Summary: Matt gets hot and bothered when you start touching his scars.
Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), biblically accurate whiny Matt, scratching, scars, no choking but Matt puts his hand on your throat to feel you moan, mentions of past violence, sorta overstimulation.
"What happened here?"
Matt dragged his hand down your naked thigh, and a shudder overwhelmed his already overstimulated body as your fingers absentmindedly danced across his slick shoulders. He slowly raised his attention from where it had strayed between your knees, and his swollen lips parted with a shaky exhale.
"What?"
You cocked your head, and your warm cheeks pulled tight with a smile as you traced the same line again.
"Your scar," you said, idly stroking the skin. "I've never noticed this one before." He could hear your eyes shift back to his face. "What happened?"
A breathy chuckle left his mouth, and he hung his head, a lock of damp hair sweeping past his flushed cheek.
"It's hard to remember," he admitted, skimming his lips over the inside of your knee. "They've all started to blur together at this point."
You pressed your lips together in amusement, and your hands shifted to tickle his delt, tracing the silver lines littering the flexing muscle as he shifted above you.
"I like looking at them," you murmured as his mouth wandered back to your knees, the sound of your drumming pulse drowning out most of your audible sentiment. "I like looking at you."
"I like looking at you, too," Matt murmured, a smile splitting across his busy lips at your following giggle. His eyes flicked in the direction of your face, and he raised a brow. "Can I continue now?" he asked, already beginning to trail kisses down the inside seam of your thigh. You hummed in confirmation, but your hands continued to wander.
The warmth of your scent overwhelmed his senses as Matt lowered his face between your parted legs. Heat radiated from your parted folds, and the resounding sound of your hammering pulse had his eyes rolling back into his head. He took you by the ankles when your legs threatened to close, grounding himself as his thoughts grew hazy. Your body twitched with anticipation, and your breath hitched as his lips skimmed your slick skin. The sheets shifted beneath you as your shoulder drew together.
And yet, despite gripping your thighs as they quivered with pleasure, despite smelling your arousal as it flooded your slit, despite listening to the high-pitched noises as they freely left your parted lips, and despite sensing all other clear signs of your obvious, mind melting pleasure, you still managed to ask, "And this one?"
He blinked, and the sound of your steady voice had his working mouth pausing.
"What?"
A full laugh rumbled through your body, and he listened to the friction of skin against fabric as you relaxed back deep within the ruffled sheets. You brushed your thumb over a thick, raised piece of healed skin stretching from the tip of his bicep down to the junction of his elbow.
"This scar, Matt," you said, the sensation of your fingers sending goosebumps erupting across his upper body. "How'd you get this one?"
Matt's face contorted out of confusion—brows rubbing one another and nose wrinkling—and audible evidence of his perplexity escaped from his throat as he opened his slick mouth.
"You're still talking about the scars?" he asked, and the heat of your cheeks moved as you nodded. "Really?"
"Afraid so," you teased, and you must have noticed his face falter because you quickly added, "I'm curious!"
"But why now?" Matt asked. "I'm sort of in the middle of trying to do something with you, and you—" he began, frustration apparent as he shifted, "—and all you want to do is... is—what?" he asked, shadow swallowing you as he buried his anchoring hand into the sheets besides your head. "Listen to me talk about all the times I've been stabbed?"
It was difficult to differentiate between the beat of his own irritation-fueled, escalating pulse and the excitement of yours. One of your wandering hands smothered itself over his heart and the other cupped his heaving side, and the effect of your hot palms on his skin was immediate and obvious; his jaw fell open, his eyes practically crossed, and his entire body jolted under the touch of your nimble fingertips as you played his protruding abs like the strings on a guitar.
Matt couldn't hold back the strangled mewl that fell from his numb mouth as his dick twitched against the smooth skin of your belly.
"I thought you liked it when I touched you, Matthew," you murmured, and he grit his teeth at the clear amusement in your voice. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No," he said quickly before snapping his jaw shut and hanging his head. "Don't."
"Then tell me about this one," you said, and he felt the tip of your finger encircle a prominent scar on his lower ribs. A whine left his throat at the sensation, and he struggled to keep his answer steady.
"Bullet," Mat bit. "'Just grazed me. I—" he began, but the words fell out of his wide open mouth as you palmed his twitching pec. "I can't remember who shot it."
He felt your hand wander from his side, and you repositioned your arms to rest over his shoulder, your fingers continuing to explore the expanse of his quaking back.
"You've got a lot back here," you murmured as he managed to slowly lower himself to his elbows. His hips moved at their own accord, smothering his dick between his own quivering stomach and yours. Matt had to bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as you poked and prodded at his back. "You should watch you back more often."
"I'll keep that in mind," he grunted only for his entire body to seize as you dipped two fingers into the cavern of muscle that trailed along his spine. You hummed and followed the wide scar all the way down to his lower back which arched into your touch. His hips twitched out of instinct, and Matt moaned as his dick pulsed.
"What happened here?"
"Jesus, woman," he whined, fisting the sheets beside your face. "Knife—no—hook," he said, swallowing. "It was—uh—Japanese mobsters—the Yakuza."
"Did they catch you by surprise?" you asked, and his breath hitched as you dug your fingers into the superficial skin. "'Seems like it was deep."
"It was," Matt wheezed, audibly out of breath. "It was very," he murmured, and thrusted his hips against your stomach, desperate for friction, "very deep."
Your fingers danced over the healed-over skin, gently massaging the growing ache in his tense muscles.
"Do any of them still hurt?"
He huffed into your neck, and his jaw felt like it was permanently hinged open.
"That one does sometimes," he murmured into your skin, lips wet with his own saliva and your slick, "but it's better when you—" he tried, and his back arched like a cat's into your palm, his dick bobbing against his stomach "—when you touch it like that."
"Maybe I should touch you more often," you said, and his eyes rolled back into his head as your hands flattened out across his lower back and sunk his hips into yours. The tip of his dick ground into your folds under the pressure of your hands, pushing roughly against your slit for somewhere to go before clipping your hole and slipping inside in one swift motion.
Matt's entire body shuddered, already overstimulated as he wetly moaned your name in your neck. You hummed, and your smile brushed the shell of his ear. "It seems like you enjoy it when I touch you, Matthew."
No longer able to think clearly with the horny haze fogging up his mind, Matt's hips moved on their own accord. His own slick, trembling skin slapped against your composed hips, and his cock chased its own high while the rest of his body found overwhelming stimulation from your prodding fingers. Every swipe, smother, and stroke of your hands had his body jerking and twitching like a man possessed.
Matt desperately mouthed at your pulse, and he swallowed around the pound of your heartbeat to muffle his whines when the signs of your whittling composure flooded his senses; your breathing had grown erratic, the rise and fall of your hips threatened to fall out of time with his own rhythm, and the most wonderful sounds vibrated the box deep in your throat.
"Matt," you gasped as his hand reached up to rest around your throat. A strangled cry left his wide open mouth as your vocal cords hummed like electrical wire beneath his palm, the signs of your need overwhelming his system. Your hands grasped his shoulders to ground yourself as his pace began to falter. His mouth moved against your neck, but he couldn't form words. "Oh, Jesus, Matthew."
The noises fell freely from his mouth as he felt your slick legs lock around his tilted hips, and your hands desperately clawed at his back for something to hang onto. Matt's entire body convulsed as your nails dug themselves deep into his middle back and dragged themselves all the way back up to his shoulders. And as your body seized around his, the pressure inflaming the burn of the long scratches marring his back, for a moment, Matt swore he saw God. His hips chased the internal pleasure as a hot, white, overstimulated shock overwhelmed him, and his dick jerked within your mutual release.
It sounded like he was underwater, and only the thunderous, slowing pulse of your heartbeat broke through his waterlogged ears. His whine was muffled as he slowly pulled his hips from yours, his core quivering and his thighs trembling, and he lazily reached up to wipe the mess of drool from his lips as he raised his head.
One of your hands cupped his jaw, and your thumb smeared the remaining spit on his lips.
"What's this one from?"
Matt hummed as your voice broke through the obstruction in his ears, and he leaned into your palm as your thumb passed over his top lip to follow the ridge of an old scar. An exhausted chuckle ripped through his spent lungs.
"You really are somethin' else," he grumbled, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. You grinned against him and lazily threw your arms around his neck, brushing the fresh marks lingering in his skin.
"I think you might've given me some new scars," he murmured, rolling his shoulders back. Goosebumps erupted across his body as you tickled the fresh area of sensitivity.
Your mother was across the streets. She had seen you. You had to get away from her. The sight of her alone, standing in these streets was unbearable. The thought of her being in Dublin, in the same streets as you, was unmerciful.
Without a second thought, you rushed away. Trying to put as much distance as possible between the two of you.
“Where you’re running to?” You froze. His voice sent a chill down your spine. “Aren’t you going to say hello? To me? To your mother?”
You couldn’t breathe. You had not seen him. Too focused on your mother, you had not even thought about him. And there he was. Standing in front of you. Blocking your escape. Fear couldn’t describe how you felt in this moment. No, fear wasn’t strong enough of a word to describe the state you were in.
Terror.
You felt terror in these streets facing your stepfather. It was terror that slammed into you when your mother joined him. Facing you. You were standing in an open street, people surrounding you and yet, you felt trapped. You wanted to escape. You needed to get away from them.
“Sweetheart,” your mother smiled at you. “It’s so good to see you.”
“I—I—I have to go,” you said stepping away from them.
“Oh, come on, why are you in such a rush?” Her husband smirked at you, and blocked your way. “We came here to see you. The least you could do is say hello. Unless, of course, your father didn’t teach you manners.”
“Stephane, please,” your mother glanced up at him. She turned her eyes back onto you, “we could go into a coffee nearby, and talk.” She reached out to touch your arm, but you recoiled away from her. Her face dropped at the gesture. “I don’t want to force anything on you.”
“Then let me go,” you pleaded. “Please.”
She nodded, while Stephane scoffed. Nonetheless, both of them stepped out of the way to let you pass.
Yes, terror was the right way to describe it.
Terror was sitting in the pit of your stomach.
You walked away from them on shaky legs. Clutching your bag against your chest, your hands shook terribly. And your stomach felt queasy. You ducked into a coffee shop, quickly disappearing into the bathroom. As soon as you locked the door behind you, you dropped on your knees, your breakfast making its way back up your throat, painting the porcelain as it landed in the bowl.
You felt truly sick. You didn’t think you could make it home on your own. You didn’t want to. Not when they were still out there in the streets. Sitting on the porcelain throne, you stared down at your phone. You didn’t want to bother people, ask them for help. Ashamed of asking for it, really. But you really didn’t want to be alone.
“Hiya, love,” you let out a sigh of relief as Bessie answered your call.
“Bessie, are you busy?” You asked with a small voice.
“What? What’s goin’ on?” Bessie questioned; her tone laced with worry.
“Nothing, really, but—“ you let out a deep breath. “—I, uhm—can you come and pick me up?”
“Where are ya?”
Within thirty minutes, Bessie had come to your rescue. Seeing her walking into the small coffee shop brought you great comfort. It made you less alone.
“What happened, love?” she was sitting next to you in the booth, her arms around your shoulders.
“I saw my stepfather in town and—uh, I—I—I,” you shook your head. “I got scared. I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” Bessie rubbed your arm soothingly. “I’m glad you called.”
“Thank you,” you rested your head on her shoulder. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“Anytime.”
Bessie and you stayed at the coffee shop for a while. She waited for you to calm down a bit. She didn’t press you with questions, and you were grateful for it. You would tell her one day. Maybe. But not now.
Now, you just wanted to go home. Now, you only needed air.
And Michael.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay at my place tonight?” Bessie gently offered you again.
You smiled, unbuckling your seatbelt, “thank you, Bess—but I’d rather stay home tonight. But I’ll call you if I need anything.”
“I’m counting on it.” She embraced you tightly, “everything’s gonna be okay. I promise.”
Your lips pulled into a small smile, “drive safe, okay?”
What did your mother really want from you? Why was she so sweet with you?
You had hoped to never cross paths with her in Dublin. And hopefully, she would have given up and left.
She was there.
She had seen you.
And the worst part, he had seen you too.
His smirk, his face, his voice. Everything about him had thrown you back to that little girl, sleeping in her bed while he stood over you, stroking your hair, and looking at you in ways no adult man should have.
You remembered the times he tried to force you to sit on his lap. You knew it was wrong, you were too old to sit on anyone’s lap. And you had cried when he continued trying, pulling you forcibly while you fought back. Your mother had laughed it off, calling it teasing.
It wasn’t.
There had been signs of his fixation on you. Signs that your mother decided to ignore. Signs that your father couldn’t ignore. Her feigning ignorance had cut you deep. So much so, you had never healed from it. And you probably never would.
Your mother wasn’t always like this. She had loved you; you knew it. You had felt it. Once upon a time, she bought you your first book. She read you bedtime stories, kissed your boo-boos away, braided your hair. She did with you all activities that loving mothers did with their children. She was your hero and for that alone, you loved her more than anything.
But she failed you.
She failed to love you the way you loved her. She failed to protect you from her husband. She failed to believe you when you went to her. She failed to choose you before him.
She failed you.
You had read somewhere that when a baby was born, they left a group of fetal cells behind, in the mother’s body. It could remain in her body for years, decades even. And the same was said for the mother’s cells. It also lived on in the baby’s body long after they were born. For years, decades.
If this was true, why couldn’t she feel it? Why couldn’t she feel the pain she inflicted on you? Why couldn’t she feel the terror he was causing you?
Couldn’t she feel how you love her?
You jumped out of your skin when the knock came. Your heart jumped into your throat, as you made your way to your door. You took in a shaky breath, before opening it.
It was Michael.
Amanda made her way to Michael’s house next door. There was still so much to deal with. Especially now that Eamon wanted them dead.
It had been her decision. For her son; Jamie. She knew Michael would do it. No one else but him could do it. Not even Jimmy.
Jamie was Michael’s son. Jimmy raised him, but Jamie was his.
As she turned around the corner, she caught a glimpse of you as Michael walked into your home.
“Ya got to be kiddin’ me,” Amanda cussed under her breath. “Fuck, Michael.”
This was not the time for Michael to jeopardize everything for a quick fuck with the neighbor. Not now that Eamon Cunnigham was after them. What was he thinking about?
Amanda had never really cared for you. She knew you were their neighbor. She knew you had somewhat of a relationship with Birdy. But you weren’t important. Not to her anyway.
And now, you had caught Michael’s fancy. And this alone, changed everything.
“How was your meeting with Frank?” You asked him, sitting on the counter, Michael standing between your legs.
“Useless,” Michael said, his hands rubbing along your thighs.
“That bad, uh?”
He snorted, “yeah, ya could say that.”
Your hands slid up his chest, to the back of his neck, “is it too soon to say, I really missed you today?”
He shook his head, “missed ya too.” He tucked your hair behind your ear, “ya alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You answered quickly. Lying through your teeth.
He didn’t believe you. He could tell something was off as his eyes roamed your face.
“Ya know ya can talk to me, pet.” He gently cupped your jaw, his thumb lightly brushing against your cheekbone.
And that was all it took.
The dam broke, and tears just poured down your face. He shushed you, slightly confused while pulling you into his arms. You buried your face into his neck. Your hands fisting the back of his shirt desperately, hanging onto him, counting on him to keep you afloat.
“Talk to me, pet,” Michael asked soothingly, his hand stroking the back of your head.
He tried to pull away but you clung onto him harder. You didn’t want to let go. You just couldn’t let go. Not yet.
You needed him. You needed his arms to keep you safe. To make the pain, the terror, to make all of what you were feeling go away. Your chest couldn't contain all of it. It was too small and the pain so great.
Michael brought you a glass of water, sitting down next to you in the couch. He leaned his elbows on his knees, giving you some space to breathe.
“She’s still beautiful, you know,” you said staring into the glass. “A little greyer but—still beautiful.” You put down the glass, clasping your hands together
She still was beautiful. And you hated that you thought so. This was the mother that abandoned you. She shouldn’t look beautiful still. She should be the ugliest human being on this earth. Only because she abandoned you and betrayed you. You should be disgusted by her.
You weren’t. And it angered you.
“They cornered me in the streets,” you continued, missing the way Michael’s jaw tightened. “Wanted to grab a coffee or some shit like that.”
“Did they try to force ya?”
“No,” you shook your head. “I ran away as fast as I could.”
Micheal’s hand came to rest on your knee, he squeezed it gently. You looked up at him. His jaw clenched in anger, rage boiling in his veins. If he ever got his hands on your stepfather, he would certainly hurt him. He and your mother had hurt you. Broken your heart. And that alone was enough for him to want to protect you from them.
He would make sure they won’t hurt you ever again.
“You know what’s the worst part of it all?” Your knee bumped into his, his hand leaving your knee to rest on your shoulder. “I felt happy to see her there,” you gave him a teary-eyed smile. “I wanted to hug her. Do you know how long I’ve dreamt of that moment? I mean, she’s my mother. And I missed her. So much.”
Michael scooted closer to you, his arm curled around your shoulders and pulled you into his side. His hand rubbed soothingly along your arm. Your head found a place on his shoulder.
“I still love her.” You confessed, quietly, afraid to admit a secret that had been kept for so long.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Michael assured you. His lips pressed against your forehead.
“I hate myself for it,” your lips turned down into a frown. “Why am I like this?”
His arms tightened around you, “that’s because ya have a good heart, pet.” Your nose found the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. “Yer mother just doesn’t know how lucky she was to have ya.”
“I think she couldn’t see it,” you said. “She was angry at my dad. And she hated him. But she hates me more.”
“Why would she hate ya more?”
“Because I was born first.”
You were born first. Without you, your mother would have left your father a long time ago. Long before she would have given birth to your siblings.
And you understood why she would. It wasn’t fair on you. You didn’t ask to be born. This wasn’t your choice. She was the one who wanted to keep you. Who wanted to go through with the pregnancy.
But you understood why she would. Knowing what you knew, you could sympathize with why she would hate you more than the rest.
It broke your heart to know that she would never love you as much as you did her. It broke your heart to know that she blamed you for something you had no say in.
But you understood.
You wished you didn’t, though. There were many things you wished for. Things that would make your life much easier.
The rest of the night was spent with Michael. In his arms. In your bed. You didn’t want to be alone. And he didn’t want to leave you. Your right cheek laid across his bare chest. Warm. His fingers buried in your hair, scratching the back of your head. Your leg slotted between his.
“If anything happens with yer stepda, or yer mother, I want you to call me.”
“Michael,” you protested, resting your chin on his chest.
“’M serious, pet,” his fingers found the back of your neck. “Whatever comes up, I don’t want ya to be alone. Ya call me, alrigh’?”
“What if you’re busy with family stuff? And - and you also have a bounty on your head, it's too dangerous for you," you tried to reason with him. "Also, I don’t really want to bother you with this."
“It doesn’t matter, ya call me. And I’ll come and get ya.”
Your hand slid up his right side, “Michael," you were about to protest but he cut you off.
“I'm on yer side, Pet. I got ya. I won't let anyone hurt you."
Your left hand pulled away from his side to cup his jaw, your thumb running across his lips. Your heart stuttered in your chest at his words. It was a promise. A promise you knew he would keep.
You shouldn’t trust him. He was Michael Kinsella. A known criminal. A known murderer. You shouldn’t trust him. And yet, a twisted part of you, in the darkest corners of your mind, trusted him.
He leaned down, gently pressing his lips against yours. His tongue slid along your bottom lip, demanding access. You let out a soft moan, your hand gripped his forearm. Pulling him down. He rolled on top of you.
No one had truly said those words to you. No one had declared to be on your side. Not quite like him. You knew he meant every word. And you knew, he would deliver on his promise.
🗒️ 𓈒 . “stop it,” you mumble, shoving munch! dean’s face away from your thighs. recently, you could never get any research done — at least not with dean around.
sitting comfortably on his bed in the bunker, you had hoped to get a little information about a case, but that soon failed the second dean walked in. he was on the bed, tucked between your thighs as he often liked to lay there, but this time? his fingers teased at your clothed pussy under your t shirt. just light little touches at first, tracing the outline of your puffy folds, rubbing tiny circles on your clit. but then he moved his mouth to your thighs, sucking loudly on the skin and inching closer to your core. it was obviously distracting.
“sweetheart,” he groans. “just let me. wanna taste you.” he pleads, already in the process of stretching your panties to the side. “d-dean, i’m trying to do research.” you complain, hoping he wouldn’t make a remark on how wet you were just from a few touches. but of course he notices.
“right, n’ that’s why this pretty pussy’s all soaked for me.” a nasty smirk curls onto his lips, using his other hand to spread your pussy lips wide to look at you. “fuck..” he grunts under his breath, watching the way your cunt tightened around nothing.
another complaint died on your tongue the second his licks a long, flat stripe up your center, drawing a pretty moan from you. “taste so sweet, baby.” his lips suction around your clit, tongue swirling with skill around the pulsating bud. “ohmygod—” the pen slips from your hand, newspaper following as he pushes your thighs further apart and devours you. he always does, moaning into it like he needs it more than you.
he leaves sloppy kisses to you pussy before dipping down and plunging his warm tongue inside your hole. his hot breath fans over the expanse of you, making you twitch. “h-haah.. dean..” you fingers curl into his hair, keeping him there. he laughs lapping up your arousal messily. “keep researchin’, darlin’. thought you had stuff to do?” he grins, not wasting any more time before spitting a glob of saliva onto your clit before watching it drip down to your hole. “god, i love this pretty ass cunt.” he praises, sucking juices out of your tight, fluttering hole.
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