, I’m a sadist too” Matt all but growls in your ear, pressing his still rock hard cock against your sensitive core, catching your clit, before starting to kiss and nibble his way down your flushed body.

You gasp and bite your lip at his sudden change in demeanour, humming at the feeling of his lips on your skin. Your hands tangle in his hair and tighten up enough to pull a groan from Matt when his teeth press into your skin, leaving his marks behind. He’s going lower, and lower.

By the time you’re both falling asleep, the sun has started to rise, light streaming in through the curtains, casting a golden hue over both of your breathless, sweaty, satisfied bodies.

you whimper and arch yourself off the bed. he's still going so fast and hard for someone who's been going so long. you weakly grab at his biceps for some form of support, but it only takes a second for your arms to fall back onto the mattress.

"frank..." you whine, your face contorting with pleasure, "fuck, fuck, fuck."

he watches you with lidded eyes. a deep puff of air seeps from his lungs at the sight of you beneath him.

"i know, baby. i know. you're taking it so well. being so brave for me," he praises, voice rumbling with a hint of teasing.

you want to think of a response equally as mocking, but you just can't. not when he's fucking the thoughts right out of your head.

you squirm a little as your breathing turns to panting. you just wanna find a little relief from the onslaught of ecstasy his dick is beating into you.

he won't have it though. he tugs you sharply by the hips. a loud, embarrassing squelch comes from between your legs. you squeal in response. you try to writhe some more, but the closer angle keeps you pinned beneath his weight. your eyes roll back and you actually think you might pass out for a few seconds.

he reaches down with one of his hands, slotting his fingers against your clit. the thick digits swipe against the sensitive bundle of nerves in rapid strokes. more strangled moans erupt from your throat. you clutch at the sheets for some reprieve but it doesn't work.

but then you start to feel something different in the pit of your stomach. you cry out, and your eyes flutter as you try to register it. the tip of his cock is just pounding up into that sweet, spongy spot inside of you. it feels kind of like you might piss yourself if you're honest. the rapid hammering of his length combined with the rubbing of his fingers has you losing control.

panic surges through you at the thought. reaching up, you try to tap at his chest and alert him, but you can't get the words out and he's lost in his own bliss. your mewls become more choked. your muscles tense up. you try desperately to hold back, but you can feel yourself approaching it whether you like it or not.

"fuck! i'm gonna cum, i'mgonnacum, i'm gonna-" you say, words slurring together.

he just keeps up his efforts. "go 'head, sweetheart. cum again for me. let it all out," he rasps.

with one more deep push of his hips, you shriek. your vision blacks out as your head snaps back against the pillows. you spasm like you're possessed. your body jerks and twitches beneath his. it's all instinct though. your conscious mind turns off for a few minutes.

vaguely, you feel the warmth of his release flood your insides for another time. you feel his thrusts begin to slow and his noises grow less frequent. both of you are huffing breaths in.

you come to as he slips out of you. you whine, the feeling of emptiness jarring after so much stimulation. but then he lets out a low whistle and chuckles. you pop your head up, confused about the noise. he looks down at you with a lazy smile and shakes his head.

"what?" you ask.

"you made a real mess of me, baby. that's what," he teases.

your brows furrow. you still don't understand. you're about to ask him what's that supposed to mean before you notice how his abs shine, how they drip with a clear fluid you can only assume came out of you. that's when you realize what happened.

your eyes widen. heat creeps up into your cheeks.

"what's that look for?" he asks, amused by your shyness.

"nothing... i just didn't know i could do that," you say.

"oh, you've never done that before?" he asks. a cocky look fills his eyes as he leans forward to peck your lips. "only for me, huh?"

you nod while looking into his eyes.

"well it's not gonna be the only time," he teases and nuzzles his nose against yours. he gives you one more kiss before rising off the bed and tugging you by the ankle in that direction. "c'mon, messy girl. let's get you cleaned up."

As good as you looked in that dress, you could not fathom the idea of wearing a date night-esque dress first thing in the morning when all you wanted to do was lounge around. So you hop out of bed and find an old band t-shirt in franks draw. It’s old and tattered with a frayed hem line that just covers your ass. You pull it over your head and walk out into the kitchen.

“Morning Frankie” you hum, remnants of sleep still laced in your voice. “Mornin honey, coffees almost ready” he gruffs out, back still turned to you as he pours your cup. As he turns to hand you your mug he freezes, his eyes rake your body from your feet to your eyes. He feels his length stiffen a little at the sight of you, sleepy eyes, tousled hair and your soft body in his t-shirt, the way he could see the outline of your nipple and how it stopped perfectly at the start of your thighs, how you looked so... his. Yep, this is probably his favourite version of you.

You rub your feet together, somewhat nervously. Wondering if he was mad that you went through his things to get the shirt "I-sorry I hope this is okay, I just didn't want to wear my dress" you say softly clasping your hands together in front of you not realising how the motion pushed your breasts together creasing the fabric of the t-shirt between them. He feels a fire in his gut "s'more than okay" he huffs out trying to get his brain to stop short circuiting.

Placing the mugs down he walks forward, his hands gravitate to your hips before they slide backwards, rubbing slow circles over the swell of your ass under the shirt. His lips meet yours placing a soft kiss "maybe you should forget your clothes all the time" he whispers with a smile into your lips "hmm you like?" you smile back. "Oh yeah baby, I really like" he nods, his lips on yours again with a deeper kiss as his hands slide further down under the curve of your ass to hike you up wrapping your legs around his waist.

steven grant⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★

“love” / “sweetheart” / “darling”

Sleeps like a princess,, If you try to wiggle in, he’ll instinctively wrap you up with him in all the warm blankets

Talks in his sleep usually about random museum facts, book plot points, or mumbled “I love you”s that make your heart melt at 3 a.m.

He’s a cuddler through and through. Will absolutely wake up and panic if you’re not in bed, even if you just went to the bathroom.

Soft snores,, Sometimes you have to poke him to make sure he’s still alive because it’s that soft.

Can’t fall asleep unless you’re there. He gets fidgety without your weight beside him, muttering, “Where’s my girl, then?”

marc spector˖ ࣪⭑

“babe” / “doll” / “baby”

Sleeps flat on his back like a soldier. Arms crossed or straight down like he’s ready to bolt if needed.

Has trouble sleeping through the night,, when he does sleep, it’s deep, but you’ll sometimes wake to find him sitting on the edge of the bed just staring into the dark.

If you roll onto his chest, it calms him down instantly. He’ll instinctively wrap an arm around you and mumble, “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Doesn’t snore, but he clenches his jaw in his sleep. You’ll sometimes have to massage it softly to ease him out of nightmares.

His version of cuddling is possessive. A hand on your hip. A leg slung over yours. A protective weight that says mine even in sleep.

jake lockley. ݁₊ ⊹

“mi vida” / “corazón” / “nena”

Sleeps on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other firmly wrapped around your waist. If you try to move? Good luck.

He does snore but it’s low and rhythmic, almost like a purring engine. You get used to it fast.

Warmest body of the three. He radiates heat like a human furnace. Perfect in winter, but in summer its baadd.

Will not admit it, but he loves when you sleep in his shirts. Wakes up in the middle of the night just to pull you closer and whisper “so pretty for me.”

Steven Grant ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Steven’s cheeks flush instantly when you settle yourself on his lap mid-reading session. One minute he’s softly mumbling facts about ancient Egyptian love poems, and the next, he’s holding the book mid-air with his brain buffering like a Windows 98 computer.

“U-uhm… did you, I mean—do you want more room? I can—”

You shush him with a smile, curling into his chest.

He melts.

His hands hover awkwardly before finally resting lightly on your hips. You swear he’s trembling just slightly, trying so hard to stay respectful while also completely losing it inside.

“Right, yes, lap is… available. Entirely yours. Always.”

You lean in close to whisper something teasing in his ear, and the poor man makes a noise. Something between a whimper and a gasp. He’s not going to recover.

Marc Spector⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

You straddle his lap after a sparring session—sweaty, smug, victorious (even though you technically lost). He’s still catching his breath, hands on your thighs like they belong there, giving you that signature “I know exactly what you’re doing” smirk.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gritty, eyes dark with heat. “You keep climbing into my lap like that, and you’re gonna get more than just a breather.”

You arch a brow, challenging him. “Promise?”

He grins—wolfish, cocky.

Big hands slide over your waist like he owns it, like he’s memorized you a hundred times before.

“Don’t tempt me unless you’re ready to cash in.”

And yeah. You might’ve been planning to tempt him all along.

Jake Lockley ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You don’t even ask, you just drop into his lap in the backseat of the cab after a long night, unbothered by the leather and the dim glow of city lights. His arms wrap around you before you even settle, possessive and easy, like this is second nature.

Jake leans in close, breath warm against your ear.

“Mi cielo… you know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”

You hum innocently, letting your hips shift just enough to feel the sharp inhale he tries to hide.

His gloved hand slides up your back, slow, firm. You can feel the tension in him, the restraint. He could flip the script in a second, and you both know it.

“You sit in my lap like you own it, cariño.”

You grin. “Don’t I?”

His smile is dangerous.

You were not normal. Totally nuts probably. You were the silly, naive female lead in the movie where she ignores every major red flag in the guy who started flirting with her, and said yes when he asked her out on a date. Then said yes again. And again. And again. 

But Jake Lockley wasn’t like that. Men with red flags don’t point out that they have red flags.

And Jake was honest with you from the beginning. Okay, not exactly from the beginning, but from probably the fourth date.

He said he had two alters. He’s sharing his body with two other men. That’s why sometimes you don’t hear about him for days.

He could be lying. He could have a family and maybe you are just the sidechick.

But you decided to trust him. He was nothing but a gentleman so far. He brought you flowers. He picked you up from work when he was able to. Took you out on dates when he had the body. Held the doors open for you. Who wouldn’t fall for all of this?

You never met a man like him and you thought that there must be a catch. And there was, but you decided that it was worth it.

He said the system that he was a part of was delicate. In time, he will introduce you to his alters, when all of you are ready. But truth be told, you met Jake way before Marc and Steven did. 

Jake had insecurities when it came to his existence and he never really knew where he belonged in the big scary world. But you made him feel real, made him feel connected. You were a place he could come home to and your arms were the blanket that shielded him from everything he wasn’t ready to face yet.

You were patient, and caring, you were his friend and his lover. Even when he had doubts about himself he never had doubts about you.

So when he dropped down on one knee in front of you in a fancy restaurant while you celebrated your one year anniversary, it felt right.

Your yes was the most confident answer he ever had to a question.

“We probably won’t be able to go on a long honeymoon.” - Jake admitted in a whisper after he put the ring on your finger and pulled you in for a deep kiss, then a warm hug.

“Everyday with you feels like honeymoon to me.” - you smiled warmly at him and pulled back a little to kiss him again.

“I love you. I love you, carino. I wish I could put it into words how much I love you.”

You smiled slyly and ran your forefinger softly across his jawline.

“Maybe if you’re that bad with words, you could show me after dinner.”

Jake chuckled and buried his face into your neck as he lifted you up to spin you around once.

“I’ll be more than happy to, muneca.”

-----

Six months later you got married. You didn’t want a big ceremony, and Jake didn’t really have a family, so it was only yours and your closest friends. You celebrated in a very elegant hotel’s restaurant and had an amazing party on the rooftop. Everything was perfect and you never felt happier. 

Jake of course didn’t want to rob you of a real honeymoon. He let Marc and Steven have the body for most of the time for weeks after the wedding and he only visited you during the nights when the other two were asleep. He was back in their flat by the morning so his headmates won’t suspect anything.

In the meantime, he mentally prepared himself to take the body for five days straight.

Marc and Steven will be confused as hell once he lets them front again, but Jake deserved this, you deserved this, so it will happen and even you couldn’t change his mind when you asked him if it was a good idea and wanted to convince him that a silly honeymoon wasn’t as important as his mental health.

But it was for his mental health.

He was a husband now and his duty was to make his wife happy and keep her satisfied.

So that’s what he did. 

He never took so many pictures in his entire life than when he was on the Canary Islands with you. You were radiating with happiness the entire time and your joy was infectious. When you were happy Jake was happy and taking you here was worth every penny. Even if he was stressing himself out every night, fearing his control of the body would slip out his hands during the nights. But if Marc managed to control Steven during his sleep, Jake will be able to do it too. He practiced it in the past, and he will do everything in his power to keep the reins.

Your pout was cute when you arrived back in New York so he promised you he will take you on a vacation somewhere nice every year. He didn’t miss your grateful, but concerned look as you caressed his cheek with your thumbs, gently brushing them over the dark circles under his eyes.

“Take as much rest as you need, Jake, okay? This was the most wonderful week of my life, so thank you.” - you pulled him in for a kiss. - “You’re taking such good care of me. But I want you to take care of yourself too, alright?”

He nodded then he touched his forehead against yours.

“I just wish I didn’t have to leave you so many times.”

“You are not leaving me, baby. You’re just taking small breaks… from dealing with my ass.” - you joked, even if in reality he was dealing with his alters’.

“Mi amor, your ass is a burden I will gladly carry.” - he murmured against your lips as he squeezed your asscheeks playfully.

-----

Jake knew he had to reveal himself to Marc and Steven now. He was married now and if he wanted to give you a somewhat normal life, his alters had to at least know about your existence. 

The boys took his introduction quite well. Better than he expected. They were suspicious of a third alter lurking in the body, so when Jake revealed himself they were more relieved than upset.

But Jake didn't know what he got himself into. If he was afraid of the hierarchy of the system before, that was nothing compared to the way his headmates treated him now.

It was everybody’s worst nightmare.

He technically became the youngest sibling.

“Let’s order a pizza.” 

‘We Brits always get bullied for our terrible food choices and here you are Marc, always wanting to eat a bloody pizza.’

‘How about burritos?’ - Jake suggested.

“hOw AbOuT bUrRiToS? How about you let the grown men decide?” - Marc said, grabbing his phone to open a food app.

Jake growled annoyed.

‘I’m technically as old as Steven.’

‘Nah, mate, I’m like 5 minutes older than you.’

‘Me estás bromeando?! You two act like fucking 5 years olds I swear to god.’

“Aww, look at who’s throwing a hissy fit.” - Marc taunted.

‘I’m not!’

‘You are.’

‘Am not!”

“You are.”

Jake had enough and forced himself to the front.

“Ehehehe.”

‘Hey what the fuck? We don’t do that here!’ - Marc yelled.

“Gonna cry?” - Jake asked as he searched for the place that sells the best burritos in town.

‘I don’t get any respect in this body.’

‘Maybe if you wouldn’t act like you’re the boss of this body.’ - Steven said annoyed.

‘I AM the boss of this body! I’m the original!’

“What are you trying to say? We’re just cheap copies of you?”

‘Duh! Lamer and less handsome!’

‘Jake? Order a protein shake for the gymbruv, will you? Maybe he’ll calm down.’

‘You take his side, Steven? You’re teaming up against me? Little shits, both of you.’

“Don’t worry hermano, I order a Hawaiian pizza for you.”

‘EWWW!’

-----

Introducing you next took a little bit more time. Jake was afraid of two things: the boys won’t like you. Or the boys will like you too much.

You were his wife. If Marc and/or Steven don’t like you, Jake of course won’t divorce you. But what if they want to date too? What if you saw his body walking on the street with another person hand in hand?

He didn’t think this through. You should’ve met the others before he proposed to you. But you made him so happy and you said yes so eagerly. It was so perfect. But what if…?

“Talk to me, Lockley.” - you said when you saw him start spiraling.

He shook his head, nervously, but then looked up at you from the couch.

“I love you, you know that right?”

“I know. And I love you too.”

“But what if they don’t? What if they wanna see someone else?”

“Well, that someone else has to get through me first. I was here first. If Marc or Steven wanna date someone else I respect that. But they have to respect that you have someone for yourself too.” - you climbed in Jake’s lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. - “And you can be sure as hell that I ain’t going nowhere.”

“Muneca…” - Jake growled as he pulled you closer then kissed you. - “You’re hot when you’re possessive.”

“What about you? What if I meet them and they like me?”

“I’m gonna make sure they remember that you were my wife first.” - he kissed you deeply, licking into your mouth greedily then sucking on your lips as he pulled away.

“Papi… you’re hot when you’re possessive.”

-----

“Really?!” - you asked excited, eyes shining brightly.

Jake said that he still wasn’t quite ready for you to meet the guys, but he was ready to compromise. He told you where Steven worked so you could take a look at him, and observe him, so when you meet him officially, you won’t be meeting a total stranger. If you feel positive about the meeting you can do the same with Marc.

But seeing your radiating smile he knew the only thing he had to worry about is his headmates actually wanting you for themselves. If Jake can’t resist you, there’s no way the other two can. They’re gonna be all over you and Jake will have to fight for every second of alone time with you.

This was confirmed after Steven couldn’t shut the fuck about a woman he saw in his group as he was guiding the people through the museum. According to him she is the prettiest girl he had ever seen and her smile brightened his day. Unfortunately, he saw a wedding ring on her finger so he decided against going over to her to talk, before he made a fool out of himself.

‘You should’ve gone for it, buddy. Maybe the ring wouldn’t have stopped her.’

‘Andate a la concha de tu madre!’ - Jake hissed out of reflex.

‘Huh?’

Jake froze. He had to remind himself that while Marc was talking about you, he didn’t know he was talking about you. 

‘I mean… maybe you watch too much porn, hombre. Not every married person is out there to cheat.’

‘And how would you know that?’

‘I uh… read it.’

‘Uhuh. Okay. Well, you can never know. Maybe she is for the streets.’

‘Vete a la mierda!’

‘Seriously, Jake, what the fuck?’

-----

After having to endure Steven’s daydreams about you - which Jake should take as a compliment, really, but at the same time he is still having fantasies about doing the dirty with his wife - Jake was a bit more reluctant to tell you where Marc worked as a security guard.

“Ooohhh, are you afraid he can steal me from you?” - you teased.

Jake snorted.

“Yeah, right. Emotionally unavailable is just your type.”

“Maybe I like challenges.”

“Maybe Marc likes to fuck and dip.” 

“Maybe he just needs a proper wifey who keeps him satisfied.”

“Maybe my proper wifey should keep me satisfied.” - he grabbed your wrist and pulled you to him as you giggled.

“Maybe if my hubby gives me the address I need, I’ll let him do nasty things to me.”

“Maybe if my wife let me do nasty things to her, I’ll give her the address she needs.”

You pouted, but kissed him. 

“You’re sexy when you don’t give in so easily.” - you murmured against his lips as your hands slid down his torso to unbuckle his belt.

“You’re sexy when you do.” - he smirked, watching as you sank down to your knees.

-----

“I’m telling you, guys. She was eyeing me the whole time.” - Marc said between bites as he was eating his lunch at their flat.

‘Did you talk to her?’ - Jake asked. He knew his headmate didn’t, you already spoke to him about what happened when you went to the coffee shop near Marc’s workplace.

“Didn’t have the chance. She was in the other line, and there were quite a lot of people between us. But she had a wedding band too, like Steven’s girl.”

‘Maybe she was staring at you, because she thought you were me and she recognized us from the museum.’

“What did she look like?” 

Steven gave a description about your appearance. 

Marc gulped down the food.

“That’s her.”

Steven smiled brightly and hopefully.

“She’s married, buddy.” - Marc reminded him.

‘And since when do you care about that?’ - Jake asked with an eye roll.

“Steven does.” - he pointed to their headmate in a nearby mirror’s reflection.

Steven had a sad pout on his face. His shoulders sagged and he fiddled with his fingers, a habit he did unconsciously when he was anxious or sad. 

‘I don’t know how long I can go like this.’ - he admitted.

Jake and Marc looked at him concerned.

“Like what?”

‘Without a girlfriend.’

Jake looked at Marc and the latter sighed.

“Listen, buddy. I’m gonna be honest with you. I don’t think there is someone out there for us. I mean… look at us. We’re a package deal.”

‘We will never know if we don’t try!’ - Steven tried to reason.

“What if I don’t wanna try?”

‘Don’t tell me you don’t want someone here who waits for us when we come home after work. Or don’t want someone to lay down next to in the evenings. Or wake up next to in the mornings. Or hold their hand while we walk? Cuddle while we watch the telly?’

“I never said I don’t want that, Steven. I’m saying there’s a thin chance we ever get to experience that.”

‘Give me the body.’

Marc narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but let Steven have the control.

He pulled out his phone, opened the app store and searched for Tinder. 

Jake’s eyes widened.

‘What are you doing?’

“Getting us a date.”

‘Whoah, okay, let’s wait a minute, you didn't even ask me…’

“Why? You don’t want a girlfriend?”

‘I uh… I uh…’

‘Jake is right. We have to talk about this first. You wanna put everything on our profile? Like… everything?’ - Marc asked, gesturing to the three of them.

“Why not? That way only the ones who are really interested will message us.”

‘I’m not sure about this…’ - Marc admitted.

“Well, I am.” - Steven said, hitting download. - “We’re 38 years old. Sorry that I’m trying to be happy. I know being single works for you, but it doesn’t work for me. And you’re not alone in this body.”

‘Steven. Don’t open that app.’ - Jake warned.

Steven opened it.

‘Delete it. I’m serious!’ - Jake said more aggressively.

“Sorry! I can’t hear you! I’m too busy setting up our profile!” - Steven said, typing fast.

Jake growled, and forced himself to the front. Steven’s eyes rolled back and suddenly he was locked inside.

Jake deleted it.

‘What the fuck, mate?!’

“We don’t need a fucking girlfriend!” - Jake yelled, frustrated.

‘WHY?!’

“Because we’re already married!”

The boys froze.

Then Marc shook his head. 

‘I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I think I heard you say that we’re married.’

Jake looked at the reflections in the mirror with a serious look.

“I am.” 

Marc started laughing in disbelief. Steven was still frozen with a shocked look.

‘And when did this happen?’

“Three months ago. I proposed to her six months before that. On our one year anniversary.”

Marc and Steven’s jaws dropped. That was way before they even met Jake.

“I met her in a restaurant. She owns it. She sometimes helps the staff when it’s a busy shift. That’s how I met her. She waited my table a few times. I was lonely and she was always so nice. Listened to me when I thought I had no one to talk to. And… one day I asked her out. I still don’t know how I got the courage. But… she said yes and the rest is history.”

They boys remained silent for a long time.

‘Wow…’ - was all that Marc could say.

A smile slowly appeared on Steven’s face.

‘A… wife? You’re married? We’re married?’

“I’m married.”

‘We have a wife?’

“I have a wife.”

‘Yeah… until you tell her about us. Good luck with th-’

“She already knows about both of you.” - Jake cut Marc off.

The boys froze again.

“And you both already met her, actually.”

‘We did? WHEN?!’ - Steven asked, trying to remember.

Jake walked to the bedroom, opened his drawer and pulled out a little box. He opened it and Marc and Steven’s eyes widened as Jake put on his wedding ring. When Jake looked up into the mirror with a smirk, they realized.

‘IT’S THE WOMAN FROM THE MUSEUM AND THE COFFEE SHOP?! PLEASE TELL ME WE’RE MARRIED TO THE WOMAN FROM THE MUSEUM?!’ - Steven asked with an excited smile.

Jake chuckled. 

“Sí. She’s my one and only.”

‘Wow… no wonder she eyefucked me.’ - Marc said.

“She didn't.” - Jake narrowed his eyes.

‘She licked her lips when she looked at the curve of my ass.’

Jake winced a bit.

“Well, yeah, okay, she does that.”

‘Wifey was hungry.’

“Don’t call her that.”

‘Why? She’s married to us.’

“To me. She’s married to me. She didn’t even talk to any of you.”

‘But she knows about us. Knows about the package deal. Meaning when she said yes to you, she also said yes to us.’ - Marc smirked.

‘He’s right Jake. Let us meet her.’

“Now wait a minute-”

‘No! I can’t believe you managed to hide her from us for so long!’ - Steven pointed a finger at him.

Jake huffed as he crossed his arms.

‘Orrr, you’re full of shit.’ - Marc accused.

“Que?”

‘Prove it that she’s our wife.’

Jake lifted his hand and pointed at his wedding ring with the other.

‘That’s just a ring. Show us a picture of her. Where she’s with you.’

Jake pulled out his phone, unlocked it, opened the gallery, then closed it immediately.

‘What?’

“Uhhh… maybe there are pictures I don’t wanna show you… yet.”

Marc and Steven looked at each other confused, then they realized. They started giggling.

‘Come on, buddy, she’s our wife, right? We’re gonna see everything sooner or later…’

“I don’t want to show you without her permission.”

‘He’s right, Marc. I don’t want to upset her.’

“Can you guys… not look for a sec? I'm gonna put them in a folder real quick, then I’ll show you the rest.”

‘Finnneee.’ - Marc sighed. - ‘Are there videos too?’

‘Marc!’ - Steven scolded him.

“Yep.” - Jake confirmed.

‘Cool.’ - Marc smirked.

Jake spent long minutes moving the pics and videos.

‘Jesus, you guys are that nasty?’

“What can I say? The camera loves her.”

Steven and Marc chuckled, then when Jake gave them the green light, they focused on the phone.

First he showed them some casual photos, from the time when you two started dating. Most of them were selfies you or Jake took, where you both were smiling to the camera. On some of them Jake was kissing your cheek or you acted like you wanna bite him. 

On some of them you were alone, with Jake holding your hand. You were smiling warmly at the camera and your engagement ring was shining brightly in the elegant restaurant’s lights.

Then there were the wedding photos. All of them were taken by a professional and they were beautiful. Steven audibly marveled at your dress and the way you looked. He would be lying if he said seeing you and Jake - his body - together like this didn’t affect him. As a couple. As bride and groom. As wife and husband. It was everything he ever dreamed of. He was just sad he didn’t witness any of it.

Marc was very quiet, but Jake and Steven could tell he was laser focused on every detail - both on what was on the pictures and what Jake was telling them. 

It felt surreal seeing himself like this. It wasn’t really him, but at the same time it was. He could see that Jake was tearing up as he watched you walk down the aisle and Marc wondered what he felt in those moments, what thoughts were racing inside his head. He wondered if he could ever experience them himself.

There were photos of the reception. Of you two cutting up the wedding cake and serving them to the guests, of your first dance and the party you had after.

“There are videos too, but they are on a pendrive. It’s in her flat.”

‘Do you think she’ll let us watch them?’ - Steven asked. 

“Of course, Steven. I know I hid myself and her from you for a long time, but she knows a lot about you two. She cares about both of you just like I do.”

‘Why did you wait so much to reveal yourself to us?’ - Marc asked quietly. It was like he was afraid his voice would break if he spoke louder.

“I don’t know. I was afraid I guess. I saw you guys were very out of it when Steven learned about you. I didn’t want to cause a bigger mess. Then when you got comfortable with each other I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

‘You’re just as important, Jake. I hope you can see that now.’ - Marc said and Steven nodded along.

Jake smiled.

“I know. She’s the reason I wasn’t so lonely, though. It’s hard to connect with the world when you don’t know where you belong in it. But she helped me figure it out.” 

‘I’m glad you had her.’ - Steven said.

Jake started fiddling with his phone and bit his lower lip repeatedly. 

“You can too, you know.” - he finally said.

When neither of them reacted, he elaborated.

“We talked a lot about you guys. I obviously didn’t tell her everything about us. Like… what caused Marc’s DID and stuff. But she knows we’re a system and I told her about you both. What you’re like, what you do, what your hobbies are, favourtie food, you know, general stuff. And the reason you both saw her was because she wanted to meet you. I wanted to tell you about her then introduce her, but I wanted her to see you first. So when she meets you for the first time she won’t be meeting total strangers. We talked about your reactions too. That maybe you won’t like her or something. She’s okay with that. She says it’s okay if you start dating others. But she’s not gonna leave me. So if you do start dating someone else, she expects you to be honest with them and tell them about her and I. And I expect the same. I’m in love with her. I wouldn't have married her if I wasn't. So if someone has anything against her, they’re gone. I don’t care if you like that or not. She’s my wife. A random chick can’t come before her.”

‘That’s totally reasonable. I understand and respect it.’ - Steven said.

Marc was silent for a while before he spoke and Jake let him sort his thoughts out.

‘What if we like her, though?’

“I mean… we talked about that too. And she prefers that version.”

‘What about you?’

“Me too, obviously. I hate the thought of her having to watch you kiss someone else.”

‘What about you having to see her kiss us?’ 

“Guys, I know we like to annoy each other and give each other hell, but contrary to popular belief I love both of you. And I want you to be happy.”

Marc and Steven smiled, then their lips transformed into smirks.

‘Sooo, when can we meet her?’

-----

You were sitting on your couch, scrolling through Instagram reels with the TV on in the background on a late afternoon when you heard a knock on your door.

You smiled brightly when you saw through the peephole that it was Jake, holding a huge bouquet of red roses.

“Oohh, what did I do to deserve this?” 

“Hello!” - he waved at you and before he could answer you grabbed him by his collar and pulled him inside, shutting the door loudly.

“You’re the best husband, you know that?” - you said just before you kissed him.

You felt him jump, but you ignored it and wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

As your breasts pushed up against his chest, your fingers got lost in the hair on the back of his head, and you moaned into the kiss, you felt him melt against you and one of his arms wrap around your waist to keep you close.

‘Damn, does she greet you like this everytime?’ - Marc asked.

‘Mostly. When I don’t piss her off with my bullshit.’ - Jake grinned.

‘I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes that her tongue is down Steven’s throat and not yours.’

Jake laughed and it was so loud in Steven’s head that he came to his senses and pulled away.

He had a silly smile on his face while his expression looked like he was hypnotized.

You were grinning wickedly and your hands started caressing his chest.

“Why didn’t you use your keys, silly? Did you lose them? Want me to help you find them?” - you purred as one of your hands slid over his abs then to the pocket of his pants, then…

Steven quickly grabbed your wrist with a breathy chuckle.

“Whoa there, love. Let’s slow down a little, yeah?”

You looked at him silly when you heard his accent, then your eyes widened.

“Oh my God!” - you gasped.

‘There it is.’ - Marc smirked. 

‘I wish we had this on camera.’

“Nice to meet you!” - Steven said dreamily and licked his lips, his eyes moving to yours.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I thought you were my husband!”

“Technically I am.” - he grinned, lifting his hand up. The wedding ring was shining proudly on his finger.

You giggled awkwardly as you stepped back and took the flowers from him.

“Well, uh… thank you for the roses.”

“You’re welcome, love. I’m gonna make sure to buy you more seeing how much you like them.”

You laughed embarrassed again as you walked to the kitchen and started filling a vase with water.

“So, uh… you’re Steven, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice to finally meet you.” - you smiled at him, trying to ignore the fact that one minute ago you were kissing him. Deeply. With tongue. And moaning against him like a whore.

Steven looked at your outstretched hand with a frown.

Yeah, there’s no way he’s gonna greet his wife with a handshake.

He grabbed it to pull you closer and he hugged you tightly. He felt you tense up for a second, but then he sighed relieved when he felt you relax against him and hug him strongly.

When he pulled away after a few seconds, he had a giddy smile on his face again.

“Would you go on a date with me?”

Your eyes widened, and you laughed, surprised.

‘Someone’s impatient.’ - Marc commented.

“I mean… you don’t have to if you don’t wa-mmppfff”

You kissed Steven again. You’re gonna ask questions later.

-----

The date went well.

Steven took you out to a steakhouse right after you met him. He was so patient while he waited for you to get ready. He was a proper gentleman. Jake was too, but he liked to shittalk a lot. That earned him the punishment of his mouth being treated as a seat after. Now that you think about it, maybe he did that on purpose.

Steven was so much of a gentleman that it made you wanna dirty him up. He was so giddy and happy through the whole date. He told you about how Jake finally confessed that he had a wife. The thought of him being afraid of you seeing his face on Tinder made you laugh. Yeah, he knows you’d kick his ass.

You shouldn’t be thinking of riding Steven’s dick right after the first date, but you could see the way he was looking at you. With a mix of adoration, disbelief and barely contained lust.

So that’s how you ended up sitting in Steven’s lap on your bed, with him sucking on your tits and nipples, drooling all over them, while you were rubbing yourself on his hard cock, through your clothes.

The second you kissed him after walking in the apartment, you pushed hím against the door and kissed him deeply. You opened Pandora’s box apparently, because in that second he became shameless. He dragged your shirt over your head and yanked down your bra until your breasts were freed and he immediately attacked them with his mouth. You were sure he wanted to suck your soul out through your nipples, which was okay, because that’s what you’re gonna do later with his cock.

“Pretty, pretty wifey.” - he growled then licked your nipple and started dragging your pants down.

You wondered if Marc had a wife kink since Jake and Steven obviously did.

You got up from his lap to quickly get rid of your clothing and Steven did the same. When you wanted to climb on him again, you saw that his gaze zeroed down on your cunt. Suddenly he pulled one of your thighs over his shoulder and licked your slit, forcing his tongue between your wet lips and he groaned loudly when the tip of his tongue found your hole. He pushed it all the way inside, licking your walls and grabbing your asscheeks hard to pull you closer.

You moaned in surprise and pleasure, throwing your head back with a moan when his nose brushed against your clit.

“Fuck, Steven!”

Your fingers gripped his curls for stability, and you started moving your hips.

Steven lifted his chin, trying to open his jaw wider to make his tongue slip as deep as humanly possible. Your taste and scent were intoxicating and the way you clenched your cunt made his eyes roll back inside his head. He can’t wait to feel it with his cock. He replaced his tongue with one, two then three of his fingers while his mouth possessively sucked on your clit. He teased it with his tongue and he chuckled deeply when it caused you to cry out and pull on his hair so hard that it made goosebumps appear on his skin.

He didn't stop his assault on your pussy until you came all over his fingers and mouth, and he promised you could give him a blowjob next time when you slid down on your knees, but he yanked you up and made you straddle hím impatiently.

“If I don’t come in your pussy, I will die.” - he groaned as he helped you sink down on his cock. - “Fuuuck, love… that’s… fuck, that’s a good wifey, taking it all.”

“Oh, Steven…” - you pulled him in for a kiss and you started riding him slowly. - “You’re so deep, baby, just how I like it.”

“Is that right?” - he asked. One of his arms slid around your waist and the other was holding one of your breasts so he can suck on your nipple greedily, making you whine.

“Yeah… Shit, you’re a hungry one, aren't you?” - you chuckled, seeing how obsessed he was with your boobs.

He only nodded with a drunk expression as he switched to your other breast. He was steadily fucking up into you as you moved your hips back and forth and his tip was prodding that familiar spot only Jake was able to reach before.

When Steven heard you start whimpering he kissed his way up your chest and neck to your jaw, cheeks and mouth. Your nipples must've been sensitive after all the attention he was giving them.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day I saw you in the museum.” - he admitted before he kissed you deeply. 

He felt your pussy clench around him and he groaned, fucking up into you harder.

“I was always afraid that I'd never be able to have a girlfriend. Let alone a wife. With my sleeping problems. With my memory losses. With Marc being a part of me. Then Jake. And when I saw you I remember thinking how much I wished I had someone like you waiting for me at home.”

“Steven…” - you felt your eyes well up with tears, both from the pleasure and the thought of such a sweet man feeling lonely.

“And now here you are.” - his hands grabbed your hips hard, to thrust into you faster. - “Stepping out of my dreams.”

“If you only had known that I was ready to love you from the beginning.” - you whispered sincerely and saw his eyes soften as he let out a quiet gasp. He then shut his eyes tightly, pushed his face into your neck and started fucking into you wildly, cumming into you deeply.

Your own orgasm hit you and you threw your head back with a cry, grinding down on him as hard as you can.

You hugged his neck tightly as you both came down from your highs, and you felt his arms wrap around your waist just as strong.

“Thank you. Thank you.” - he panted softly.

“For what?” - you chuckled.

“For existing.” 

You cupped his face to make him look up at you. There were tears in his eyes and you kissed both of his eyelids.

“In that case, thank you for existing too.”

-----

After cleaning up, you cuddled close to Steven and he smiled as you wrapped your arms around each other.

“I’ve never slept with someone like this.” - he confessed.

“You better get used to it.” - you kissed his nose. - “Fair warning though, I hog the blanket and I snore loudly, so I’m not the best person to experience this with for the first time.”

Steven laughed and pecked your cheek. He loved that finally he had someone he could do that to. Kiss them, hug them, touch them… love them.

“You are. It would be a bit boring if you were too perfect.” 

“You don’t have to worry about that.” - you chuckled quietly and nuzzled his cheek as you closed your eyes. - “I snore when I’m on my back, so just roll me to my side and I’ll stop.”

“Noted.” - he grinned widely, then hummed. - “I don’t know if I snore.”

“You do. Well, Jake does. But it’s quiet. Cute. He told me I sound like a bear. With asthma. After it run a marathon. On a flower field. Which it’s allergic to.”

“Rude!” 

“Right?!”

“Yes. I will defend your honor when I meet him.”

“Well, you never heard me snore.”

“Maybe he’s lying.”

“He made a video of me sleeping once. I don’t think I sounded like a bear.”

“See? I knew it.”

“It was more like an old tractor with an engine problem.” 

Steven laughed out loud, but tried to muffle it by putting his hand in front of his mouth. You giggled too and felt yourself grin widely when he looked at you. He looked so happy, it made your heart feel full.

He kissed your lips lightly and moved closer to you as he hugged you again. You lifted one of your legs over his and he pushed his between yours so you could be as close as possible.

“I don’t know if I will be here in the morning. How did Jake manage to keep you a secret from us? Did he not sleep with you?”

“He usually left after I fell asleep. Then he told me he practiced how to keep control, so sometimes he stayed. Like on our honeymoon.” 

Steven kissed you again, softly.

“You’ll always have one of us here from now on. You don’t have to wake up alone anymore. None of us have to.”

“I like the sound of that.”

-----

Just as Steven promised, you weren’t alone in the morning. But it wasn’t him who was with you.

You opened your eyes after a big yawn, then you turned your head to the side, and smiled when two warm brown orbs looked back at you.

“So I assume the date went well, hermosa.”

“Hello, husband.” - you grinned and rolled over to him to hug and kiss him.

Jake pulled you close then pushed you onto your back and kissed you in a possessive way.

“Does my little wife feel better now that she could finally fuck one of my brothers?”

You chuckled and wrapped your legs around his waist.

“A bit better, yeah.”

“Insatiable.” - he started grinding his hips against yours and you smiled wider when his erection poked your thigh. 

“Maybe you should do something about it. You know the saying. Happy wife, happy life.” - you said in a sultry voice, reaching down and wrapping your hand around his cock.

“Nice way of putting how much of a needy slut you are.” - he growled as he grabbed your neck and forced you to look at him. - “I’m gonna remind you who you first belonged to.” 

Jake pushed your hand away from his cock and while still holding you down by your neck with his other hand, he pushed himself on his knees.

“Open your legs.” - he ordered. - “Wider.”

You whined when you felt a shudder run through you at the sound of his voice. He moved his tip along your folds, teasing your hole and clit.

“Already getting wet. Always a needy mess. A hungry little whore.”

“Jake, please!”

“Begging already? I taught you better than that.” - he spat on your pussy and smeared it all over with his tip.

You moved your hips needily and Jake couldn't help but chuckle seeing how much you want his cock in you.

He slowly pushed inside and looked at your face, smirking when he saw your eyes roll back and a low moan escape your lips.

“That’s better, right? Daddy’s home.” - he murmured as he pulled out a little, then pushed back in, deeper.

“Missed you, daddy.” - you sighed, wrapping your legs around his waist strongly, urging him to go deeper.

He rolled his hips harder and you both moaned deeply when he bottomed out. He leaned down to kiss you.

“Are you sure, muneca? Looks like you had a lot of fun last night.” - he said, and licked the hickeys Steven left all over your breasts. - “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Y…yes.”

“And you still missed me?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm, show me how much.”

He pushed himself up suddenly and stopped thrusting.

When you looked at him confused he clarified.

“Fuck yourself on my cock.”

You licked your lips and put your feet on the mattress, then started moving your hips slowly. Jake watched as your pussy swallowed his cock and he growled deeply. 

“Do you think you can cum like this?”

You nodded and started playing with your clit. Jake felt you get wetter and he had a hard time staying still, but he really enjoyed watching you like this. You were whining needily, but there was a determined look in your eyes. Sometimes you quickened the pace and then slowed down, sighing deeply, and Jake felt his hips start to move too, out of instinct.

“Fuuuuck…” - you moaned deeply and Jake chuckled, seeing how much you enjoyed yourself.

He saw you start to play with your clit faster and your eyes fluttered close.

“Wifey’s gonna cum.” - he growled. - “Go ahead, make a mess on my cock.” - he started thrusting into you hard and you cried out when the pleasure snapped suddenly and an intense orgasm washed over you. Jake followed only seconds later with loud moans and curses.

“Hmmm, good morning.” - he murmured against your neck, making you giggle.

“Good morning.” - you kissed his cheek. - “Gimme a few seconds and I make breakfast.” - you closed your eyes.

“I help you.” - he yawned.

“Okay.”

About two minutes later both of you fell asleep.

-----

A few more days have passed before you met Marc. While he was excited to meet you, he was also a bit anxious, afraid that maybe you won’t like him. But Jake and Steven were different too and yet you were always happy with whoever was fronting. 

And it was easier that Jake already talked about him to you and that you knew about almost everything. He didn’t feel like he has to put on a false act like when he was on other first dates just to impress the women.

Jake came up with the “perfect date” (his words, but he also had a mysterious grin which Marc didn’t like) where Marc and you could get to know each other a little bit better. Marc instantly felt better when Jake said it’s gonna be at your flat (that you shared with Jake) and that it was just watching the upcoming NFL game. Marc liked football and apparently you too. He didn’t have to worry about not being able to find a topic you were both interested in. 

Marc knocked on the door and this time when you opened it, you resisted the urge to jump their body and push your tongue down their throat. He bought you a big bouquet of pink roses and you giddily accepted it with a hug and a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you. You guys spoil me.” - you beamed and Marc blushed.

Blushed!

You quickly put the bouquet into a vase and while Marc sat down on the couch he happily noticed that all of his favourite snacks were on the table along with his preferred beer. 

He grinned widely.

“I’ll be right back, I’ll just change quickly!” - you hurried to the bedroom and when you passed him, you rubbed his shoulder warmly.

“Take your time.” - he looked at the coffee table again, pleased. - “Did Jake tell you what to buy?”

“Yeah! He even gave me a list! He really wants me to impress you.” - you answered from the bedroom, giggling nervously.

“You really don’t have to, sweetheart. You already have me hooked around your little… what in the actual fu-?!”

You grimaced seeing his reaction. You slowly approached the couch, but Marc pointed a finger at you.

“What the hell is that?”

“I’m so sorry!” 

“This is a prank, right?”

“I’m afraid it’s not.”

“No, this can’t be real. Jake set this up.”

“No, this is me. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding me?”

You shook your head, still grimacing.

“I… I… please tell me this is a bad dream.”

You shook your head again.

“Jake married… Jake married… a fucking cheesehead?!” - Marc asked incredulously as he stared at your Green Bay Packers jersey.

“If it makes you feel better, I love Jake despite the fact that he lives with a little Chicago Bear in his head.”

Marc couldn't take his eyes off of your jersey. You were sure he imagined setting it on fire.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Hey-!”

“Not because of… that.” - Marc gestured to the shirt. - “I mean I’m not happy! - he added heatedly. - “But for this!” - he pointed to the table. - “I’m not gonna lie, I was hoping for a little action tonight, but Jake decided that our first date should start with traumatizing me with this info!”

You looked at him annoyed and folded your arms across your chest.

“A little action, huh? What do you take me for? A little slut you can trade among yourselves?”

Marc looked to the floor sheepishly.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting it, obviously. It’s just… you and Steven did it on your first date and…”

“I have dignity.”

“Clearly not since you’re wearing that!”

Your jaw dropped. 

“I’m sorry! It was… the Bear inside me. It just slipped.”

“Fuck you and fuck your bear!”

“You know what? Screw you and your fucking cheese!”

“When I met Jake, him having DID wasn’t a deal breaker for me, but when he told me you’re a Bear fan I considered dumping him!”

“If I had known the woman he planned to marry was a smelly cheesehead, I would’ve hijacked the body on the wedding day and fled to TIJUANA!”

“Go ahead, WINNIE THE POOH!”

“Not before I file for divorce!”

“Go and marry CINDY BEAR!”

“If I’m Winnie the Pooh, how the fuck am I supposed to marry CINDY?!”

“I don’t know, KING FU PANDA!”

“This doesn't make any sense, you’re just randomly yelling out famous bear characters!”

“You can fuck them too for all I care!”

Marc sucked his lips between his teeth to keep himself from laughing. He was mad! Why did he have the urge to laugh? He suddenly snorted, then he shook his head.

“Okay, okay, okay… let’s just… calm down.”

“I was calm before you started shit-talking me!” - you yelled.

Marc winced.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I was just uh… surprised.”

“Duh.”

“Why don’t we just uh… sit down and uh… watch the game? It’s gonna start soon.” - he said as he slowly sat down while gesturing to the other end of the couch.

You narrowed your eyes, but slowly sat down too.

“See? This is nice. Cold beer, favourite snacks, game night… football fan girlfriend… wife… thingy.”

“Thingy?”

“Uuhh…”

“You know what, if I ran into a man and a bear in the woods I’ll just go and find a puma.”

“Okay, now you’re just pissing me off on purpose! I’m trying here!”

You acted like you readjusted your jersey and your hair and you murmured something.

“What?”

More murmuring.

When Marc just stared at you, you huffed dramatically.

“I said I’m sorry!”

“Oh? So you know the word.”

“You started this whole fight with your ‘eww I can’t believe my girlfriend is a cheesehead’ shit.”

“You couldn’t believe that your boyfriend is a Bear fan!”

“But I accepted it!”

“You had a little bit more time.” - Marc said through gritted teeth.

“Okay… you know what? You’re right. You’re trying, I’ll give you that.” - you opened a beer and gave it to Marc, which he cautiously accepted, then you opened one for yourself too. - “Let’s just watch the game in peace and try to enjoy ourselves.”

“Cheers.”

-----

That lasted about twenty minutes, up until the Bears scored the game’s first points. Marc fisted the air with a ‘hell yeah’ and you growled.

“I fucked Jake while he was wearing this jersey.” 

Marc’s head snapped to you.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I told him to try it on and he looked so good in it I had to ride him. Right where you’re sitting.”

“That jersey…” - he pointed at you - “...was on this body?!” - he pointed at himself.

“Yep!”

“You did that on purpose.” - he growled.

“Totally.” - you grinned proudly.

“Okay, that’s it.” - he said as he stood up and finished his beer.

“Aww, poor little baby bear had enough?”

“Yep.” - he slammed the empty bottle on the coffee table then stood up, turned towards you and started unbuckling his belt.

Your eyes widened.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m shutting you up so I don’t have to listen to all that shit that’s coming out of your mouth.” - he said, pulling down his zipper.

Marc saw you squeeze your thighs together. The jersey you were wearing was oversized and reached your thighs, but you were wearing such short shorts under it that Marc first thought you were naked from the waist down. You did that on purpose. He knew you did.

“If you think I’m gonna fuck a Bear fan, you’re mistaken.”

“Who was talking about fucking, baby? You’re gonna suck me off. And if you're doing a good job, maybe you’ll have the privilege of getting fucked into the couch like the slut you are.” 

You stood up too, but before you could say anything, Marc grabbed your elbow, yanked you to him and kissed you.

He felt you freeze and when he thought you’re gonna push him away, you suddenly wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him close.

Jake told Steven and Marc that you could be a feisty one and Marc was more than happy when he saw how easy it was to get under your skin. He didn’t know you were a Packers fan, but half of his shit talk was on purpose. You were hot when you were mad.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing a fucking cheesehead.” - he growled annoyed.

“In good times and in bad, baby.” - you quoted your wedding vows to Marc and he chuckled.

“Maybe if I cum all over this piece of crap you’re wearing I’ll feel better.” - he said as he pushed down his jeans and boxer briefs and you sat back down on the couch and before he could bark out an order, you were already licking his tip then sucking it into your mouth.

Marc hummed and as he lifted his hand to push your hair out of your face, he felt his cock twitch in your mouth when the wedding band on his finger caught his eye.

“Fuck…” - he gently caressed your cheek and your eyes smiled as you swallowed more of him while you leaned towards his palm. - “That’s good, baby. That’s a good girl.” - he couldn’t help but praise you.

When you lifted your hand to wrap around his cock as you pulled back a little and he saw your ring too, he almost whined. He felt himself start to thrust slowly into your hand and mouth.

“You like sucking your husband?” - he asked as he looked into your eyes.

You could see his pupils widen when you hummed and nodded as best as you could in that position. He gasped and groaned as he picked up the pace and one of his hands slipped to the top of your head to grip your hair while his other moved to the back of your neck.

“Can you take me down your throat? Can you do that?”

You relaxed your muscles and you held his hips to make him stop thrusting then you moved your head forward, letting him slip all the way down.

Marc shut his eyes tightly with a low groan and incoherent curses. He then felt your throat squeeze him hard as you made a gagging noise.

“Fuck!” - he pulled back quickly and looked down at you in wonder when you sighed deeply then continued sucking him, setting a faster pace. - “Jake is a lucky bastard.” - he panted and you swore you could hear him whine when you moved your other hand in your shorts and panties. Marc watched you as you caressed yourself while you were sucking him.

“Does it turn you on? Does a cock in your mouth turn you on?” 

When you nodded with a moan, Marc started thrusting again.

“Of course it does. You’re my little whore. Your only job is to keep your husband satisfied.”

He saw your eyes lose focus as your hand started moving faster.

“You dripping, baby? Does my little wife get wet while sucking my cock?”

You nodded with a moan and Marc couldn’t take it anymore. He had to feel it.

He pulled out of your mouth and leaned down to take off your shorts and panties, then he pushed you back on the couch. He towered over you, spreading your knees and pushing them back towards your chest. He bit his lower lip as he caressed your folds, then when he felt how wet you were, he started to push his cock in.

You whimpered at the pressure, and Marc shushed you.

“It’s okay. You took this cock before. Your little pussy is already shaped like it.” - he slowly bottomed out and his eyes fluttered close at the warm and tight feeling. - “Gotta thank Jake that he found such a perfect cunt.”

“Maaarc…!” - you moaned when he started moving his hips. He always pulled out slowly but pushed back inside harder and harder with each thrust.

You moved back and forth on the couch, trying to hold onto something, but the only thing you felt could ground you were Marc’s arms. One of his hands was beside your head and the other was on the back of the couch, keeping himself up. One of he's knees were on the couch too, making a perfect leverage for him to fuck you senseless. 

He felt your nails scratch his skin along his triceps and he leaned down to kiss your neck and ear.

“Feels good?”

“Y…yes!”

“Best cock you ever had?”

“Yes, fuck!”

You tried to rock your hips too, but his thrusts were so rough, you could only take what he was giving you. 

He grabbed your wrist and moved your hand to your lower stomach. Your eyes widened when you felt him there.

“Holy shit, Marc!”

“Have your other husbands found your sweet spot yet?”

You looked up at him in question as you tried to not choke on your own cries.

“What spot?”

“That’s a no then.”

He carefully moved your hand on different parts of your lower belly and mound, putting pressure on them as he fucked you hard and steady.

When you let out a sound even you never knew you could make, his face lit up.

“There we go! There we go, baby. Better hold on tight.” - he warned as he increased the tempo and force and you felt the building pleasure reach deeper into your core, transforming into something even more devastating than the harbinger of the most mind blowing orgasm that you ever experienced. You panicked a little when it suddenly felt like you needed to pee.

“Wait… Marc, wait I need to…!”

“Let go. That’s all you gotta do, sweetheart.”

Even if the pleasure felt fantastic you tried to hold back. You couldn't embarrass yourself right during the first…

You felt another hand start to rub your clit and it sealed your fate.

You succumbed to pleasure and then it snapped.

It came over you with such a force that your own cries sounded like it belonged to someone else. The only other thing you heard was Marc’s possessive ‘fuck yes’, but besides that you could only feel.

The intense pleasure just flew and flew out of you with each wave, until you felt like liquid and collapsed back on the couch like a lifeless doll. You felt Marc’s thrust increase then he pulled out of you and heard him moan as something wet landed on your jersey in quick spurs.

“That was so fucking hot, baby.” - you felt him kiss your cheek lazily, pushing his forehead against your temple. 

His hot breath hit your face as he panted against you. You didn’t have the energy to open your eyes yet, but you wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him close. Marc left several more kisses along your face, giving you time to come back from your high. He caressed your thighs that started to shake and he groaned softly since his softening cock was still inside you and the vibrations were overstimulating both of you.

“Gotta pull out, baby.” 

He shushed you as he slowly pulled out and chuckled deeply when he saw the mess the two of you - mostly you - made.

The couch, the floor, his jeans that were barely pushed down and the thighs of both of you were completely drenched.

“Well, well, well, look at that.” 

You slowly pushed yourself up on your elbows then sat up quickly as you realized what happened.

“Oh my God!” - you gasped. - “I… I… I’ve never done this before!”

“Gotta remind Jake that.” - Marc said smugly as he stood up, and took off his clothes. 

He saw you get embarrassed and he chuckled again. He leaned down and kissed your lips.

“It was hot, baby, don’t feel bad. Did you enjoy it?”

“I, well, it was… intense.” 

“In a good way?”

“Yeah.” - you giggled. - “Except the fear of pissing all over you.”

Marc burst out laughing and kissed you again.

“And how do we feel about this?” - he pointed to your jersey.

You looked down confused and saw that he came all over it.

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter Parker was not used to this. The easy touches, the warmth of your hand against his, the way you leaned into him as if gravity itself was pulling you closer. He had spent so much of his life keeping a careful distance, making sure the people he loved never got too close—because close meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant loss. But you? You never seemed to care about the dangers or the excuses. You curled into his side when he sat on the couch, laced your fingers through his when you walked together, kissed him just because you felt like it. And Peter—awkward, hesitant Peter—was utterly helpless against you.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you pressed your face into the crook of his neck while he worked on his web-shooters, he short-circuited so hard he nearly ruined the entire mechanism. "Uh—babe? Not that I’m complaining, but—is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Oh, we are doing this now. Okay. Cool. No problem. Just—uh, gimme a sec to process." But you never waited for permission. You just kept touching him—soft, constant, reassuring—until eventually, he stopped questioning it and started needing it.

- The first time he realized just how much he needed it was after a particularly brutal night. A fight that left his body aching and his mind even worse. He barely made it through the window before you were there, wrapping yourself around him like you knew. And suddenly, everything that had been clawing at him—the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—dissolved. He didn’t say a word. He just held you tighter, buried his face in your hair, and breathed.

- Now, Peter craves it like oxygen. He reaches for you before he even realizes it—pulling you against him in his sleep, hooking an arm around your waist as he scrolls through his phone, nudging his nose against yours just because he can. The world is cruel, unpredictable, dangerous—but your touch? Your warmth? That is something Peter Parker will never take for granted.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony Stark was a man who built walls. Not the kind that crumbled easily under the weight of kind words and patient gestures—no, his were reinforced, designed to keep people out. He had spent years perfecting the art of distance, of making sure no one got too close. But you? You were different. You didn’t knock on the door, waiting for permission—you climbed right over the walls, landed in his space, and stayed. With your hands, your lips, your unwavering need to touch him, to hold him, to remind him that he was not alone.

- At first, it was… jarring. Tony was used to attention, yes, but not this kind. Not the kind that wasn’t expecting something in return. The first time you hugged him—just because—you felt the way his body went rigid, the way his hands hovered awkwardly before settling on your back. "Wow. This is… new. Okay. Hugs. We’re hugging. Cool, cool, cool. No existential crisis here." But you never relented. You pressed into his side when he worked late, kissed the back of his neck when he got lost in his own head, traced absentminded patterns into his palm during meetings. And Tony? He found himself melting into it before he even realized what was happening.

- The real turning point came one night when he woke up gasping, his chest tight, his mind drowning in memories that refused to stay buried. He didn’t even have to reach for you—you were already there, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses against his shoulder, grounding him with your touch. "I’m here," you murmured against his skin, and Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, survivor—broke. He clung to you like a lifeline, burying himself in your warmth, letting himself be held in a way he had never allowed before.

- Now, he seeks it out. He’ll act like he doesn’t, make some snarky remark about "needy girlfriends", but the second you stop touching him? He’s pulling you back in, draping himself over you like the most dramatic man alive. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? My affection quota isn’t filled yet." And if anyone so much as thinks about commenting on it? He just smirks, pulls you even closer, and says, "Jealous? You should be."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve Rogers was a man out of time, a soldier who had spent most of his life with his fists clenched, his mind trained to endure. He was not accustomed to softness, to indulgence, to the kind of affection that did not come with conditions. And yet—here you were. Always reaching for him, always pressing close, always reminding him that he was yours. You kissed the inside of his wrist like it was sacred, ran your fingers through his hair when he let himself relax, curled against his chest like you belonged there. And the truth was? You did.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, he went stiff, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But when you simply hummed, resting your head against his back, something in him unraveled. He exhaled—slow, steady—before covering your hands with his. And that was the moment he realized—this was not something to fear. This was something to cherish.

- The first time he sought it out was after a particularly difficult mission. The kind that left blood on his hands and ghosts in his mind. He came home, exhausted, battered, but the moment you reached for him—he melted. He let himself sink into your arms, let himself need you in a way he rarely allowed himself to. And when you whispered, "I’ve got you," he closed his eyes and believed it.

- Now, it’s second nature. He reaches for you without thinking—pulling you into his lap when you’re both reading, brushing his knuckles against your cheek as he passes by, resting his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re near. Affection is not something he was raised to expect, but with you? With you, it is something he will never stop craving.

Thor

- Thor Odinson is a man of grand gestures, of roaring laughter and earth-shaking love. But when it comes to you—his affection is not just thunderous, but constant. He adores the way you reach for him without hesitation, the way your hands find his in quiet moments, the way your touch lingers as if you cannot bear to be apart for too long. And oh, how he thrives under it.

- The first time you showered him in affection, he grinned—wide, bright, eager. "Ah! My love, you are truly as radiant as the stars!" He embraced you effortlessly, lifting you into the air, delighting in the way you laughed against his chest. He was never one for restraint—if you wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him senseless—he would let you. Encourage you. Because there was nothing Thor loved more than being loved.

- But it was the quiet moments that truly undid him. When you curled against him after a battle, your fingers tracing over his scars. When you pressed sleepy kisses to his shoulder before drifting off. When you simply held his face in your hands, looking at him like he was more than just a god, more than just a warrior. Like he was yours. And in those moments, Thor Odinson—Prince of Asgard, champion of realms—felt human.

- Now, he craves it like a force of nature. He pulls you into his lap without warning, presses lingering kisses to your forehead, wraps his arms around you so tightly you can feel the strength in them. If anyone dares to comment, he simply laughs, throwing an arm around you with a smirk. "Jealous, are we? Ah, but who could blame you? My beloved is irresistible!" Because to Thor, your love is not just something he accepts—it is something he reveres.

Loki

- Loki was not accustomed to tenderness. Affection, in his experience, had always been fleeting—given only in exchange for something, laced with expectation, or worse, manipulation. But you? You gave without asking. You touched without hesitation. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face as if he were something to be studied, not feared. You kissed his knuckles absentmindedly, tangled your fingers in his hair, rested your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Loki—cunning, guarded, untouchable—let you.

- At first, he did not know what to do with it. The first time you cupped his face in your hands, he had gone utterly still, his breath caught between his ribs, waiting for the inevitable trick, the hidden knife. But all you did was smile, tracing the delicate skin beneath his eyes as if he were precious. As if he were yours. And something in him—something ancient, something wounded—cracked apart.

- He is not a man who gives easily, but when he does, he gives completely. Now, Loki seeks your touch like a starving thing—leaning into your warmth as you press against his side, pulling you into his lap without a word, letting your hands wander over him as if to prove he is real. He teases, of course—"Darling, do you find me so irresistible that you cannot keep your hands to yourself?"—but his voice is softer than it should be, his hands tightening against yours as if begging you never to stop.

- And if anyone so much as questions it? If they dare to call him weak for the way he melts beneath your hands? He merely smirks, his arm curling around your waist as he whispers, "Ah, but love, what better trick is there than to make the gods themselves fall to their knees?"

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint Barton had spent a lifetime watching his back, expecting the worst. He was not used to gentle hands, to soft embraces that did not come with conditions or an ulterior motive. He had lived his life running—always moving, always fighting, never letting anyone get too close. And then you happened. You, with your touch that lingered like a second heartbeat. You, with your hands that grounded him when the world spun too fast. You, who reached for him not because you needed something, but simply because you wanted him.

- At first, he brushed it off with humor. The first time you reached for him—grabbing his hand absentmindedly, brushing your lips against his temple—he raised a brow, smirking. "Wow, you just can’t help yourself, huh?" But then he noticed the way he relaxed under your touch. The way the tension in his shoulders eased when you pressed a hand against his back. The way his pulse slowed when your fingers traced lazy circles against his skin. And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore—it was necessary.

- He never asks for it outright—he’s too stubborn for that—but you start noticing the way he lingers. The way he moves closer without realizing it. The way his fingers brush against yours just a little too long before he actually grabs your hand. And when you finally call him on it—"Clint, you like this."—he just huffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get a big head about it." But his grip on you tightens. Because for all his bravado, he’s never letting this go.

- Now, he doesn’t even try to fight it. He pulls you against him when you’re standing still too long, rests his chin on your shoulder, tugs you into his lap with a grin. If anyone makes a comment, he just shrugs. "What? She’s warm." And if you ever stop touching him? If you deny him affection? He’ll groan dramatically, throwing himself onto the nearest surface. "Babe, please. I’m literally dying. Have some mercy."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha Romanoff was not built for softness. She was trained to endure, to resist, to survive—but not to need. Affection had always been a tool, a weapon to be wielded when necessary, but never something meant for her. So when you came along—when you touched her so easily, so freely—she did not know what to do with it. The first time you hugged her, without hesitation, without purpose, she had simply frozen.

- It wasn’t that she didn’t want it—God, she ached for it—but want was dangerous. Want could be exploited. So she told herself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter. But then it kept happening. You would take her hand absentmindedly, lean into her warmth without hesitation, press a kiss to her shoulder just because you could. And she—cold, untouchable Natasha—let you.

- The first time she reached for you, it was barely noticeable—a hand on your waist, a finger brushing against yours. But once she let herself have it, she couldn’t stop. Now, she seeks it. She won’t ask, won’t say a word, but if you sit beside her without touching her, she will fix it. A hand on your knee. A foot nudging against yours. A quiet, steady reminder that she is here. That you are hers.

- And if anyone so much as mentions it? She raises a brow, her expression unreadable. "What? You think I don’t deserve nice things?" Because Natasha Romanoff may not have been made for love, but with you? With you, she is relearning what it means to have it.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky Barnes was a man starved of warmth. For so long, his body had belonged to everyone but him. He had been touched in violence, in control, in suffering—but never in love. Never in a way that asked for nothing. And then there was you. You, with your gentle hands and your stubborn refusal to let go. You, who traced the lines of his palm as if mapping a constellation, who pressed kisses against the cold metal of his arm as if it were worthy of tenderness. You, who reached for him as if he were not something broken.

- At first, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to take it. The first time you pressed your forehead against his, he nearly pulled away. But then you sighed—soft, content—as if this was normal, as if he was normal. And he… let it happen. Just this once.

- But once was never enough. He started to crave it, to need it. Now, he is the one reaching for you—pulling you closer in the middle of the night, pressing his nose into your hair, grounding himself in you. If you so much as walk by, he is grabbing your wrist, tugging you into his lap, resting his chin against your shoulder. He doesn’t ask for it—he just takes it. Because after years of being denied choice, of being denied himself, this is something he chooses.

- And if anyone dares to comment on how much he clings to you? He just gives them a slow, dangerous smile. "You got a problem with the way I love my girl?" Because Bucky Barnes has lost too much already—he will not lose this. He will not lose you.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew Murdock feels you before you even touch him. Your presence wraps around him like a second skin, the scent of you lingers in the air, the warmth of your body radiates inches away. He hears the tiny shifts in your heartbeat before your fingers even graze his skin, the way it quickens ever so slightly before you reach for him. And he loves it—craves it. He is a man made of contradictions, torn between faith and sin, violence and tenderness. But you? You are the one indulgence he does not seek penance for.

- He drinks in every touch like a dying man. Your fingers threading through his hair, the press of your lips against his jaw, the way you trace patterns over his scars as if rewriting his past with something softer. He does not flinch, does not pull away—no, he leans into it, into you. Because for all the things he has lost, all the things he has chosen to lose, this—you—he will hold onto with both hands.

- He lets you guide him in ways he never allows anyone else. You tilt his chin up before pressing a kiss to his lips, brush your nose against his as if memorizing him in your own way. He revels in it, in the way you seek him, the way your affection comes without hesitation. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to reach—because you are always there, grounding him, holding him together when the weight of his double life threatens to break him apart.

- And if anyone ever dares to call it weakness? If they think for one second that loving you makes him soft? He only smirks, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know exactly how lucky I am?” His fingers tighten around yours, thumb brushing against your wrist where your pulse beats steady beneath his touch. “I’d rather be a fool in love than a man without her.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank Castle is not a man built for softness. His hands are meant for war, his body carved from violence, his heart a thing long since buried beneath grief and blood. But then there’s you. You, who touch him with something gentle, something that does not demand or take or wound. Your fingers ghost over his scars as if rewriting history, your hands linger on his shoulders as if reminding him that he is still here. Still alive. Still worthy of being touched.

- He does not know what to do with it at first. The first time you reached for him—cupped his face, pressed your lips to his temple—he went rigid. Not out of fear, but out of something worse. Because he had forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten the weight of tenderness, the way affection could seep into a man’s bones and soften him. And Frank Castle does not do soft.

- But then you kept doing it. You never hesitated, never recoiled from him, never asked before reaching for him as if you knew he needed it before he even did. And soon, he began to crave it. Now, his hands find yours before you even offer them. His arm wraps around your waist instinctively, tugging you close, keeping you there. And when he buries his face in your neck after a long night, when his hands grip your hips like a man desperate to hold on, he does not speak—but you know. You know.

- If anyone ever dares to question why the Punisher—a man feared, a man unstoppable—allows himself to melt beneath your hands? He only levels them with a look that could kill. "You think love makes a man weak? Love is the only thing that ever made me fight harder." And then, without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the world watch.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is a man who takes. He is selfish, greedy, unapologetic in his desires. He is a man who was never given love, who was never taught tenderness. So when you give it to him—freely, without hesitation—it both amuses and terrifies him. You, with your hands always reaching for him. You, with your lips that press against his skin like a promise. You, who touch him not with fear, not with reverence, but with something even more dangerous—affection.

- He lets you do it, of course. Hell, he wants you to do it. He soaks up every touch like an addict chasing his next hit. Your fingers in his hair, your nails scraping down his back, your lips trailing over his scars like a silent claim. He thrives on it, thrives on the way you never shy away, never flinch, never hesitate. It’s a game to him at first—seeing how far he can push you, how much you’re willing to give. But then? Then it becomes something else. Something real.

- He doesn’t like to admit it, but he gets jealous. Not in the way most men do—no, his jealousy is something sharper, something deadly. If someone so much as looks at you too long, if they think they can take what is his, he makes it known that you belong to him. Not with words—words are useless—but with a smirk, a hand curling around your throat just to feel your pulse race beneath his fingers, a kiss so possessive that it leaves bruises.

- And if anyone questions why he allows himself to be loved? Why he lets himself have this? He only grins, something sharp and cruel. “Why wouldn’t I? You ever seen what happens when I want something?” His grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he adds, “And trust me, baby—I want you.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc Spector does not believe in good things lasting. He has lived too many lives, worn too many faces, bled for too many gods to believe in permanence. He is a man who knows how to fight, how to kill, how to survive—but not how to be loved. And yet, here you are. Always touching him, always pulling him closer, always reminding him that he is yours.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it at first. The first time you brushed your fingers across his jaw, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant losing. But you were patient. You never pushed, never demanded—just gave. And little by little, he let you in.

- Now? Now he is desperate for it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, his hands seek you out before his mind even catches up. If he is spiraling, if the weight of his past is too much, he finds solace in your arms, in the press of your lips against his knuckles, in the way you hold him without needing a reason. You ground him. You keep him whole.

- And if anyone ever thinks that loving you makes him weaker? That your touch somehow softens him? He only chuckles, dark and low. “You think love makes a man weak?” His arm tightens around your waist, his grip steady, unyielding. “No, love makes a man dangerous. Because now? Now I have something worth fighting for.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster is a man of reflexes, of calculation, of knowing before it happens. He has memorized a thousand different ways to break a man apart, has studied movement until it is nothing more than muscle memory. And yet, when it comes to you, all of his instincts—his sharp, honed precision—fail him. Because how does one prepare for you? For the way you reach for him without hesitation, for the way your fingers trace the edge of his mask before pushing it away so you can kiss the scarred skin beneath?

- He doesn’t flinch, but he stiffens—not out of rejection, but out of unfamiliarity. He is a man who has lived in the shadows, who has worn a thousand faces but never his own. But you? You do not want his skills, his talents, his ability to mimic the perfect kill. No, you want him, the man beneath the mask, the one no one else has ever bothered to know. And that is something he cannot prepare for.

- At first, he makes it a game—testing you, pushing you, waiting for you to hesitate. But you never do. Your hands are steady, your touch unwavering. You press kisses to his scars as if rewriting the story of how they got there. You run your fingers through his hair like it is something precious, something yours. And slowly, without realizing it, he starts to crave it. Now, if you pull away first, if your touch is missing for even a second too long, he misses it.

- And if anyone so much as questions why Taskmaster—a man feared, a man whose skill is his everything—allows you to touch him so freely? He only smirks beneath his mask, tilting his head. "Because she's the only thing in this world I don’t want to copy—I just want her to be mine.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny Storm is made of fire, of heat, of something too wild to be tamed. He burns bright, so bright, and yet—when you touch him—it does not hurt. He does not let it. You press your fingers to his cheek, and the flames simmer beneath your touch. Your lips graze his jaw, and he melts into you, his hands pulling you close, always close, as if the space between you is unbearable.

- He thrives on your affection. It fuels him like oxygen to a fire, makes him burn hotter, makes him alive. If you so much as brush against him in passing, his arm is already wrapping around your waist, tugging you back into him. If you lean against him while watching TV, he is grinning, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. He is insatiable—not because he needs it, but because he wants it. Wants you.

- And oh, he flaunts it. If someone so much as looks at him the wrong way, he is already pulling you onto his lap, already pressing his lips to your shoulder with a smirk. “Yeah, she’s mine. You jealous?” It is playful, teasing—but underneath it, there is something real, something desperate. Because Johnny Storm has always been adored, has always had fans, admirers, women who wanted the Human Torch. But you? You want Johnny, and that is something he will never take for granted.

- And if anyone thinks that love, that you, make him less? That your touch somehow dims his fire? He only laughs, shaking his head. “You kidding? Love doesn’t make me burn out. Love makes me burn brighter.” And with that, he kisses you—claims you—right there in front of the world, because there is nothing about you he will ever hide.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed Richards is a man of science, of logic, of problems waiting to be solved. He is not one for frivolous things, for unnecessary distractions. And yet—you. You, with your hands that reach for him so easily. You, with your lips that press to his temple as he works, with your fingers that thread through his hair when he has been at his desk for too long. You, who has become something he cannot simply explain, cannot analyze, because love—true, deep love—is not something that fits within the confines of logic.

- At first, he does not know what to do with it. He stiffens when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hesitates when you take his hand in yours. But he is a quick learner. Soon, his fingers find yours before you even offer them. Soon, when you rest your head against his shoulder, he leans into you rather than away. And soon, he realizes that your touch is not a distraction—it is a necessity.

- You do not take offense when he loses himself in his work—you understand him, understand that his mind is constantly moving, constantly racing. And because of that, he makes an effort for you. He sets his tools aside when you tug at his sleeve, lets you press your forehead against his, lets you pull him into your world of warmth and touch and feeling. And over time, he begins to crave it, begins to seek it out rather than wait for you to give it.

- And if anyone assumes that the great Mr. Fantastic has no time for something as simple as love? He only adjusts his glasses, his fingers lacing with yours as he responds, "On the contrary, love is the greatest equation of all.” And then, without hesitation, he kisses you—not because it is logical, but because it is right.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm is a man made of stone, of rough edges, of a body that was never meant to be touched. He has spent years pulling away, avoiding the weight of hands that might recoil, of fingers that might fear what he has become. But you? You never hesitate. Your hands find his without hesitation, your fingers trace the lines of his knuckles, your lips press against his jaw as if he is not a man made of stone but of something softer.

- At first, he tells you not to. “You don’t gotta do that, doll.” His voice is gruff, edged with something bitter, something vulnerable. But you only smile, only brush your fingers along his arm like it is the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly, he does not feel like a thing anymore. Suddenly, he is Ben again, just Ben, a man who is still worthy of love, of touch, of you.

- Now? Now, he needs it. Needs the weight of your arms around his waist, needs your hand in his, needs your touch to remind him that he is still here, still whole. And when you kiss him, when you cradle his face in your hands as if he is precious, he swears he could crumble beneath you. Because you see him, not the rock, not the monster, just him.

- And if anyone dares to look at you with pity, to question why you love a man like him? He only chuckles, low and deep, before wrapping his arms around you with something possessive, something sure. “She ain’t with me ‘cause she has to be. She’s with me ‘cause she wants to be.” And as you press another kiss to his lips, he knows—without a doubt—that he is the luckiest man alive.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan Storm is a woman of poise, of quiet strength, of hands that have shielded the ones she loves more times than she can count. She is used to being the protector, the one who stands between the world and those she cares for. But you—you do not let her bear it alone. You reach for her, fingers brushing over hers, and for the first time in too long, she lets herself be held instead of holding the weight of everything else.

- You are a woman of touch, and at first, it surprises her. Not because she does not crave it, but because she has learned to go without. To be soft is a risk, to be vulnerable is a danger—but when you press your lips to her temple, when you pull her into your arms without hesitation, she melts. She had forgotten what it was to be touched without expectation, without urgency. With you, she remembers.

- Your affection is not a distraction—it is an anchor. When she returns from battle, weary from holding up her force fields for too long, you are there, guiding her to rest with a hand at the small of her back. When she loses herself in thought, in planning, in the weight of responsibility, you remind her that she does not have to be invisible to herself. Your touch pulls her back, reminds her that she is not alone.

- And when you reach for her in public, when you lace your fingers through hers in the presence of others, she does not pull away. No, she holds on tighter. Because love is not something to be hidden—not anymore. And when someone asks her if she ever tires of your endless affection, she only smiles, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as she whispers, "Never."

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia Hardy is a woman of thrill, of quick escapes, of stolen jewels and stolen hearts. She has spent her life slipping through fingers, never staying in one place for too long. Love is a game to her, a dance she has always led. And yet—when it is you reaching for her, when it is you pressing kisses to her bare shoulder, when it is you curling against her at night—she does not run.

- You are soft in a way she has never trusted, yet she trusts you with something more valuable than any diamond—her time. Your hands are never idle when you are near her, always tracing patterns along her skin, always pulling her close, always grounding her. And though she will never admit it, she is addicted to it. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you stay when she has spent her life learning how to leave.

- She teases you for it, of course. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" she purrs, her voice all silk and mischief. But then you press your forehead to hers, then you kiss her like she is precious, and suddenly, she is the one gasping, the one holding onto you. Love has never been something she let herself have, but with you, she realizes she does not have to steal it—it is already hers.

- And if anyone dares to question why the infamous Black Cat allows herself to be caught in your arms so easily, she only laughs, wrapping herself around you like she has never belonged anywhere else. "Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of a mind that once thought itself above something as frivolous as love. He has wielded power beyond comprehension, seen realities beyond this one, and yet you—you and your endless touches, your unwavering affection—are the greatest mystery of all.

- You do not ask for permission to touch him; you simply do. You brush a hand over his shoulders as he studies ancient texts, you trace the lines of his scars when he is lost in thought. And at first, he stiffens beneath it, unaccustomed to being handled with such care. But you do not stop. You do not pull away. And so, little by little, he begins to lean into it.

- Now, when you curl against him in the quiet moments between battles, he is the one seeking you out, the one pulling you closer, the one pressing a silent kiss to your wrist as if to mark you as his. He will never admit how much he needs it, how much he needs you, but his actions speak louder than his pride. He has faced countless enemies, battled forces beyond mortal comprehension, but losing you? That is the one fate he refuses to allow.

- And when others look at him, the great Sorcerer Supreme, and wonder how someone so untouchable could belong so wholly to you, he only smirks, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders as he murmurs, "Even magic has its weaknesses. She just happens to be mine."

Namor

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a god among men. He has ruled beneath the waves, commanded armies, and stood against the greatest forces this world has ever known. He bows to no one. And yet, when you reach for him, when your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw, when your lips press against his skin like he is something sacred—he does not pull away.

- You are unlike anyone he has ever known. Where others fear his power, you cradle it in your hands, unafraid, unshaken. You touch him as if he is not a king, not a god, but a man. And though he will never say it outright, it unravels him. No battle, no war, no enemy has ever undone him the way your fingertips grazing his collarbone does.

- At first, he treats it as a privilege—something you are lucky to have. But then, you stop one day, pulling away just slightly, and it is only then that he realizes—it is he who has been privileged all along. He who needs you. Now, when you touch him, when you press yourself against him, his hands are already reaching, already holding you tighter, as if daring the world to take you from him.

- And if anyone so much as questions why the mighty Namor allows himself to be so utterly devoted to your touch, his response is simple. He lifts his chin, his grip on your waist tightening as he declares, "Because she is mine. And a king does not let go of what is his."

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has spent a lifetime running—from the past, from the fire inside him, from the weight of every sin he has burned to ash. He does not get to have softness, does not get to have something good—or so he has always believed. But you—you and your hands that never hesitate to touch him, to hold him, to pull him back from the flames—you make him question that.

- Your fingers trace the scars along his arms, the burns that never truly fade, and instead of flinching, you press your lips to them. He is not used to being handled like this, like he is something worthy of tenderness. And yet, you do it so effortlessly, so naturally, that he forgets how to breathe every time you do.

- When the Ghost Rider takes hold, when his body is consumed by Hellfire, you do not step away—you reach through it. Your touch grounds him, pulls him from the abyss, reminds him that he is more than a cursed soul wrapped in leather and chains. And though he will never say it aloud, he knows—if there is any salvation left for him, it is you.

- And if anyone dares to question why the Spirit of Vengeance allows himself to be so weak beneath your touch, he only smirks, pulling you into his arms, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Weak? Nah, sweetheart. You’re just the only thing worth holding onto."

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has spent his life being unwanted—by his father, by society, by the world that cast him aside the moment he fell. Venom is a creature that has known nothing but hunger, a parasite by design, a monster in the eyes of humanity. But you—you reach for them both like they are something to be loved, and neither of them knows how to handle it.

- Your hands never hesitate. You stroke Eddie’s jaw when he grits his teeth, your fingers slipping into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Venom, in turn, coils around you, tendrils wrapping over your shoulders, tracing your cheek. "She is ours," the symbiote purrs, delighted, possessive. And Eddie, for once in his life, does not argue.

- Eddie is gruff about it, muttering things like "You’re clingy as hell, you know that?" but his actions betray him. He leans into your touch every damn time, closes his eyes when you kiss his temple, sighs when you pull him into your embrace. Venom is far less subtle, practically preening under your affection, slithering around you, murmuring about how perfect you are, how deliciously devoted you must be to them.

- And when people stare—when they whisper about how strange it is that someone so soft belongs to someone so monstrous—Eddie only smirks, wrapping an arm around you as Venom’s voice hums inside his head. "Let ‘em talk," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They don’t get it. But we do."

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a mind sharpened by strategy, a body honed for battle. He moves through life with precision, with grace, with an unwavering sense of duty. Love, affection—these are things he appreciates, but never allows to distract him. And yet you—you slip through the cracks in his armor with every touch, every embrace, every kiss pressed to the back of his hand when you think no one is watching.

- Your touch is not demanding, nor is it fleeting—it is a constant, an unspoken declaration. And though he does not say it aloud, he finds himself seeking it, needing it. A hand at his shoulder when he is lost in thought. A brush of fingers along his wrist when he is tense. A silent, grounding presence when the weight of Wakanda, of the world, threatens to press too heavily upon him.

- When you curl against him at night, when you lace your fingers through his as he works, when you press your lips to his in a moment of quiet devotion—he knows, without question, that you are not merely his lover. You are his home. And for a man who has spent his life fighting for his people, for his throne, for his legacy—you are the one thing he fights for himself.

- And when others bow in reverence to their king, when they wonder how a ruler so composed allows himself to be touched so freely, he only smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs, "Because even a king is a man. And a man must cherish what is his."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra Natchios is a weapon, a blade honed to perfection, a shadow in the night that moves without hesitation. She does not need touch, does not crave affection—at least, that is what she has always told herself. But you—you with your hands that never hesitate to reach for her, your lips that press against every scar she has earned—you make her question everything.

- At first, she resists. Your touch is a distraction, a weakness she cannot afford. But then, she notices the way her body relaxes under your fingertips, the way her breath slows when you hold her, the way her mind quiets when you run your fingers through her hair. And suddenly, it is not a weakness—it is a lifeline.

- You touch her like she is not just a weapon, not just a killer, but a woman. And though she does not say it, though she still carries herself like she is untouchable, her actions betray her. She leans into you when no one is looking, she lets you hold her after a fight, she lets you love her without condition. And that—more than any battle, more than any war—is the most terrifying thing she has ever faced.

- And if anyone dares to suggest that the infamous Elektra Natchios has softened under your touch, she only smiles—a sharp, knowing thing. Because she has not softened. No, she has simply found something she is willing to kill for. And that, she thinks as she curls her fingers around yours, is far more dangerous.

Muse

- Muse does not understand softness, not in the way others do. He sees the world in smears of red, in the curve of a scream, in the way the city bleeds its stories onto concrete. He is an artist first, a killer second, and something unnameable in between. Affection is not in his vocabulary—at least, not until you start tracing patterns into his skin, your fingers ghosting over his ribs, your lips pressing against his jaw like a whisper of devotion.

- He does not react at first. He merely watches, blank eyes reflecting nothing but the shapes of your hands as they roam over him. You touch him as if he is something real, something worthy of being held, and it confuses him. But confusion does not stop him from leaning into it. He lets you press against him, lets your warmth seep into the cold spaces inside him, and though he does not speak, he feels—feels the way your touch lingers, the way it changes him.

- Your touch is a contradiction to everything he is, a stark contrast to the violence that drips from his hands. And yet, he craves it. Craves you. He does not say it, does not know how to say it, but he shows it in the way he lets you near when no one else is allowed, in the way he allows your fingers to wipe the wet paint from his face, in the way he follows your warmth like a moth drawn to flame.

- And when people whisper, when they wonder why someone like you chooses someone like him, he only tilts his head, an eerie smile curling at his lips. Because they do not understand—they do not see the art in your touch, the poetry in your fingertips, the masterpiece you paint onto the canvas of his skin. But he does. He always does.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not yield. Doom does not bow. Doom does not allow weakness, nor does he tolerate sentimentality. And yet, when your hands rest against his armored chest, when your lips press against the cold steel of his mask, he hesitates. Not out of reluctance—but because you dare to touch him as though he is human, as though he is something beyond the monarch, beyond the mind, beyond the mask.

- At first, he dismisses it. You are simply fascinated, drawn to power as all are. But then, your fingers curl against his bare skin when the armor is removed, when his defenses are lowered, and he feels it. It is not awe, nor is it fear—it is something else, something dangerous. Affection. Devotion. Love. And he does not know what to do with it.

- You do not shrink from him, do not recoil from the scars, from the weight of his name, from the sheer gravity of his presence. Instead, you pull him closer, your warmth pressing into his bones, your touch unraveling the careful control he has spent years perfecting. And Doom, for all his brilliance, for all his power, finds himself undone by something as simple as your hands upon his skin.

- And if anyone dares to question your place at his side, dares to suggest that Doom has been tamed, they do not live long enough to repeat the mistake. Because Doom does not bend—but for you, for your touch, for the impossible gift of your warmth—he allows himself to be held.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter Quill has always been a man of touch. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a flirtatious brush of fingers—it is second nature to him. But you—you take it to another level. You reach for him constantly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him into embraces, pressing kisses to his cheek just because you can. And at first, he thinks, Yeah, okay, this is nice.

- But then he realizes—this isn’t just casual affection. This isn’t just something fun. It’s you—you, who touch him like he is real, like he is worthy, like he is more than just a scrappy thief with a playlist and a knack for getting into trouble. You hold him with intent, with meaning, and it wrecks him.

- There are moments, quiet ones, where he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t fill the silence with music or sarcasm. He just lets you touch him—lets you brush your fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lets you trace the curve of his lips with your thumb, lets you pull him into your warmth until he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.

- And when the crew teases him, when Rocket smirks and Gamora raises an eyebrow, Peter only grins, pulling you closer with a laugh. "What can I say? I’m a lucky guy." But later, when it’s just the two of you, when your hands are pressed against his chest and your heartbeat matches his, he knows—it’s not luck. It’s you. And he’s not letting go.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has spent a lifetime holding the line—for the galaxy, for his people, for everyone who has ever needed a hero. He is used to the weight of duty, of responsibility, of battle. What he is not used to is someone holding him. But you? You are relentless. You pull him into hugs without warning, lace your fingers through his, press kisses to the scars he’s earned in wars too many to count.

- He resists at first—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how to accept it. He’s always been the soldier, the protector, the last man standing. But you refuse to let him carry it alone. You reach for him when his shoulders are tense, press your forehead against his when the weight of the universe sits too heavy on his spine. And slowly, slowly, he learns to lean into it.

- Your touch is an anchor, a reminder that he is more than Nova Prime, more than a warrior bound to the stars. You bring him back—to the moment, to you. And when he finally, finally allows himself to wrap his arms around you in return, to pull you into his chest and just breathe, he realizes—he has been waiting for this his entire life.

“Wow,” Matt says beside you, his lips twitching upward faintly as his head tilts to take in the scene. “This place is alive.”

“Alive,” you snort, swatting him gently on the arm as you guide him through the threshold. “It’s a full-on circus. Foggy must be in hell.”

“Can confirm,” Foggy interjects. He’s appeared behind you as if summoned by the mere mention of his name. There’s a smear of frosting on his button-down, and there’s a crazy light in his eyes you haven’t seen since college. “Thank God, cavalry’s here. I was this close to drinking Scotch out a sippy cup.”

You laugh, leaning in to hug him as Matt claps him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday to the big guy!” you grin as Foggy pulls back. “Officially one! How’s it feel?”

“Haven’t heard, huh? We’re auctioning him off later,” Foggy deadpans, though the affection peeks through. “Which reminds me—mind if I pawn off your husband for a bit?” He turns to Matt, gesturing toward the kitchen where a battalion of Nelson women’s engaged mid-conversation, holding plastic cups and talking animatedly. “Dude, do me a solid and work your lawyerly magic on the aunties, please. They’ve been talking about SNTs all afternoon and frankly, I cannot feign interest anymore.” 

“Oh, Fog, I don’t know if I’m the guy for that—” Matt starts, but Foggy’s already steering him toward the fray. “You’re exactly the guy, go make them cry with one of your blind crusader stories. Right this way, ladies,” Foggy urges, as Matt’s protests are drowned out, swallowed by the chattering mass of Nelson aunts. 

You stay back, still laughing, and duck toward the table of snacks. From the few remaining drinks, you grab a can of Yoo-Hoo and your finger along its sweaty condensation—until the sharp wail of the baby cuts through the din. 

You turn. 

Across the room, the birthday boy’s squirming in his frazzled aunt’s arms, flushed and clearly seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. Without thinking, you slip over to them (Yoo-Hoo forgotten), holding out your hands with a soft, “Here, let me.”

Teddy comes to you easily, his weight settling against your hip as he lets out one last cursory wail before quieting. His chubby fists tangle in the fabric of your dress, his head falling against your chest as his breathing hitches. You rock him gently, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath until his cries subside entirely. It doesn’t take long before he’s calm, little body relaxing against yours as he smacks his lips softly, his stubby fingers patting at your collarbone. 

Across the room, the Nelson women chatter on around Matt.

“You poor dear,” one of them coos, clutching his elbow, “how’s work? Foggy says the firm’s doing very well. You boys must be rolling in clients.”

“It’s steady,” Matt says mildly, “we’ve been lucky.”

“And her?” someone else asks. “That sweet girl of yours still hasn’t run away screaming?”

A small smile curves his mouth. “Still here, thankfully.” A chuckle goes around the circle. 

“Oh honey,” Foggy’s mom cuts in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, when do you think you’ll have one of your own?”

Matt raises his eyebrows, amused and a little cornered.

One of the great-aunts is squinting across the room. “Hmph, looks like she’s halfway there already.”

He tilts his head slightly, tuning in—adjusting the direction of his senses—then stops. His heart stutters. The space between you—the constant hum of your heartbeat, the soft lilt of your voice as you soothe the baby—it’s all amplified in his head, pulling his attention like a magnet. 

“Must be nice,” another jokes. “You can always tell who’s gonna be a good mom. Poor Foggy looked like he was going to pass out.”

Matt smiles faintly, his usual charm just barely masking how his throat has tightened. “Ah, she’s good with kids. Always has been,” he says, deliberately keeping his tone light.

The mention of children is a trap he’s navigated before, typically with casual deflections that fall back on vague hopes of someday. But this time, the words are harder to shake off, and when one of the aunties has so pointed it out—the way you’re holding Foggy’s baby, calm and radiant and perfectly at ease—it feels less hypothetical and more, well, inevitable.

“Well, you’re doing well for yourselves now,” one of the women says, her tone pointed but kind. “Don’t wait too long. You’ve got a good thing going—and if you ask me, you could use one of those little ones running around.” 

“We’ve got some time,” Matt laughs offhandedly. “Haven’t really sat down and talked it through in depth. Maybe soon.”

Mercifully, the conversation shifts, but Matt’s distracted now. Every word buzzes in the background as he hones in on the sound of you: the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your voice swaying upward as you coo at Teddy, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift your weight to keep him secure on your hip.

Before he knows what’s happening, you’ve made your way across the room to him, oblivious to the swirl of tension beneath his skin as you’re saying something lighthearted about how “it’s about time Uncle Matty took a turn.” He doesn’t even have time to protest before the toddler’s being nestled against him, pudgy fingers pawing at his tie.

“Careful,” he says, a little alarmed. “I could drop him.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Couns,” you say breezily, smoothing a hand over Matt’s arm. “You’ve done this before. Plus he’s pretty sturdy, you know. Babies are tougher than they look.”

Matt falls silent, holding the baby cautiously, keeping completely still so that not even his breathing will disturb the delicate balance of the moment. Teddy squirms briefly before miraculously—horrifyingly—settling into his chest, and Matt’s heartbeat jumps, but the baby’s doesn’t. There’s just the faintness against his sternum, the rise and fall of milky breath; he can feel the pulse in his tiny wrist. The echo of a hiccup in his ribs. He finds himself cataloguing every flicker of life beneath the fragile skin. 

It’s overwhelming.

“Matt,” you say softly, “you okay?”

He nods, handing Teddy back to you a little too quickly. “Yeah. It’s just—he’s warm.”

“He didn’t pee on you, did he?”

“No—no,” Matt chuckles faintly. “Not that kind of warm.”

You lift a brow at him, but say nothing more. The baby yawns, then burrows into you again. Matt can hear everything. The low, involuntary sound you make when the baby nestles just right under your chin. The shift in your skin temperature: your whole body warmer than usual. And that scent—he’d missed it before, but God here it is, subtle but unmistakable under the usual fare of your perfume. Sweet earth, clean sweat, and something deeper, headier. His heightened senses tell him what his mind has tried to ignore; it makes his chest tighten and imagination run rampant. He tries to shake away the thought, wresting his focus from the way you smell so right, so perfect, but it’s hurtling like a tidal wave.

By the time you’re on the train ride home, the realization has planted itself in the hollow of his chest, refusing to be moved. You sit beside him, scrolling idly through your phone, humming some barely-there melody under your breath.

He’s silent the whole time, thoughts turning over in endless waves.

It’s already dark outside when you arrive at the apartment. Matt’s still unusually quiet, his mind somewhere else entirely. You shrug off your coat by the door and toss it onto the hook with a bit of flair. Trying to fill the silence, you busy yourself with telling him about the Nelson family dog—a story you picked up about the ratty little mop of a thing getting passed around from household to household like a fuzzy hot potato.

“It’s probably because it’s so ugly,” you grumble lightly, shooting him a grin as you kick your shoes off toward the mat. “Swear, if you could just see it, it really is so ugly it’s insane.”

Matt is usually one to tease, grinning back in that sly, devil-may-care way, but tonight he doesn’t even give you a huff of amusement. Your brows draw together in concern: could someone have said something earlier? He wasn’t one to let offhanded comments get to him, but there had been exceptions… Or maybe the party was too much? Its noise and chaos and endless stimulation, well— you could see this silence as an aftermath.

“Matt?” you finally ask, your tone gentle as you cross the small space to him. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing near the door, barely out of his coat. “Are you okay? You’ve been so quiet since we left. Did something happen at the party?”

The longer he stays silent, the more determined you become to shake an answer out of him. Whatever storm is brewing in his mind, you’ll be damned if he keeps it locked away, as he tends to do. It triggers your instinct to soothe. Or at the very least, poke fun at it to take the edge off. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging here. Whose ass do I have to beat? Was it Uncle Tommy? Was it something I–”

“Sweetheart,” Matt cuts through your ridiculous coaxing. Though his tone is steady with concerted effort, there’s a flush creeping up the column of his neck, coloring the edge of his ears.

You step back half a pace, blinking. “What?”

“It’s nothing. Please.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing. Matt, tell me what’s going on with you.” In truth, you greatly dislike all this unceremonious pushing and goading, but the last time he’d gone quiet like this it turned out he’d been hiding a broken rib and a tender side from late night patrol. You frown, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m not. Honestly.” The shift is almost imperceptible, but you notice the way his body tenses further, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, “Forget it.”

“Forget it?!” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. That at least earns you the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips, but he smothers it so fast you wonder if it was a figment of your imagination. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” You wag a halfhearted finger at him. “You absolutely do not get to brood like that then ‘forget it’ me! You’re going to tell me, Matthew”—the way you enunciate his name is pointed—“because you at least owe it to me to tell me if you’re hurt, or I swear to God I’m—”

“Fine,” he snaps, putting an end to your mock dramatics. The tension in him pulls tight enough that the words tumble out unguarded. “Let’s have a baby.”

You blink.

The air around you seems to still, as if the apartment itself is holding its breath, having followed his bidding for silence.  “What?”

“I want a baby with you,” he confesses slowly, sounding pained. It sounds almost like loathing, the derision with which he views how badly he means it. 

You laugh before you can stop it, strangled and half-scandalized. “Matt, Jesus! What the hell…”

But your startled amusement is already tapering off as it clicks into place. Oh. His quietness, his strange mood during the ride home—it was now making perfect sense. Earlier, you were utterly at ease with Teddy, and maybe he’d been, too. The situation now glaringly obvious, your heart starts to race and Matt’s expression darkens when he picks up on it, his lips twitching with that slow, devilish smile you know all too well.

“Oh,” you begin, blinking up at him as you straighten.

That smile. Christ.

“Yes, oh,” he says, already closing the distance between you. “I mean it.”

His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with deliberate pressure.

“Let’s make one,” he murmurs. “Right now.”

Your heart hammering violently in your chest, you tip your head back slightly to meet the wine-dark mirrors of his glasses. In the reflection, all you can see is yourself. His next step seals the last inch of space between you, and when his mouth finds yours, whatever resistance you had left dissolves like sugar on the tongue.

His kiss is needy, and you feel his every hot exhale fanning your cheeks as a hand slips to your waist—guiding you, pushing you back, back until your spine hits the wall. His other hand curls around your nape gently, cushioning the press of your head against the panel. You gasp into him, grabbing at the tense muscles of his shoulders through his shirt. He’s so close, pressing so close now that you can feel the heated hardness through his slacks. Well, he seems to not mind. If anything, he wants you to feel it, grinding himself against your stomach.

“Somebody’s eager,” you tease playfully, never mind that you’re growing lightheaded from the delicious burn of his stubble scratching your face. “Christ, this is a lot of intensity for a lady who just inhaled too many cupcakes. Mmf, ow!”

His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping at it lightly before letting it free.

“Not now, honey,” he rasps against your mouth. You know it well enough to be a warning, but you don’t know if it’s more terrifying or thrilling. The hand at your waist slips upward, finding the curve of your breast over the flimsy material of your dress. Your face grows embarrassingly hot, and Matt’s breath hitches, groping you a little harder, more possessively, and the thought crosses his mind: the sensation of your tits rounding out for him, growing swollen, heavy with milk… Fuck, the thought makes his cock jerk hard in his pants, and the guttural moan that tears from his chest seems to surprise even him.

Fuck, Matt, get it together.

Shaking his head, he dips down to the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. You smell so damn good—milky and earthy and uniquely you—it’s a shame you’re oblivious to it. What you aren’t oblivious to, though, is the way he’s trembling slightly. From restraint or the desperate undercurrent of his desire, you can’t tell.

“Is this really you?” you ask, breathless now, trying to wriggle just enough to make him loosen his grip. This isn’t like him—not Matt the charming husband, the overzealous lawyer. But you do recognize him. This voice, it belongs to the man who comes home late at night beaten within an inch of his life, collapsing on the floor as you scramble for the medkit. But that part of him has been quieter, gentler lately, less frequent with the overly suicidal excursions—a promise he’d offered you when he asked you to marry him. 

And yet here he is now, returned with that fire reignited, directed solely at you.

“You smell so good I can’t think straight,” Matt murmurs, his nose dragging along your throat, pausing to press a hot, deliberate kiss behind your ear. “You wanna know something?”

You nod, the unbearable heat trickling between your thighs.

“You were holding him,” he begins, voice rasping like he can barely get the words out, “and all I could think about was my baby. Our baby. You’re ovulating right now, and Christ, sweetheart—I can smell it on you.”

That stops your breath cold. You’re reeling, your internal voice screaming for decorum, coolness, anything that might save face—but it’s impossible to, not when hot nerves are zinging traitorously through your body at his words. Not when his hands are on you, hot as brands. Not when he’s put words to the question you’d been hoping he’d bring up again for the past year.

It’s so embarrassing how easily he unravels you. Case in point–

His hand cups your sex through your soaked underwear, pressing the heel of his palm into you hard.

“Matt—!” It’s more of a plea than anything else, but you barely manage to say anything else before his hands slide down your weakened thighs, broad palms curling under them, and he lifts you effortlessly. He hikes you up further against the wall, grinding his hips into you and fuck, you can feel him pulsing—he’s like iron, a fact you’re darkly aware of even through the unconscionably selfish layers of his clothes hiding his hardness from view. The sheer force of his want makes you gasp, hands to his chest as if to push him away—though you clearly have no intention of doing so.

But seemingly, he does.

He pulls back from the kiss, and for the first time all night, you catch a flicker of hesitation cross his face. A crack in the mask of breathless certainty, the very same that had carried you across the room and into his arms just minutes ago.

“Are you sure you want this?” 

You almost laugh. He’s asking you? When he’s the one tearing you out of your clothes, talking filth? “Are you?” 

“I… Well–” The vibrations of his voice tickle your collarbone as Matt rests his head against your shoulder, unceremoniously snapped from the trance of his arousal. Visibly, achingly, he’s searching for words that won’t come. You take it upon yourself to help him out.

“I am.” It’s unsatisfactory; his silence tells you this. For a moment there’s only his measured breathing. But you know what he’s not saying, and he doesn’t have to tell you. It’s there again—the old voice in his head, convincing him he doesn’t deserve any of this, much less the privilege of asking for anything more. The quickly vining doubt in him dictates it: allowing himself this is the most selfish thing he can do. 

You cup his face in your hands so he can’t turn away from you.

“Matt, I know what you’re thinking,” you say gently. “I want this, alright?”

For a split second, you wonder what it’ll take to pull him back from his misery. You swallow, rubbing the sides of your thumbs along his cheeks soothingly. “I want it. Not in spite of your life; because of it. Yes, you bleed and lie and you flake out and… keep going on these fucking suicide missions and yes, yes they scare the shit out of me… But even if I’m scared, I believe you’ll come home, because you always do; that’s who you are. You keep getting back up even if the world’s given you so much reason to be unkind to it.” 

Wordlessly, you reach up and remove his glasses gingerly, tossing them toward the table. They land somewhere with a dull clatter. In the half-light of the living room, you can only make out parts of him, the cut of his cheekbone, the impressionistic slopes of definition on his face. This must be just a fraction of how he sees you, defined solely by blunt form and sensation.

“And that’s why I’m here, too. It’s just my choice as it is yours.” You press your forehead to his, finding him scorching against your clammy skin, before pulling back again. “Your night patrols, all that… If you believe that people deserve all the chances they can get, that there’s always a future for them no matter what came before, then have faith that it includes you, Matt. Everything you fight for is why I believe we could do this. What’s ahead could be dangerous, but what if it’s worth it a—what’s that word you like?” Your lips quirk slightly. “A thousandfold more. We can still bring good into the world, in all the ways we can, can’t we?”

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He closes his eyes. He does want it, all of it, more than anything in the world and he’s being the greediest man in the world right now, taking and taking and you’re letting him. Have faith that it includes you.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Well, it is. It’s no question if it’s with you.” You pause for a bit, before leaning back in, eyebrows wiggling playfully. “And you know, I haven’t refilled my prescription… So if we do this, it’s real. So ask me again.”

An incredulous, lighthearted scoff finally breaks through him. “Unbelievable. Are you sure you’re not the lawyer between us, sweetheart? That was one hell of an argument,” he says, chuckling boyishly through the pecks you’ve started to nip on his cheeks. “Fine. Last chance—are you sure about this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ha, ha, Mr. Murdock. Please. As if you believe in last chances.” 

He grins, can’t help it, can’t hide it; it’s crooked and a little desperate. But it’s impossible to skirt around it, your body betraying every rational thought. “Yes,” you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. “Yes, I want this. I want you.”

The words have barely left your mouth before Matt presses his hips into yours again, his groan muffled against your neck. The conversation has quelled the worst of his fears—but not the hunger. If anything, your unshakeable trust in him has unleashed something deeper within, darker and older than guilt. Something he can’t say aloud.

But God knows it. And he knows it.

The knowledge threatens to unmake him: he could fill you now, right now with your heated body primed and the timing perfect, let nature take its course. Your cunt is soft and warm and open, ripe and ready for him. And fuck, it hits him like a train.

Fucking you full to knock you up, marking you with proof of your unwavering faith— 

The thought makes his cock ache so hard it’s a mercy he’s still clothed.

Conversely you’re a mess, dress bunched up and panties soaked, and your heart is beating so hard you’re sure it’s deafening him. Matt locks your thighs over his forearms and carries you down the hall in steady steps, kiss never breaking until your back finally hits the bed. He’s over you in seconds, broad and solid and trembling with restraint that’s quickly breaking.

He looms above you, working deftly on the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other braced beside you on the mattress to keep you where he wants you. His lips—rosy and pouted, kiss-swollen—curl into a knowing half-smirk.

“You have no idea,” his voice is rich with the thickness of his lust, “the way you taste and smell right now. If you could feel what I feel standing this close to you, you’d lose your mind.”

The shirt finally slips free, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your eyes trail over his chest, marked by two long scars like uneven wings taking flight. Then his broad shoulders, the planes and valleys of muscle. Oh, Christ. He leans down, his hands already finding the material of your dress.

“Up,” he coaxes, warm but unyielding. You obey instinctively, helpless to raise your arms up and shimmy a little so he can peel the dress up and toss it aside in one smooth motion. His lips descend to your collarbone, stubble grazing the sensitive skin there as he kisses you with maddening patience. Every sensation of his tickling, hot breath sends sparks rushing through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough. You squirm, desperate for more, but he’s already working his way down—kisses tracing paths between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.

Nose nudging against the soaked fabric, Matt inhales deep, a shameless groan rumbling from his chest as his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread. “Fuck,” he murmurs, “you’re dripping for me, honey. Been like this since the train home, haven’t you?”

You flush but don’t deny it. The damp feel of the delicate lace between your thighs is proof enough. He chuckles softly at your silence, a finger twisting under the waistband to peel the damp fabric down, sliding it off the smooth skin of your legs to toss it aside. And suddenly, the room seems to be completely saturated by your arousal, steeping into every inch of air he pulls into his lungs.

Still, Matt doesn’t seem to be in any rush. His lips return to your inner thighs, tracing sultry kisses to burning flesh. Thighs pressed to his ears, the sound of your arteries reverberates like a drumline inside his skull. Femoral, uterine, iliac —he can name every one he hears. A symphony thrumming for him, hot and rhythmic. He kisses the spot where it sings beneath your skin.

(What an asshole, you’re thinking, knowing his every peck is deliberate; every drag of his tongue is just close enough to where you need him that it makes you squeal with frustration.)

“Matt,” you snip, tugging at his locks to guide him where you want him. “Stop teasing and just fuck me already!”

He pulls back from between your legs, lips curved into a cocky grin. “Be patient,” he chides, shaking his head like you’re a child spoiled rotten. “I gotta take care of you first, don’t I?”

You open your mouth to argue, but he isn’t done.

“I heard, it’ll take better if you come first,” he says evenly, using that court voice, the one he uses to explain the facts of a case and win over the jury without fail. “So… I’m gonna make you come again…” a kiss on the inner side of your knee, “…and again….” on your inner thigh, “…and again…” on your pubic mound, “…until your body has no choice but to take me.”

The filthy promise pulls you taut as his nose bumps against your clit. “Oh? And just where did you hear this news from, Counselor– Oh Christ–!” You gasp, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue darts out, tasting you lightly before pulling back just long enough to smirk at how you tremble under him.

“See?” Matt says, voice positively dripping with smugness. “You’re already so wet, sweetheart. Let me handle it, alright?”

And then he buries himself between your thighs, his tongue delving into your folds with ravenous precision. Fuck, he could die happy right then, the sour-sweet taste of your slickness robust and vividly ripe on his tongue, incomparable to its scent he’d only enjoyed since before that point. You cry out, your head falling back to the mattress as he pulls you higher with every stroke of his tongue, every flick and flat press against your clit, mouth working generously to kiss your needy cunt open.

Determined to see you come undone, he dives his rough fingers into you, his tongue maintaining pressure upon your clit. Your walls clench at the sensation of being breached, nerves going haywire with excitement as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. When you call out his name, he brushes at that sensitive spot, conditioning you by the whimpers and cries falling out of your mouth. Training you like an animal to associate the heightened pleasure with his name, though really he has no need to. No one has ever touched you with such precise devotion as him. 

Your heels dig into his back, hips canting to demand more. Matt grunts against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you can feel the mattress dipping slightly as he ruts against it, his own desperation spilling over.

“Matty—fuck—” you pant, hands clutching at the sheets. He only growls in response, his free hand curling against your legs to hold you in place, barring any attempt at escape. He’s eating you like a man starved, shamelessly groaning and fucking the mattress at your taste—and with the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap, you fold and unfold, instinctively trying to get away.

But Matt, all-knowing and bent on denying you the privilege of holding back, presses down harder inside you, rubbing while he sucks at your clit. You curse uncontrollably and the white-hot high finally, finally washes over you violently, downwards, down then up with your thighs clamped around his head, clenching around his thick, thrusting fingers. Matt refuses to slow down or let up, working you through every spasm until you’re left a panting, boneless mess beneath him.

“Christ,” you mutter weakly, when you can get it together enough to speak. The world’s still spinning around you, folded inwards to just the sight of him sitting back on his heels. His mouth and jaw are obscenely glistening with your wetness. Matt, sensing your hitched breath, correctly infers that you’re staring shamelessly at him, and at the bulge that’s tented angrily between his legs.

Smug little shit that he is, he brings his hand up to his mouth. The pretty-pink petals of his lips purse around his fingers as he revels in your taste. Matt hums his praise low in his throat, but you don’t get to enjoy the show as much as you want. The mattress shifts, and his hands close tight around your waist, turning you over onto your arms and knees.

Bent over for him, the anticipation is electric, your body still oversensitive from your high. But you can’t help it, that errant need to reassert yourself.

“Jesus, finally,” you muse, smirking above your shoulder. “I was starting to think you were all talk, Counselor.”

That earns a snap.

You hear the leathery rasp of his belt sliding through the loops of his pants, a sound that makes your toes curl.

“Watch your mouth,” he says, pushing your head forward. He leans down to press a hard, claiming kiss to your shoulder blade. The cold metal of the belt buckle kisses your wrists a moment later, and he binds them behind your back in a practiced knot, giving the binding a perfunctory tug to test its hold. 

Oh. Fuck.

Every inch of your arched posture has you laid bare for him in surrender. Your shoulders are sunken into the mattress, having lost the arms to brace yourself with. Ever the gentleman, he holds you steady with a firm grip while the other hand touches between your thighs, trailing all the way to your wet slit. He inhales sharply at the mess waiting for him, your arousal clinging sticky up to his knuckles. 

Matt huffs a laugh under his breath.

“So fucking ready for me,” he murmurs. 

Fisting his cock, he gives it a few rough tugs, precum slicking over his palm as he aligns his hips behind you, pushing forward. You feel the fat, hot head of his cock notch between your folds, and your cunt clenches on instinct, greedy for the stretch about to come. But Matt’s cruel with his patience, and his pace is leisurely slow.

One of his hands finds the knot of your bound wrists and tightens his grip, using the tension to anchor himself. 

He’s soaking in every detail. How your heat radiates off every cell of your skin; the fertile slick seeping out of you, perfuming the air so thickly he can taste it on his tongue. He can hear your heartbeat in your cunt, veins rushing with blood and fuck, he wants to ruin it, claim you with a violence that will leave no doubt in your body, least not in your womb. But even completely soaked, he knows your body needs time to adjust to him.

You whimper, pushing back to take control, but Matt holds you rooted in place. “Ah,” he tuts, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You’re not getting it that easy, sweetheart. Patience, remember?”

“I literally just fucking came!”

He grits his teeth. The blunt crest of his cock presses into you, splitting you open and it knocks any trace of defiance from your mouth, bordering on too much but your pussy’s welcoming it, spasming around the overwhelming sensation as he fills you to the hilt.

“Oh fuck—” you gasp, “you’re so deep, Matt– Matt—”

“Yeah?” Voice almost cracking as he draws his hips back, only to thrust forward again with a punishing roll that has you keening. “I told you. So fucking tight. Jesus. Your pussy’s just pulling me in.”

Your body jolts with every thrust, each one driving deeper, testing the limits of what you can take. Every time he slams in, your cunt makes a wet humiliating sound and then the hand gripping your wrists slides up, pushing between your shoulder blades to shove you down hard into the mattress as his movements pick up. Fucking you in earnest, his cock drilling into your heat with a brutal, single-minded rhythm that has you whimpering, crying out his name.

“Listen to how wet you are,” he snarls, grabbing the round swell of your ass, “you want it as bad as I do. You smelled so fucking good all day, d’you know how hard it was for me? It was torture. So good with that baby— Gonna let me give you one? Make you mine? Do you want that, honey?”

“Yes–fuck–yes,” you’re panting, thighs trembling as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens, “want it so bad, Matt, don’t stop–”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” Matt growls, his chest pressing flush against your back. His breath is hot and wet in your ear. “How many kids do you want, honey? I’ll give you as many as you’ll let me. I’ll put one in you right now. Not gonna stop til I fill you up.”

The shift in angle forces a sob from you as he sinks even deeper, his cock grinding up deeper than before, hitting that unbearable bundle of nerves with a dense pressure that makes your vision blur at the edges. Your arms are still trapped between your bodies, they’re numb and aching but it feels so so good, getting fucked by your husband with abandon. Matt doesn’t falter; he’s fully over you, pinning you down with his full weight as his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the tender skin before biting down hard.

You cry out, pain-blinded. The sharpness slices clean through you and with the overwhelming heat, the stretch of him inside you—there it is, you come undone with a fractured sob, violent and searing. Your bound hands writhe uselessly, the bite on your shoulder singing as your vision whites out. Your ears ring, barely registering Matt’s voice swimming in and out of focus, calling you Good girl good girl… his hand petting your head, stroking your hair as your body shakes for him.

Then he’s pushing himself upright again, pulling out and rising to his knees behind you. His praises are still trailing out of him in soft whispers. One hand reaches for the belt at your wrists, tugging—your spine pulled upright by the motion. You whimper a breathy protest as your limbs stretch from disuse.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, voice buttery and low. He sounds so sweet it makes your bruised core flutter, even now. His hands work at the leather binding behind you and finally, mercifully, you’re freed. But your body’s limp, shaking from the aftermath, and without the belt holding you up, you collapse forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Matt chuckles. “Easy, baby.”

He eases you over onto your back carefully, slipping a pillow under your spine to support your sore back. He’s pressing kisses all over your cheeks— and his cock, still swollen and slick with your release, twitches at the salt clinging to his mouth. You’ve been crying.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle along your jaw. “So sweet for me. Is my girl tired?”

You can barely say anything; you nod shakily. Your arms are tingling from the blood finally returning.

“And does she want to stop, hm?” A kiss to your cheek. “Does my sweet girl want to stop?”

You manage a small shake of your head.

A rough, pleased sound rumbles from his chest. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

The pins and needles in your arms are buzzing unpleasantly, but your cunt clenches at his voice anyway. You whine pitifully, and of course he hears.

“One more, alright, honey? Will you give me one more?”

Then he’s shifting, settling himself between your legs again. His hands wrap under your knees–thumbs pressing into the tender divots beneath the joints—and he presses them forward, toward your shoulders. Folded in half, you gasp at the stretch. Completely open beneath him, pinned by nothing but his weight, you shiver under the totality of his presence over you.

“This,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your lower belly, “this is where our baby’s gonna grow, sweetheart. Right here.”

The blunt head of his cock nudges at your entrance and you’re so wet it slides through the mess of your arousal, teasing but not entering, just enough to make you sob.

“Matt—please—”

“Shh,” he soothes, lining himself up, pressing in. “There we go. So good for me, you’re taking it so well.”

This angle—God, it’s worse than before; better than it. Deeper, impossibly so, hitting places inside you you’ve never felt before, spots that send your nerves screaming. You sob helplessly as your body struggles to accommodate him, every thrust dragging against your walls, each ridge and vein of his cock felt completely. 

“C’mon,” he pants as his movements pick up the pace, thrusts growing fast and erratic. “Gimme this one, sweetheart. Just one more for me, I promise.”

The bed protests beneath you, the frame rattling against the wall. The wet slap of skin fills the room, and just as you start to feel that sharpness creeping up again, something stupid occurs to you: you’re loud. Your screams, the creak of the bed, the sound of your cunt around him– the neighbors—

You turn your head, trying to muffle yourself against your arm.

Matt growls, yanking your arm down and at the same time, he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with bruising force, hard enough to knock all the breath from your lungs. You can’t stop the scream of his name torn from your throat.

“Matt— please, the neighbors—”

“No,” he snarls. “I’m your husband. I get to fuck you as loud as I want. You want this?” 

You nod frantically, too breathless to answer.

His hand finds your throat, grasping firmly around the delicate column. He feels the hammer of your pulse against his palm, heavy and turbulent like a rushing flood. He tightens his grip just enough to feel it catch beneath his thumb. To him, it seems unmistakably perverse—this power to still you if he wanted. And yet your trust is entire, your faith in him unshaken. 

“Then let them hear,” he says. “Let them hear what I do to my wife. Let them know how good I’m fucking her.”

A generous god, a present one. That’s what you’ve made him.

“Say my name,” he demands, voice rough, “want to feel it in your throat.”

“Matthew,” you choke out, completely helpless to his touch. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew…

It’s slipping. That darker thing inside him rising, coaxed loose by the mess of needy wetness where you’re connected. It wants to claim you and mark you, become His peer, one worthy of your devotion. 

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He licks the salt from your neck. “Can feel how close you are.”

His hand leaves your throat and presses flat against your stomach, right above where his cock punches deep. The pressure of his cock bulging under his palm sends another wave through your body. The feeling at the pit of your gut’s starting to rapidly swell, acute and compounding by the second as he fucks you with the whole length of his cock. 

“Feel that?” he rasps, pressing down harder. “That’s where m’gonna fill you. Right into your womb. And if it doesn’t take this time— I’ll fucking make sure it does the next. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”

Then his hand drops lower, to your cunt, gathering your creamy slick with his thumb to rub the swollen nub of your clit with. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he says, the words strangled. “Come while I fuck my baby into you.”

You look down where you’re connected, where his cock sinks in and out of you, coated in slick and so much need and you break. Your walls seize around his length, body convulsing as your climax tears through you. You cry out, legs twitching and nails raking across the sheets. Above you, Matt groans with a guttural, broken sound. His hips drive forward once, twice—the head of his cock kissing the ripe seal of your womb, and then he’s coming, thick and hot, filling you with so much it leaks around his cock even as he keeps pumping deep as he can go. His sweat’s dripping onto you as he holds you tightly, arms trembling with the effort of staying upright. You twitch beneath him, aftershocks rolling still and he collapses onto you, pulsing with the last desperate pulses of cum from his cock.

Your body’s completely pliant, legs trembling even when he finally stills. 

“Let gravity help,” he says, easing out gently. He slips the pillow from beneath your back and tucks it under your hips, before slumping beside you. You giggle weakly, nuzzling into his neck. Your sweet husband’s back, placing soft lingering kisses all over your face as his chest heaves from the earlier exertion.

“So,” you start, the haze starting to set, “can you really tell?”

“...Yes,” Matt admits. His voice is husky, warm with affection. “You smell different. And you’re warmer, just a little–”

“Smell different?! Do I stink or something?”

He laughs into your hair, arm pulling you in tight. “Sweetheart, I think we’ve established well enough that you smell absolutely beguiling to me.”

You roll your eyes, your finger tracing absent shapes on his chest. Heart, triangle, star. He hums at each one.

Smiley face. That earns a chuckle. 

“Anyway, you weren’t half bad with Teddy either,” you muse thoughtfully. “I think you’d make an amazing dad.”

You opt not to tease him about the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Matt.” You clear your throat. “You know, I really do want it, but… I just want you to know that I’m happy, even just now. And I’m not stupid, I know you could…,” you try not to say die, “...well, the worst could happen. Even then, I’d still want this life with you, whatever I can get. When we got married, I knew that would come with it, and– And if we do have a kid, if the future holds that for us, then it won’t just be us. We have Foggy and Karen and Marci, and my family, too. Takes a village and all that, y’know?”

You pause to catch your breath, Matt nodding you on.

“Point is, we’ll never be left alone, no matter what. I know that’s something you worry about a lot. So if– if something ever did happen to you…” You force yourself to say it, “we’d survive. We can keep living. But between surviving with you and without you, I’ll always choose with. So I’m asking you to let yourself have this. If you really want it. Just promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Have faith that it includes you.

He’s silent for a moment, his hand stroking gently at the slope of your arm.

“I promise,” he says at last, “I really do want it.”

He knows you know the rest. That’s all he can say, pressing a kiss to your temple. Thank you isn’t nearly enough, but it buzzes in his pulse anyway. Smiling faintly into your hair, he lets it stretch just long enough… Before the gravity of the moment slips from his shoulders, not all the way but just enough to let in that familiar, crooked grin.

“Oh, but you know, honey,” he murmurs, lips on your cheek, “you’re not pregnant yet.”

The laugh bubbles from your throat, and he can feel the sound against his skin.

“That was just round one.” His hand slides down to grip your thigh, and he feels you shiver. Perfect. “Let’s get to work then, Counselor.”

Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred. 

The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.

Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him. 

Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him. 

Not like you.

So, rash girl that you are,  you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.

“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”

His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”

Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.” 

Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping. 

“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”

“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”

Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully. 

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

Enlighten me.

You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”

You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.

Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”

One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.

“Yeah,” you manage.

“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”

“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.

“Well—yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”

As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”

It takes you a second.

To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips… 

Oh.

“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”

Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.

“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.

“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”

He’s grinning wide. “Because?” 

“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..” 

Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!

“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”

“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!” 

You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan. 

“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”

“Worse? How is that worse?”

“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.” 

Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.

A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are.  In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”

His head tilts fractionally. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s all fiction.”

“Being good at oral is fiction?”

“Yes.” 

“As in, not real?”

“Yes.” 

Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.

There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful. 

“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”

“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”

A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!

“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.

“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.

“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.

“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”

You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.

“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”

“Oh God.”

“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”

“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”

Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.

“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”

Fuck me, you think, panic blooming white-hot, Fuck me, literally, preferably now–

“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.

So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage: 

“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”

Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.

“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”

You blink. Fuck.

He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just… 

A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?

“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”

But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.

He’s… crying. 

That made him cry?

No way. You’ve never seen him cry before. 

No, no. He’s wheezing. 

From laughter.

“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”

“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”

“You walked into that one again.”

“That’s not funny!”

.

Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though. 

Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it? 

That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.

Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.

An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.

But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest. 

The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

Which is clearly how you see him.

So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much. 

Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to. 

Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect. 

He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard. 

Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.

Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.

“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”

Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak. 

“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”

“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”

He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”

“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch. 

“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”

He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.

Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”

But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”

Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?

Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate. 

He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.

No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.

Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”

Matt tilts his head.

“I’m a virgin too.”

Oh?

That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it. 

He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.

“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”

You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you. 

“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”

“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”

“Dick.”

He smiles.

You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”

Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”

You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”

“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”

You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.

“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”

Right.

Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.

He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”

“Just do it once—then it’s over.”

“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully. 

“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.

“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.

The issue, of course, is that he’s hard. 

Hard and sweating and stuck. 

If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now. 

Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.

You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”

“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”

“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”

Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.

Christ, Matt. This how you do it?

He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking. 

But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.

His thumb strokes your side.

“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod before your brain can even catch up.

“…Okay.”

For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.

There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful. 

Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—

It jerks, slipping sideways.

You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure. 

It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.

“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”

You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment. 

Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below. 

Jesus. 

But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.

“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.

Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help. 

Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.

“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.

He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”

“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”

A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”

“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.

Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated. 

His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Wait. Wait—”

He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”

“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”

It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—

“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”

You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”

His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now. 

“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.

Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.

You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”

His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”

Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching. 

You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.

It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.

“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”

For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”

At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely. 

“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”

And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.

Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”

“Not really.”

“They expensive?” 

“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”

“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply. 

RRRIP—!

Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum. 

“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”

“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”

His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”

Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop. 

But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?

The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.

He should stop.

“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts. 

You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.

And Matt’s losing it.

He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.

His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.

You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”

His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.

And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him. 

You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough. 

“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”

“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”

As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.

Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.

“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”

And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.

The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.

The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.

Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor. 

Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.

“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”

And if your hand causes you to sin…

“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you. 

Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.

“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”

You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.

Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”

“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience. 

He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.

Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.

But how can he refuse you?

“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”

You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.

You do no such thing. 

“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”

Need you, Matt.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”

You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief. 

God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven. 

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…

Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward.

Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.

“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”

You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”

Hurts.

Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.

If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—

But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.

The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.

As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.

Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.

“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.

“What’s unfair?” 

Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.

“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”

Christ. 

Matt swallows.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.

“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles. 

“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.

“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”

The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.

“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—” 

But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.

The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.

“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.

“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”

But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.

He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.

You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.

“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—” 

Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.

You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.

“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”

Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.

And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.

Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.

Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…

Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good. 

“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.

It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.

“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.

He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”

As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.

One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.

“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.

The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.

“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.

He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.

Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.

By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—

He can’t.

He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.

And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.

…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor… 

It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.

…not in the passion of lust.

Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?

He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.

As long as he doesn’t come inside you. 

That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.

But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther? 

He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.

“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”

But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”

And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.

“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.

It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.

And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.

Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.

Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.

Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.

Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely. 

His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.

The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.

“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.

“Yeah.”

Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”

The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”

Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters. 

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”

“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling. 

Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”

“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”

“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”

There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck. 

A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”

“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.

“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”

You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.

“We should probably get back to studying.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”

“You’re the one who made me more behind!”

His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”

You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.

For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.

The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.

“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly. 

“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”

Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”

“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”

There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.

“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”