Do Not Perceive Me

33 | They/She | MDNI I’m back in the fucking building again. This is where I put my low-effort un-beta’d stuff. Multifandom. Asks/prompts are always open!

[mcrdvcks]

bed chem

summary: Your boyfriend comes to the apartment with Dex in tow—except Matt says that some test tubes broke during their fight, and now they're infected with a mysterious airborne substance. And now you're starting to feel it too... word count: 19.7k+ (pls don't shoot idk how that happened) pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader x dex poindexter notes: yeah so... this got... out of hand. i spent weeks on this, whenever i had the *horny urge* i wrote a short scene and i kept doing it for weeks. that's what i get for getting my period every 2 weeks, my hormones like to fuck me just like all the fucking in this warnings/tags: no use of y/n, established relationship (matt and you), sex pollen, EVERYONE IS CONSENTING!!!, threesome (mmf), fingering (f!receiving), handjob(s), oral (f&m!receiving), unprotected piv, cum play (idk kinda? there's a lot of orgasms in this lol), creampie(s), headlock by dex yes plsss, one use of the word 'slut', a little bit of biting, i meant it when i said a lot of orgasms there's so many omg, grinding, honestly dex is a third wheel, teasing, dex kinda has a humiliation kink honestly, you and matt use dex as a table (?), choking - as in matt chokes dex bc i said so, fingers in mouth (or rather dex sucks ur fingers), a lot of kissing (sadly no dexmatt kiss i'm so sorry y'all i'll make up for it next time), slight edging, dex has a praise kink (he just wants to fuck you good!), 69ing with some pizzazz, kinda cum eating?, bratty!dex, dom!matt, sub/switch!dex, it's kinda a competition to see who can fuck u better, lightly proofread

The lock clicks, then the door shoves open like somebody hit it with a shoulder instead of a key, and the first thing you hear is a breath that doesn’t belong in your quiet apartment. It’s too rough, too fast, the kind of breathing that comes after a sprint or a fight, and then there’s the scrape of boots on the wood floor as someone drags weight over the threshold.

You sit up against your pillows, nightgown twisted around your thighs, skin warm from sleep, and you blink hard at the clock because your brain tries to insist this is a nightmare before it accepts that Matt is actually home, and he didn’t come home alone. “Matt?” Your voice comes out husky, still fogged with sleep, and you swing your legs over the side of the bed as your pulse starts climbing. “What the hell is going on?”

“Stay in the bedroom,” Matt says immediately, and the way he says it makes your stomach tighten because it’s not a suggestion. It’s his command-voice—his Daredevil-voice—the one he uses when something is wrong, and he doesn’t want you anywhere near it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes cut to Dex. “Stop talking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You type again, more frantic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No footsteps yet.

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

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

Matt’s footsteps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex’s grin widens. “Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two are disgusting,” Dex mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex’s smile sharpens. “We?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt stays behind you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your shoulder, breathing hard but slower now. His hands soften on your hips, turning from control into support.

Dex lies under you with his eyes half-lidded, still flushed, lips wet, chin shining, and he looks up at you like he wants to say something cruel just to prove he can. What comes out is a rough exhale and a bitter, shaky laugh. “Holy shit,” Dex mutters, and he sounds like he hates that he means it. “I think it’s actually… wearing off.”

Matt’s hands stay on you for a while after, not gripping anymore, just steadying, like he’s making sure you’re actually present and not drifting. He shifts carefully to get you off Dex, guiding you by the waist and shoulders so you don’t topple on shaky legs. The second your feet touch the floor your knees threaten to give, and Matt catches you like he’s done it a thousand times, one hand at the back of your neck, the other braced at your hip.

“Slow,” Matt murmurs, mouth near your temple. “Breathe for me. In and out, don’t rush it.”

“I’m breathing,” you rasp, then immediately prove you’re not by sucking in a short, shaky inhale that turns into a laugh because it’s either that or cry. Your skin feels too warm, tacky with sweat, and the air in the room feels thick even though the worst of the fever is finally fading.

Matt steers you to the edge of the bed and sits you down, then disappears for a second. You hear the faucet run, cabinets opening, the muted clink of a glass, and then he’s back with water and a cold washcloth. He presses the cloth to the back of your neck first, then your forehead, then your cheeks, gentle and methodical.

“Drink,” he says, and he guides the glass into your hands like he’s worried you’ll spill it.

You take a few sips and immediately realize how dry your throat is. “Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing again. “I feel like I ran a marathon.”

“You kind of did,” Matt says, dry but not teasing. His thumb drags over your pulse point at your wrist in a small check, then his palm settles there like he wants to feel you steady. “Any dizziness? Any nausea?”

“No,” you say, then pause because your stomach flips once as the room tilts slightly. “Okay, maybe a little dizzy.”

Matt’s hand tightens lightly on the back of your neck. “Then you sit,” he says, calm and firm. “You don’t try to be brave right now.”

Across the bed, Dex is quieter than he has been all night, which is almost unsettling. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the mattress, head tipped back, forearm over his eyes like he’s trying to hide the fact that he needs a minute. His breathing is still too fast, but it’s not frantic anymore, and the sharp edge of him looks blunted, like somebody finally turned the volume down.

He lifts his arm just enough to peer at you and Matt, and even now he can’t help himself. “You always this domesticated?” he asks, voice rough. The line is clearly meant to be snarky, but it lands thin, like he didn’t have the energy to sharpen it.

Matt doesn’t take the bait. He wipes your cheek with the cloth again, then sets it on your shoulder and keeps his hand there. “You’re leaving as soon as you can stand without falling,” he says, like he’s reading a grocery list.

Dex’s mouth quirks. “So romantic.”

“You’re still in my apartment,” Matt replies, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes the room feel smaller. “Don’t make me regret letting you walk out instead of dragging you.”

Dex’s eyes flick up toward Matt’s face, then down to Matt’s hand on your shoulder like he’s cataloging the claim again, even if he’s too wrung out to argue with it. “Relax,” he mutters. “I’m not staying for brunch.”

You take another sip of water, then set the glass down on the nightstand with a careful clink. Your muscles feel heavy, and your skin feels too sensitive in that post-overload way that makes the idea of putting on clothes feel like work. You grab the sheet and pull it over your lap because you need one normal human action to latch onto. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier now. “We’re not doing the ‘stand around and glare at each other’ thing. We need to clean. We need air. And we need to get rid of anything that might still have that chemical on it.”

Dex makes a noncommittal sound, but he pushes himself upright with a small wince, like his body is protesting. Matt’s head turns toward you immediately, attentive. “You want windows?” Matt asks.

“Yes,” you say. “All of them. Bedroom, living room. And we need trash bags. Gloves. Anything that touched your suits needs to get bagged.”

Matt nods once and stands, moving with that careful efficiency he slips into when he’s trying not to think about what just happened. You hear the bedroom window slide up, then the living room windows. Air drifts in, cool and city-dirty, and it helps. It doesn’t erase the heat in your blood, but it takes the edge off the room.

Dex gets to his feet and stretches like he’s trying to shake out the last of the chemical from his bones. He looks steadier now, but his gaze keeps drifting to you like he’s trying to memorize the situation and file it away for later. You point at him. “Bathroom. Wash your hands. Like, actually wash them.”

Dex’s brows lift. “Bossy.”

“Not negotiable,” you shoot back, and you’re proud your voice doesn’t wobble.

Dex’s smile twitches, then he actually goes, disappearing down the hall. You hear the faucet turn on and, shockingly, soap.

Matt comes back in with trash bags and a roll of paper towels. “I’ll bag the suits,” he says, and you can hear him trying to keep it neutral, trying to turn it into a task so he doesn’t have to sit in the reality of having Dex here at all.

“I’ll wipe down surfaces,” you say, already standing carefully, sheet clutched at your waist. “Coffee table, counters, doorknobs. Anything you two touched.”

Matt’s hand finds your elbow immediately, steadying you without smothering. “If you start to sway, you sit,” he says quietly.

“I will,” you promise, then add, because you know he needs to hear it, “I’m okay.”

He pauses like he’s listening to your heartbeat, then leans in and presses his forehead lightly to yours. “Okay,” he says back, softer than he’s been all night.

You move into the kitchen and find the plastic bag with the broken test tube shard where you left it. Seeing it again makes your stomach tighten, because it’s a stupid little piece of glass that caused all of this, and it feels unreal that it’s still sitting there like any other mess.

Dex comes back from the bathroom wiping his hands on a towel he definitely didn’t ask permission to use. He stops when he sees the bag on the counter, eyes narrowing slightly like his brain is finally catching up to the mission part of the night.

“That the souvenir?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, and you keep your tone flat. “And you’re not touching it.”

Dex gives you a look that says he’s annoyed you clocked him so easily. “Wasn’t going to.”

Matt’s voice comes from the hallway, calm and cold. “You were.”

Dex turns his head toward the sound with a sharp little grin. “You can’t prove that.”

Matt doesn’t move closer, doesn’t raise his voice. “Try it,” he says simply.

For a second the room feels like it’s on the edge of snapping again, not chemical this time, just old hatred and pride and the fact that Dex is Dex. You step between it before it can happen, because you’re done with men trying to make your apartment a battleground.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” you say, and you make your voice firm enough that it cuts through both of them. “Dex, you’re leaving. Not later when you feel like it—when you can walk straight, which looks like it’s basically now. You don’t take anything from this apartment. You don’t touch that bag. And you do not come back.”

Dex’s eyes flick to you, then soften into something sharper. “Aw,” he says, quiet and ugly-sweet. “You’re making rules.”

“Yes,” you say. “Because you clearly don’t know how to exist without someone making them for you.”

Dex’s jaw flexes, and you can see the irritation, the spite, the obsession all mixing behind his eyes. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something cutting, then his gaze flicks past you to Matt. “You hear that?” Dex says, voice low. “Your girl’s got a spine. I like that.”

Matt’s answer is immediate and controlled. “Leave.”

Dex takes a step backward toward the door, then pauses like he can’t help himself. “This isn’t over,” he says, and it’s not even a threat that’s trying to sound cool. It’s just a fact in his tone, like he’s already decided he gets to stay in your orbit.

You stare at him, letting your expression go flat. “It is for me.”

Dex’s smile twitches like you slapped him. He looks at you too long, then turns and walks out. He doesn’t slam the door; he lets it click shut behind him like he’s leaving on purpose instead of being thrown out.

Matt locks it immediately. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home is the first thing all night that makes your shoulders drop. Matt stands there for a second with his hand still on the lock, head bowed slightly like he’s listening for Dex’s footsteps in the hall, for the elevator, for proof he’s actually gone.

Then Matt turns and comes back to you, and the moment he reaches you he cups the back of your neck and leans his forehead to yours again, breathing like he’s finally allowing his lungs to work.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“You can apologize later,” you murmur, and you squeeze his wrist. “Right now, I want a shower and clean sheets and, ideally, a world where nobody ever breaks a glass cage full of mystery chemicals again.”

Matt lets out a strained laugh that sounds like relief more than humor. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

---

Two weeks later, the apartment feels normal again in the way it always does after something violent tries to stain it. The sheets are clean, the couch has been scrubbed, the trash bags are long gone, and you’ve managed to file the whole night into that mental drawer labeled “never talk about this unless you absolutely have to.”

Matt comes home with groceries and bruises and a tired kiss that makes you feel like your body belongs to you again. You make dinner, you argue about whether he needs more sleep, and you pretend you don’t flinch when you hear sirens outside.

On a Tuesday afternoon, you bring the mail upstairs in a messy stack, flipping through the usual junk with your thumb. Matt’s at the kitchen counter, rinsing fruit, head tilted toward you like he’s listening for the tone of your voice more than the words.

“Bills,” you mutter. “Ads. Something for you from the bar association.” You pause, because one envelope doesn’t match the rest. It’s a plain envelope with no return address, and your name printed neatly on the front like somebody took their time. “Matt,” you call, trying to keep your voice casual and failing.

“What is it?” He asks, turning off the faucet.

“There’s… a letter,” you say, and you pick it up carefully, like it might bite. “No return address.”

Matt’s footsteps are quiet, controlled, and he stops close enough that you can feel him beside you. “Don’t open it yet,” he says, and his voice goes tight in that way it does when his instincts are screaming.

You don’t, not until he’s right there, one hand hovering near your wrist like he’s ready to pull you back if something goes wrong. You slide a finger under the flap and open it slowly, trying not to tear the paper. Inside is a single card, thick and clean, like it came from a nice stationery shop.

There’s no long message; no rant, no explanation. Just a small circle drawn in black ink, and inside it, a clean bullseye.

Your stomach drops.

Matt’s hand closes around your wrist gently but firmly. “What is it?” he asks, already knowing it’s bad from your breathing.

You swallow and slide the card toward him even though he can’t see it. “It’s… a symbol,” you say, voice tight. “A bullseye.”

Matt goes very still. His jaw clenches. His thumb presses once at your pulse point, not to calm you, but like he’s grounding himself too. “Is there anything written?” he asks, voice low.

You flip the card over with shaking fingers. There’s one line in the same neat print as the envelope: Thanks for the hospitality.

You look at Matt, and his face is calm in the way it gets right before violence, right before he turns into Daredevil instead of your boyfriend.

“Was he here?” you whisper.

Matt’s hand slides from your wrist to your cheek, warm and steady. “No,” he says quietly. “He wants us to think he was.”

You stare at the stupid little card, anger and fear twisting together in your chest. “He’s not done.”

Matt’s mouth tightens, and he leans in until his forehead touches yours again, voice low enough that it feels like a promise. “Neither am I.”

extra notes: look, all i'm gonna say is, i prob will come back to this as my horny release, lol. mostly because i feel betrayed by myself and really want to write a dexmatt kiss. like could you imagine them fucking you from each end while kissing over you?????? yeah can't believe i didn't write that

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo @demiebarnes

matt murdock: @ultimatewolverine @steviebbboi @crowleythesexydemon @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @hawke1917 @hexedangelx

dex poindexter: @ultimatewolverine @nightmerzer @hexedangelx @avidreader73

[kadannish]

Amen!

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x Nun!Reader Word Count: 12.7k

Warnings/tags: 18+ MINORS DNI, religious angst, some pretty intense sacrilege if you're Catholic, NunWithAPast!Reader, set during DDBA, but really he's closer in personality to the netflix version, sub!Dex, Domme!Reader, slow burn- as much as a one-shot can be a slow burn, banging in a church, oral F!receiving, finger sucking, Dex being a very good boy, dacryphilia, begging, light stalking, no beta we die like Father Lantam, also a first draft.

a/n: Can you believe this was meant to be a 5k throwaway project? Idk what happened. Anyway, I'm back in the fucking building again. This is the first fic I've posted on tumblr in about 10 years, and I'm going to try to keep it up! Hope y'all enjoy!

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A nun is a woman who vows to dedicate her life to religious service and contemplation, typically living under vows of Poverty, Obedience, and Chastity.

The first night you met Benjamin Poindexter, you were alone, working late, preparing for your weekly Young Adult Bible Study, much to Mother Superior’s chagrin. She never liked the idea of you, a “free thinker” within St. Agnes, working to mold young minds. The problem was, you were the only one around willing to field the hard questions. Kids that age were challenging, all with valid questions and challenges to their faith that deserved answers. You weren’t afraid of that.

You were, however, a little afraid when you heard the chapel doors slamming from all the way in the back classroom. Before speaking to the newcomer, you cracked open the door of the classroom, peering through to the chapel to see him.

He was tall—towering, really—wearing a policeman’s uniform that fit awkwardly against his bulky frame. His eyes were wide, wild, searching. The way he clenched his fists, you could sense danger over him like a shroud. He walked forward through the pews with an irregular gait; it reminded you of a foal, freshly born and on new, shaking legs.

“Anyone here? I need… I need help.” His voice cracked on the admission.

In that moment, you realized that wild look wasn’t what you expected. It was desperation, pure and fervent in its need. You remember thinking, this is what I’m here for, to help those who need it most. It was enough to pull you out from behind the office door, to reveal yourself fully to him.

His reaction was immediate, stumbling forward to approach you, but he seemed to catch himself in the middle, as if realizing what he was doing. He took a shaking breath, swallowing before unclenching his fists and putting one hand over the other. He must have been military, easily settling into an ‘at ease’ stance, only keeping his hands in front instead of behind. As if he wanted to make sure you knew he was keeping his hands to himself. That you have nothing to fear from him.

“I’m looking for Sister Maggie. Do you know her? I need to talk to her,” he said, quieter, more even.

You could still see it in his eyes, though; the sweat beading in his hairline. He was trying his hardest to maintain composure in your presence, but it was like he was a puppet held together by burning string. Any moment that string would simply burn away, leaving him as nothing but a broken heap on the ground.

Sister Maggie was a familiar name, albeit one you hadn’t heard in a while. She was one of the more experienced nuns who had trained you when you were first assigned to St. Agnes. It had been a long time since you’d seen her, though. She’d left without much word.

“She’s not here,” you answered truthfully, and that seemed enough to burn whatever was left holding him up.

To his credit, the man tried to keep himself together, at first. Several emotions flit across his face, anger, fear, desolation, each more hopeless than the last. It hurt your heart to see. You found yourself wanting to reach out to him as he slowly sunk to his knees.

“Shit, I was really…” he whispered, barely more than a croak in the back of his throat.

You took a step forward, then another. There was a time when you weren’t so different from him. On your knees, ready to give up on everything, no hope in the world. Nowhere to escape. Nowhere, except here. As you got closer, it was like an itch buzzed just under your skin, a frenzied instinct to touch him. Get your hands on him.

Your fingers grazed the man’s cheek. There’s a scar there, rough and badly cared for when it was still fresh. His skin was warm, feverish, almost. Slightly damp with sweat. The beginnings of stubble caught against the pad of your thumb.

Startled by your touch, a breath hitched in the man. He looked up at you, wide-eyed, red-rimmed with unshed tears. His lips parted wordlessly as he hesitantly pressed a gloved hand against yours, urging you to stay.

The chapel was silent, wide as a yawning cave. The only sound was his breath, echoing across empty pews. His chest juddered with a wet inhale. He didn’t speak, but the look in his eyes was enough for you. He was an open book, just for you to read.

Please, his eyes said. Please help me.

A dark thought struck you then, something dangerous. A kind of thought you swore yourself away from the day you kneeled before the altar and pledged yourself in service of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

You swallowed the thought down, refusing to let it seed and bear fruit in your mind.

“It’s alright; you’re safe here,” you said. “What’s your name?”

He didn’t let go of your hand. He kept it there, clutching it against his face like a lifeline. Your fingertips prickled with sensation you’d forgotten you could feel.

“Dex,” he breathed. “Call me Dex.”

“Dex,” you repeated with a nod, letting your index finger trace the shape of his jagged scar. He shivered under your touch. That close, you could get the scent of him: blood and metal. It didn’t scare you as much as it should have.

“What do you need?” You asked, barely above a whisper. It might as well have been a cannon in the chapel’s silence.

Dex’s hand closed over yours, squeezing your fingers. Your nerves were so frayed, so hyperaware, you could feel the roughness of every single groove that lined his glove.

“Absolution.”

You closed your eyes. His voice was so full of emotion, choking with it. That dangerous thought came back to you, revealing itself just a little more within your psyche. You should have pulled away from him, his warmth. You couldn’t help him the way he clearly needed.

Slowly, with great hesitation, you pulled your fingers from Dex’s grasp. He seemed to waver in the wake of your absence, swaying on his knees, no longer supported by your touch.

“I… I don’t have the authority to give that to you.” You tangled your fingers together in the rosary knotted to your belt; a distraction from the tingling under your skin. Father Patrick might still have been awake; he was a night owl. “Let me—”

You had turned away, thoughts on next steps to help the poor man on his knees, but you hadn’t taken more than a step before you had a vice-like grip on your arm. The iron hold stopped you, your words, dead in their tracks.

“No, wait,” Dex said in a rush. You turned back to him, and the expression you wore on your face must’ve been something like shock or alarm, because he immediately pulled his hands away, taking a step back. He didn’t go back to the parade rest as before, but he still kept his hands in plain view for you to see.

It made you wonder if he often scared people in his life, often enough to be so quick to try to seem non-threatening.

“I don’t care if you don’t have the authority or whatever.” Clearly not a Catholic, then. The thought almost made you smile. “Just… please don’t leave. Maybe we can talk?” He spoke so fast, as if he were expecting you to leave in the middle of it all.

Man, is by nature, sinful; from the moment Adam took a bite of that apple, or the moment Eve touched it at all, depending on who you ask. That first sin seeping through to stain every single human thereafter. While you’ve always been aware of this, the original corruption that you were born with, the last few years had been good to you. Your time at the convent, then at St. Agnes had almost made you forget the near-irresistible pull of earthly temptation. There, in that moment, with Benjamin Poindexter, the habit-shaped leash pulled taught.

Which sin would be worse: leaving a man in need of help, or knowingly entertaining a situation that could lead to damnation?

You took a breath, for courage. Instead of returning to your journey to Father Patrick, who you knew would be able to give Dex the absolution he clearly needed, you smiled at him. You sat in a pew and patted the space next to you.

“Alright. Tell me what you want to talk about,” you said.

The look of utter relief that crossed Dex’s features was nearly enough to make it all worth it. Whatever thing that held the rigid tension in his body was finally cut. His shoulders sagged as he settled next to you. As he did so, his knee gently grazed yours, something barely there, then immediately gone. You weren’t sure if he noticed it as he began to talk because that first thought reared it’s ugly head for a third time, fully formed and burying malevolent roots into your subconscious.

He looked so beautiful on his knees.

Poverty: Embracing a life of simplicity, where personal items belong to the community, detaching from material possessions to focus on God.

“How’s Mrs. Smithers?” You asked as Dex approached, squinting against the bright sun behind him.

Several weeks had passed since that first meeting in the chapel. Since then, you’d created a habit of meeting him a couple of times a week at a nearby park. Routine was important for him, and thankfully, routine was also an important part of dedicating one’s life in service to God. Routine leaves less room for sin. Or something. All you knew was that it was nice to spend a moment to relax in the sun three times a week.

“I think she’s starting to warm up to me. You were right about the quiche.” Dex sidled up next to you, sitting on the other end of the bench. He held a greasy bag out to you, which you took after only a brief hesitation.

He hadn’t touched you, not since that first night, and in the daylight, you were grateful. Without the touching, you could almost make yourself believe this was a normal situation, that your budding attachment to this man was something mundane and excusable. At night, however…

“Every time we have a potluck, she always eats at least three slices. Once I’m almost certain she put an entire thing in her purse. Mrs. Liston is still looking for her pie dish.” You dug into the bag, inhaling the oily scent of a bacon, egg, and cheese on a croissant.

It was a rare treat, a greasy little sandwich like that from a nearby bodega. Over at St. Agnes, food was made in bulk for the children and nuns alike in a cafeteria-style kitchen. Money was tight, always tight at St. Agnes; anything made outside of the kitchen was reserved for special occasions.

One bite in, and you already felt the delicate flakes of the croissant falling into your lap, grease from the bacon on your chin.

Being a person in the modern world, you had seen several advertisements and the like describe food as decadent. When a commercial or a magazine described a decadent food, it was a reference to its richness, the quality of the ingredients, and several other evocative phrases to convince possible customers the treat was worth its price tag. If one were to look in the dictionary for decadent, they would find references to moral corruption, hedonism, self-indulgence.

That’s how you felt as salt, and butter, and warmth melted across your tongue. On the edge of a precipice toward gluttony. You needed to stop; you hadn’t even properly thanked Dex for the gift, just taken it without a word and taken bite after bite, as if you couldn’t fit enough of it into your mouth.

By the time your hands were empty, you were practically out of breath, almost cold without the heat of the sandwich. As you woke from your food-induced fugue state, you looked to Dex, who stared at you wide-eyed and rapt.

Shame burned in your cheeks. You must’ve looked like a beast, just a few steps off from unhinging your jaw and swallowing the thing whole. A servant of God should not be so distracted by sensual pleasures. He came to you for help, and there you were, forgetting the world over a sandwich.

“Sorry,” you muttered, absently wiping your chin with the back of your hand, something else Mother Superior would chide you for if she were there. “Thank you for the treat, Dex.”

“You liked it?” His voice was small, almost shy, as he said it.

His tone woke a long-buried instinct in your mind. Back when hedonism and self-indulgence ruled your existence. Bodies upon bodies upon bodies in the throes of pleasure. You, taking your time, taking special care to learn their pleasures so you could inflict it upon them at your will. Always standing above them, benevolent or pitiless, depending on what they needed. Either suited you if it meant you could take what you wanted.

He wants to be good. He wants you to tell him so. He wants to be a good boy so bad, he would beg for it, he’d be on his hands and knees—

“Yes, it was very good,” you said, carefully avoiding the phrasing the dark parts within yourself wanted to use. “Thank you again, Dex.”

A smile, hesitant but genuine, twitched at Dex’s lips. Such a small compliment, but you could see it glowing from the inside out of him. Just like that first night, a tension eased away as he sagged into the bench. Dex was like that, constantly holding himself rigid, hypervigilant of the way he moved through the world, only relaxing when he finally received assurance that he was doing alright.

Warmth, different from the heat of the sandwich, or the searing nature of your previous thoughts, spread through your chest at the sight. Despite his past sins, despite the myriad of ways he had gone astray, moments like that reminded you he truly wanted to be a good man. That was why you were there: to help him back onto a path of righteousness. You smiled back at him.

“You like living at St. Agnes?” He asked, a question that mildly shocked you.

Thus far, your conversations had almost exclusively revolved around Dex. His past, his rage, his need to make up for what he’s done, relearning how to build positive relationships after what happened with Wilson Fisk and living in the hospital. Yes, he had been able to needle a few things out of you, hence the sandwich, but there had always been more pressing things to talk about. This was the first time he had asked you about your life so plainly.

“I do, working with the children is rewarding, and the quiet during contemplation is soothing.” You shrugged. “Of course, it has its challenges, but—”

“Challenges?” Dex leaned forward. “Tell me about them.”

You regarded Dex with slight suspicion. Awfully curious all of a sudden.

“If you wanted to practice your interpersonal skills, you could’ve just asked, you know,” you said with a light huff. “Remember what I said about open-ended questions. ‘Tell me about…’ doesn’t count.”

“I’m working on it. Mrs. Smithers doesn’t complain, though,” he replies easily, almost cheeky, which just makes that warmth inside you bloom farther.

“Mrs. Smithers only needs a quiche and a pet for her cat to win her over.” You slid your gaze to Dex. “Not everyone is so easy.”

“You’re not easy, Sister,” Dex said with sudden seriousness. His gaze on you was heavy, like a weight as the bout of playfulness slipped away. “We’ve been talking about me forever, and I wanna ask about you. That makes it fair.”

You took a breath, nodding. Over time, you had come to see that Dex had trouble identifying nuance in the world around him. Keeping track of actions and “keeping the scales balanced” seemed to be a big concern for him. To an extent, you could understand. For someone for whom selflessness doesn’t come naturally, it’s a good way to keep from seeming self-involved to others.

“You’re right, Dex. I’ve been so preoccupied with learning about you that I haven’t been very forthcoming about myself.” You could stand to be a little honest with him, in exchange for all the things he had told you.

But something inside you still tensed. Over those last weeks, Dex had come to depend on you for your moral guidance. You enjoyed that, it made you feel like you were doing something right in the world, but those thoughts that popped up about him from time to time— he didn’t need to know about that. Honesty, to an extent.

Dex was still looking at you expectantly, his hand tensing over the back of the bench.

“When I took my vows, I had to renounce everything I owned. The vow of poverty we take means that we cannot hold ownership over any material possessions. We share everything with everyone in the community.”

Dex nodded, that rapt expression returning to his face. He looked at you like a puzzle he was trying to solve, or a present he wanted to unravel, you weren’t quite sure. He was a smart man, he had to be to reach where he got in the FBI. Violence just happened to be the thing he excelled at.

“Go on,” he said.

“For the most part, I do like the way we all pool our resources. It’s very rare that anyone ever feels any lack. But…” you swallow. “Sometimes I miss having something to myself. Sharing everything also means that I don’t have much privacy. Anything in the prayer book I use is subject to be read or used by someone else because it doesn’t belong to me.” You bit your lip, fingers toying with your rosary. “Before I took my vows, I journaled a lot. I felt like I could do that, I could write whatever was filling up my mind, get out any scary or evil thoughts I had and it would stay in there, secret. Now, sometimes I feel my thoughts building, but there’s nowhere to put them. At least, nowhere I won’t worry it’ll be seen.”

The admission came out of you in a rush, leaving you feeling a little lighter for it. It was such a small thing, not big enough for you to mention in your weekly confessions, but somehow letting it out made you feel like you had taken your first breath of fresh air in years.

“That sounds hard, really hard,” Dex murmured. He’d told you about that phrase once. That, and others he had practiced with Dr. Mercer as he grew up. The level of sincerity he was able to muster in those words always shocked you, despite his issues with empathy.

“You’ve really got that one down,” you said back with a weak smile.

Dex was smiling at you again. A smile so wide that it made the scar on his cheek crinkle a little at the edge.

“I think I might actually mean it this time, Sister.”

You clutch your rosary tighter. Hard enough to hurt.

The rest of the day went by as normal. Dex and you parted ways after a small conversation about his day and his plans for the week, which seemed innocuous, though something in the back of your mind told you he was holding something back. You wanted to press, but time wouldn’t allow it that day. You needed to be back at St. Agnes to help serve lunch to the children.

At the end of the day, you wandered to your bedroom, your knees ached from the time you spent in prayer. Of course, you prayed every day, but these days any free time you had not dedicated to Dex or the church, or St. Agnes was spent in prayer. Praying to God to release you from the thoughts you had about your new charge, for the strength to help him selflessly, for him to triumph over his nature. You hoped it was enough.

You removed your veil, feeling a cool breeze on the back of your neck. Turning, you found your window slightly ajar. You didn’t remember leaving it that way. It’s possible one of the other nuns had opened it to air out the musty smell that seemed permanently attached to the walls. You closed the window, it was going to be cold that night.

After changing into your nightdress and going through your nightly routine, you laid your head on your pillow, only to feel something hard beneath. In the dark, with searching fingers, you found a book that was not there before. You turned the light back on with it in your hand, finding a plain black leather notebook. The cover was supple, luxurious in feel, but still austere in its way. You had your suspicions where it could have come from, why your window was open, and they were only confirmed when you opened the front cover. On it, in chicken-scratch handwriting was:

Just for you. — D

Obedience: Surrendering one’s personal will in faithful trust, listening with humility to God’s call as expressed through the community and its leaders, and seeking to follow His guidance with devotion and unity.

You looked both ways before you crossed the street, casually checking over your shoulder as you reached the sidewalk on the other side. No one from the church seemed to be watching. With one last casual glance around for wandering eyes, you opened the door and stole into Dex’s apartment building.

This was… wholly inappropriate, meeting a man alone in his apartment. However, you had been careful. You had taken a Vow of Obedience, which meant if one of the church leaders gave you orders, you must abide by them. But, if those leaders didn’t know enough to give you orders to avoid something, the Vow was still technically unbroken. What Father Patrick and Mother Superior didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

On Dex’s floor, you were sure to not only keep quiet, but also an eye on Mrs. Smithers’ door. She was a nosy one, and if she were to see you there, the rest of the parish would know about it in the blink on an eye. You softly knock on his door, eyes flicking between that and Mrs. Smithers’.

A faint click, and creak alerts you that Dex has opened the door, and you, eager to be out of sight of Mrs. Smithers’ front door, quickly move forward to enter.

Dex, apparently, was not ready for your sudden movement. Before you you could comprehend what was happening, you were making contact with smooth, heated skin.

He was not wearing a shirt. Your cheek, your mouth pressed into him. Smooth, plush skin layered over hard and well-worked muscle. Dex’s smell was still mostly the same: blood, metal, but now with an added sting of aftershave. This close, the smell surrounded you, enveloped you in the danger of it. The only reason he’d still smell like blood is if he wasn’t telling you the whole truth of what he’d been up to since your first meeting. In fact, that was why you were there in the first place.

You should have been angry, or at the very least afraid. Then again, you should have been afraid all the way back when Dex confessed to you how many people he had murdered. You weren’t, though. The way he looked at you that first night, you felt a bone-deep certainty that he was no threat to you. It was the same certainty you had when you decided to join the church, that you would find your calling there. In a way, you were starting to believe you had, but maybe not the way you expected.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had skin-to-skin contact with a man. Especially not a man you were having unclean thoughts about. The reaction in your body was immediate and utterly overwhelming. It was like his warmth completely leeched into you, filling your body with a wanton shiver. Just like the day he gave you that sandwich, the force in which your body craved more, more, MORE, stole your breath away.

Taste him, touch him, bite him, make him cry. He’d love it. He’d say “thank you” and ask for more.

“Sister?” Dex’s voice pulled you away from your thoughts. Enough for you to take a step back and look up to see his expression of confusion and concern.

At first, you were at a loss for words. Why had you come there? Your mind was reeling, completely stopped short of what you were supposed to be doing. Instead, you could only take in the sight of him. Low-slung sweatpants, so much bare skin. A dusting of blond fur over his chest and leading perilously down from his navel. You’d seen the suggestion of muscle under his clothes, the way he carried himself. In that moment, you could see it all on full display. You had felt it.

“I…” You breathe. Think, think! You closed your eyes against the onslaught of almost-sensation coursing through your body. Touch, but imagined, leaving your nerves prickling and reaching for more. Another breath to clear your mind. “I’ll let you get dressed first, then we can talk.”

It was the best strategy you could think of. Get space from Dex and a moment alone to gather yourself, remind yourself that you’re more than a beast in heat.

Dex nodded with hesitation, replying, “Sure,” before disappearing into what you assume was his bedroom.

Without him so close, you were finally able to breathe normally again and take in your surroundings. Much like your own quarters at St. Agnes, his home was as austere as it was tidy. No pictures, very little decoration aside from necessary furniture. Very beige.

You’re just settling into one of the two seats at his small kitchen table when Dex reappears in a beater that seemed to cling to all the things you were hoping a shirt would hide. It’s enough, though, for you to keep your focus.

“You want some coffee, Sister?” He asked, unsure. “I don’t have any creamer, or anything like that, but—”

You cut him off. “Was it you that killed all those AVTF agents at the hospital yesterday?” Remembering the reason why you’d come, and how easy it had been for all of it to fly out the window by the mere sight of bared skin made something in your stomach sour.

Dex was quiet for a long time, something hardening in his eyes, even as he avoided your gaze. He flexes one of his wrists, rolls his hand in a circle. You let him stew in whatever he was feeling in the moment, let him take his time to answer, even though you yourself were still reeling between two violently conflicting emotions.

“They’re bad guys, Sister,” he finally said. “They’re taking good people off the streets and making them scared. And God gave me this gift, remember you said that? We talked about him giving me opportunities to use it for good.”

You had to fight not to rub your temples. This was your own fault, to try and help someone with issues you were far from qualified to handle. You thought — maybe pride was more your sin than gluttony or lust. Or maybe it was all three. Maybe you were more corrupted than you thought. You had thoughts that maybe Dex had been brought to you as a test, and that still felt right, but maybe not the kind of test you’d initially thought. Maybe you’d already failed.

“You can’t kill people, Dex. Even if they’re bad guys, even if they’re scaring good people. It’s not up to you to decide who lives and who dies.”

Dex slammed his fists onto his counter, the gunshot of a sound making you jump despite yourself. “Then why did He make me like this?” He flicked his wrist.

There was a sound, a blur too fast to see as a fork bounces from wall, to ceiling, and then down into the wood of the table directly in front of you. You did not flinch. When you looked at Dex, you could see a shadow over his face, nearly identical to the one that weighed him down when you first met.

You stood, approaching him slowly. His brow was creased with anguish, clutching the edges of his counter so tight that his arms shook.

“Take a breath, Dex, please,” you murmured. Together, as his hazel eyes met yours, you took one breath in, counted to three, then exhaled. At the very least, it stopped the shaking enough for you to touch his hand.

“Have you considered God is presenting you opportunities to overcome your urge to hurt?” You asked gently. Your hand slides up the back of his, fingers circling his wrist to feel the flutter of his pulse. Fast, but slowing in degrees.

Dex swallowed thickly, eyes glossy. He did not move away from you, in fact, you could feel him leaning closer, so slowly it was almost impossible to notice. You weren’t even sure if he was doing it consciously.

“Why does it feel so good to hurt them? Why would He make me feel like that?” Dex asked, barely above a whisper.

“There are a lot of things that feel good that we should stay away from.” And you knew that more than most. Yet there you still were, letting a man who just a few minutes ago nearly made your knees buckle with the force of lust you felt lean his weight onto you, forehead on your shoulder.

“I have to balance the scales, Sister,” he croaked. “They made me kill so many good people. I have to make it even.”

“That’s not your job, Dex.”

“It is,” he countered. “I feel it the same way you said you felt it when you decided to go to the church. Don’t you all always say He works in mysterious ways? Maybe He made an exception for me.”

You clutched his wrist a little harder, felt his muscles shift under his skin. This was going too far, it had been too far, long before that moment. Dex was killing people, was going to continue killing people. You needed to tell someone, before he started killing again.

Who would you tell, though? If you went to the police, he would go right back to Rikers, where he would most assuredly die. If you did so, would that be as good as killing him? Maybe you wouldn’t be holding the knife, but it certainly felt like sending him back there would ultimately be the same thing. But if you didn’t tell anyone and Dex killed someone else, that blood would be on your hands as well.

Lord God almighty, you prayed, I see now that this was a test I failed. Please do not let more die because of my weakness. Please help me help this man who has been led astray in pursuit of your forgiveness. Amen.

Slowly, you pulled away from Dex, and the way his face fell made your heart squeeze painfully. He looked lost, afraid.

“Wait—” he grabbed your arm, a little too tight. “Sister, are you leaving me? You can’t, please—”

A scream, coming from outside stopped Dex from continuing. He turned his head to listen, and you both heard another faint cry. The change in him was instantaneous. His posture straightened, tension like a rod in his spine as his eyes hardened. Gone was the man begging for you to stay, now in front of you stood the one who killed and killed and killed.

“Stay here,” Dex muttered and pulled away too fast for you to catch him. Absently, he grabbed several forks from his drawer before swiftly retreating to his bedroom. By the time you followed him in, Dex had already pulled on a mask and had deftly climbed out the window.

With your heart in your throat, you stuck your head out the window to find someone unfamiliar on the ground, curled into a ball. He was surrounded by men wearing spray painted skulls on their bulletproof vests. One had a gun trained on the man on the ground.

You watched, helpless as Dex silently descended from the fire escape, flexible and confident. The metal didn’t even squeal under his weight.

“We didn’t have to do this, you know,” one of the AVTF said to the cowering man below him. “If you’d just told us where your little friend is, we’d leave you alone, but now…” you could hear the sound of the gun cocking all the way from the window.

The gun fired, a blast that echoed deafeningly through the alleyway. You threw yourself away from the window, gripped by a primal fear of watching someone die. Adrenaline zoomed in your veins. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking as cold sweat pushed its way through your pores.

At first, you’re transported back to the kitchen at St. Agnes, at the height of lunch hour. A cacophony of sound, cutlery squealing, slicing, stabbing through meat and veg. There’s a bang, just like the echoing noise of a rubber ball thrown against the wall too hard. You would chide them for that, but no real punishments would be doled out. Just fun and and games. No one hurt. No one—

You flinched with each successive blast, covering your ears as cold fear gripped your insides. You had to check on the children. It was your job to make sure they were safe. BANG! BANG! BANG!

But there’s a whistle, too. A singing of metal through the air. Cutlery and meat. An aborted cry. There was a part of you that wanted to stay rooted right to your spot, unwilling to bear witness to the violence you knew would greet you outside that window. But another, stronger part needed to see. Needed to make sure Dex was okay.

As the noises died down, you approached the window on wobbling knees.

Please, God, let him be okay. Please, please, please let him live. Amen.

Peering down the alley, there was a heap of bodies, all dressed in black with those painted skulls. The man who had been on the ground was limping away, and Dex stood in the middle, chest rising and falling with exertion. Evidence of what he’d done was all over him. Blood, on his face, the white beater, his bare arms, his sweatpants. No tears, no limping. He seemed completely fine. In fact, after waiving the victim off, he just casually picked up the forks he’d used and made his way back up the fire escape.

Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill. Though shalt not kill. Thou shalt not—

You backed away as Dex entered through the window, casually wiping the blood off his forks and onto his pants. With his mask on, he looked like something out of a horror movie, and for the first time since you’ve known him, you were afraid of him. Afraid of the things he could do.

Tossing the forks onto a nearby dresser, Dex finally looked at you. At first, all you saw was that hard gaze, a killer’s eyes. You took a stumbling step back, feeling as if your legs were jelly.

Instantly, Dex threw off his mask, and there he was again. The man you knew, the one trying desperately to be better in a world that kept asking him to commit unspeakable violence. His hands were in front of him, open and beseeching, a reminder that he did not intend to hurt you. He would never hurt you.

“Please, hear me out,” he was saying. “Can’t you see? It was divine timing. He wants me to help people. This is how He wants me to atone.”

Slowly, step by step, Dex moved forward, and you were rooted to the spot. What did this mean? You had watched a man kill, breaking an inviolable law, both legally and spiritually. You had to tell someone; you had to do something about it.

He took your hand. Blood smeared against your skin. You smelled him. Blood and metal and aftershave. He dropped to his knees, pressing his cheek into your stomach. You let him, let his warmth seep back into you to calm your shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into the softest part of you, hands fisted in your skirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me.”

Thou shalt not kill. Was it the heat of his skin that you were feeling? Or blood soaking into your clothes? That man would’ve died. The gun was pointed at his head. They were going to kill him. Dex saved him. Thou shalt not kill. Five men were dead. Five men who were also going to murder someone who could not fight back. Thou shalt not kill.

God’s timing was always right. He worked in mysterious ways. You must tell someone. You must obey the law as it pertains to the Code. You Vowed to do so.

He told you God gave him a gift, called him to action to help those who could not help themselves. God’s timing was always right. Would He call someone to kill? Is that possible? He worked in mysterious ways. Humans were not meant to comprehend His will.

You brought a hand up, fingers weaving into Dex’s hair. In just the few minutes he was fighting, sweat had already beaded into his scalp. He was wet all over. The strands were delicate, soft. He sighed into you shakily.

The first time you tried to speak, nothing came out. Your voice caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. You swallowed, breathed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Chastity: Committing to a life of consecrated celibacy, offering one’s whole heart and body to God, and relinquishing exclusive human relationships and sexual indulgences.

The spray of the tub faucet was slow to warm against your outstretched hand. Dex was sitting on his bed, looking more than a little like a child in trouble as he stared at you through the door. There were dark stains in your dress, but you were confident in your ability to explain it away as grease stains from working in the kitchen.

Once it reached a comfortable temperature, you gestured for Dex to approach. The floor creaked under him as he did so. After witnessing his silent descent down the fire escape, you knew he was being deliberate. Trying not to scare you away.

“Your clothes,” you said. “Give them to me; I’ll wash them.”

Dex nodded wordlessly, first pulling off his stained shirt. You took it from him, folding it neatly on the bathroom counter. He hesitated, hands on the waistband of his sweats. You trained your gaze on his face, watching him unblinkingly with one hand out. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, and you don’t miss the widening of his pupils just before he silently pulled them down. You only broke your gaze to nod to the tub and fold his sweatpants the same way you had his shirt.

The water sloshed behind you with Dex’s descent. You took a washcloth from a nearby cabinet. Turning to face him once more, you’re struck by the amount of space he takes. The tub was much too small for him, forcing Dex to sit with his knees up and ankles crossed. You smiled, despite yourself. It would be funny if not for all the red on him.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, you dipped the washcloth in the water, and Dex watched with wide eyes as you pressed it to his shoulder.

The blood hadn’t had much time to settle into his skin, it was easy to clean away. As the looped fiber of the washcloth passed over his bicep, his forearm, his skin pebbled, fine blond hairs standing at attention under your ministrations.

Dex’s breath had shallowed, almost imperceptibly, by the time you brought the cloth to his back. You weren’t sure how it got there, but blood had found its way to the back of his neck, droplets meandering down, following the path of his spine.

There was a scar there, too, a long one stretching all the way down his back. You remembered Dex telling you the story, Wilson Fisk had broken his back, and the hospital had replaced the bones in his spine with steel. Then, they proceeded to give him a complicated cocktail of drugs to keep him drooling in art therapy. Anger was a sin deadly, but there were times, when you thought about the Fisks, that you burned. It was a rage that kept you awake at night. The things they’d done to him. Unforgivable.

You traced the ridges of that scar, much cleaner than the one on his cheek, but no groove that perfectly hugged the shape of your finger. His muscles shifted with your touch, Dex letting out a short breath. He had gone rigid under your attention. His hands clutched hard at his knees. His skin was cool to the touch, smooth, coated in gooseflesh.

“Sister—” he breathed.

Your answer came before you had a chance to think. As if the spirit of yourself from before your Vows had possessed you.

“Am I hurting you?” You knew you weren’t. You knew pain, and Dex’s shaking breath was not one of suffering. Not the painful kind of suffering, at least.

“No,” Dex answered with great effort, then let out a hysteric bark of a laugh. “No, not at all, Sister.”

With a small smile, you withdrew your hand, taking up the washcloth once more. Sweat prickled at the back of your neck, under your veil. Suddenly his compact bathroom felt almost stifling. You took his chin into your other hand, tilting his head to look up at you. Most of the blood was splattered against his front. Up his neck, onto his clavicle, then a few mushed stains where it had soaked straight through his shirt.

Dex was malleable under your touch, easily moving wherever you directed him. You pretended not to notice his cock, hard and steadily leaking under the water. Meeting his eyes, his irises were little more than thin lines of color around his blown pupils.

His lips parted, letting out a soft noise as you brought the washcloth to his neck. You followed the sharp line of his jaw, down to his pulse-point, and to the dip in his clavicle. All the while, he looked at you with a glassy sheen to his eyes, his breathing steadily increasing.

You had barely done anything and already he was putty in your hands. It made your mouth dry, your hands tremble. You’d heard this man murder five people just minutes ago, and he still looked at you like he was made to serve you.

Maybe he is. Maybe God made him a weapon for you to wield.

You would never use him the way the Fisks did, to murder innocents who threatened their criminal empire. You would only bid him to help those who needed it most. Dex would listen. He would do as you say. In exchange, you would keep him good, keep him true. You passed the washcloth down his chest.

“Fuck,” he whimpered. His hips shift under the water.

Touch him. Make him beg. Make him cry. Touch him touch him touch him touchhimthouchhimtouchhimtouchhim—

No, not like that. Not that way.

You dropped the washcloth back into the water, slotted your index finger in that jagged scar on his cheek.

“Benjamin.” His eyes cleared faintly at the sound of his first name. “I see now what you meant when you said that was what you were made to do.”

Dex leans into your hand, brows creasing. It was a look of hope, of gratitude.

“I won’t report you, and I won’t leave you either.” You took his other cheek into your other hand to make him look at you fully. “I just need you to promise me three things.”

Slowly, trembling, he nodded.

“First, what you’re doing is ultimately a service to the community. A commitment to defending the weak and vulnerable. When you take violent action, you will do so with that in mind.” The bathroom was so silent that your voice seemed to echo. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he sighed.

“Second, you must obey me. If I tell you not to kill someone, you will not.”

“Yes.”

You swallowed, feeling a lump in your throat. A tear slipped from Dex’s eye that you gently swiped away. The way he looked at you, with such utter trust and total devotion. It was a taste of divinity upon your searching tongue. A power to be regarded with as much honor and integrity as he would dedicate to you.

“And finally,” you said, your voice wavering. “You need to take care of yourself, too. You, your body, must be treated with respect. You will not take unnecessary risks, and if you are injured, you will come to me.”

Dex’s final “yes” was little more than a broken exclaim, but it was enough. You pressed your lips to his forehead, a lingering kiss to seal his oaths.

“Thank you, Benjamin,” you hummed into his skin.

With promises made, you left Dex’s apartment before you did something else unforgivable. What had you done? His blood-soaked clothes were in your arms, and you had asked him to make promises as if you were—what? You couldn’t bear to think about it.

Dex was on your mind the rest of the day. Watching his clothes tumble in the wash, you thought of the pink tinge in his bathwater as he let you maneuver him as you pleased. The evidence of his want rising from the water, leaking pearlescent.

As you helped prepare dinner for the children, you thought about the bodega sandwich. How eagerly you devoured it, how much you wanted to devour him. The pull was almost physical, calling you to return, to finish what you’d started earlier.

Your mind was like a highlight reel of all those little moments, no matter what task you were completing. Soft skin, hard muscle, a crooked and hesitant smile, jagged scar perfectly shaped to your finger, glassy eyes, letting go, panting, softly keening.

He wants it. He wants you. He wishes you touched him. He probably touched himself as soon as you left. He rut into his hand with that washcloth stuffed in his mouth. He came with the taste of your touch and someone else’s blood on his tongue—

“Sister?” You were jarred out of your rapidly escalating thoughts by one of the other nuns looking at you, concerned.

You looked down, finding a knife in your hand and a carrot still uncut. How long had you been standing there, salivating and pulsing at the thought of Dex touching himself?

“Are you alright? You seem… distracted,” she said with a mouth quirked worriedly. “I don’t want to trouble you, but the others have been talking. Everyone’s starting to get worried about you. Is something wrong?”

Yes. I made a man swear obedience to me to assuage my own guilt while he murders. My thoughts of him are impure, and every time I see him, I get closer to succumbing to temptation. I’m losing my way, I’m becoming the person I used to be, the kind of person I tried so hard to escape from.

You said none of that. Instead, you placed the knife back on the cutting board. You smiled at the other nun, though you were sure it wasn’t very convincing.

“Everything is fine. I’ve just been feeling under the weather. Maybe I should rest.”

“Maybe you should,” she said, unsure. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” you muttered. “Just rest, I think.”

You didn’t wait for her reply, just breezed out of the kitchen in search of your room as the exhaustion of the day seeped deep into your bones.

Even in your dreams, you did not escape Dex. It was not quite linear, no true story to make sense of. Just disjointed sensation that burned under your skin. Salt and blood on skin, throbbing, rolling, thrusting. Open mouth, gasping. A slash of a smile, tongue reaching out, tasting. Clenching rhythm, growing stronger with every roll.

Hazel eyes, peering up. Bacon grease on his chin. No, not grease, but shining wet.

“Delicious, Sister. Thank you.” He said, breathless, grateful. So close, just a little more, such a good boy, Dex. Please, Lord, please. Almost. Dipping low, tongue parting your—

You woke, deep in the night with feverish skin, shaking. Your thighs were wet, soaking. Every single frayed nerve sitting atop a precipice. You pulse between your legs. Just a little more, just a touch in that slick place in exchange for satisfaction. It would have been easy, your body knew what to do, exactly what it wanted. Rutting animal friction for animal pleasure.

You couldn’t control the sound that whimpered from your throat as your fingers grazed your pubic bone. Barely anything, not a real touch that would break everything. But you might as well have, for the way your clit throbs with ravenous and neglected insistence. So long, it had been so long and you had been so good. God forgave those who asked.

Humans were fallible, corrupted. Man was born sinful in nature, prone to mistakes with an affinity toward evil. Dex was only human. You were only human. Your fingers dipped under the waistband of your panties.

“Oh my God.” Your spine arched without conscious thought, urging you just that little inch lower. Almost there. Fuck, just barely a touch and it would be enough. A little more. It would be so easy.

The sound of a nearby car alarm jarred you from your thoughts, like a bucket of cold water dumped unceremoniously over your lascivious trance. You pulled your hand away from yourself as if burned, panting. You stumbled out of bed with unsteady legs. You needed to get out of that room, somewhere, anywhere else. You barely had enough thought to grab your rosary from the bedside table before wobbling your way out.

The cool air in the chapel was like a balm for your overheated skin. Relief, finally. You look up, peering at the crucifix rising high above the altar. The injured and suffering gaze of Jesus avoids you, weak and cast down. You didn’t deserve his gaze. You, who had broken two of your three solemn Vows. You fell to your knees, clutching the miniaturized version affixed to your rosary hard enough for a well-deserved bite of pain.

“I’m so sorry. I failed You in almost every way possible. You gave me so many opportunities to overcome my base nature, and I turned away every time.” Tears spilled freely. You pressed your forehead to the altar, on the ground, where you belonged. “Please, Father, forgive me. Please, forgive me.” Your voice was hollow and shaking. You felt scooped out. Like someone had opened your ribcage and taken your heart into a fist to squeeze out every last bit of vitality you had to offer.

“Sister.” A voice, soft and gravel-rough, came from behind you.

No, not then. Not when you were at your weakest. You turned, and like an apparition from your sweetest dreams and worst nightmares, Dex was there.

He stood, holding the open door of the chapel. A slash of moonlight on him like a blue spotlight. The door fell closed behind him as he approached. You were too weak for this. With every step, the deepest, darkest parts of you called out to him. You were indecent, just a thin white nightdress and no veil.

Touch me, taste me, swear to me. Kneel. Beg for me.

You couldn’t tell him he shouldn’t be there, though you wanted to. The church was always open to any who seek refuge. So, you stayed silent in his approach, shifting to watch him. He kept his hands open and in front for you to watch as he kneeled at the bottom of the steps to the altar. He made no move to get any closer.

“What are you doing here, Dex?” You could not keep the broken and weary shake from your voice.

It took him a while to answer, you could see the conflict written over his face. Was he going to try to lie to you? Maybe it would make things easier if he did. If he lied, you could banish him away for it, hide and pretend you hadn’t violated nearly every rule you’d set for yourself.

No. You’d never do that to him. You’d made many mistakes in your time with him, but to abandon him would be unconscionable. If you did, the eternal suffering that awaited you after your death would be the least you deserved.

“I saw you,” he finally admitted. “When you were sleeping, you said my name.”

You’d had your suspicions, since receiving the journal, that Dex had been watching you. Keeping an eye out in the spaces you couldn’t see, couldn’t perceive. Sometimes you’d had this sensation under your skin, an awareness of a pair of eyes keeping track.

If you were being honest with yourself, it had flattered you. You had so little privacy already at St. Agnes, and if he was watching you, it meant he wouldn’t be spying on someone else who would be afraid. With the exception of your unclean thoughts, there was nothing you wished to hide from him. Those had stayed in the journal, and you trusted Dex to let you have that for yourself.

“I did,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t—”

“You were beautiful.” When had he gotten so close? Dex had advanced a step or two up the altar, close enough to touch. His hand, on the carpet, centimeters from your bare ankle. You could feel his heat like the shadow of a touch. Your skin pebbled with anticipation. “Sister, you’ve helped me so much; let me help you too.”

The chapel was still, silent. Not even a groaning from the wind. It was as if all of New York City, the whole world held its breath as Dex’s rough hand made contact with your ankle. You were so attuned to him, you could almost feel the whorls of his fingerprints. Every callus made contact with a reaching nerve, sending white-hot fire through you.

“I’ve been thinking,” Dex continued. “I know He sent you to me, to keep me good, to keep me straight.” His hand caressed up your calf. Soft. So, so soft. Your heart sped, your knees fell open in inches. “But I think He sent me to you, too.”

Dex pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, and you couldn’t stop yourself from sighing. The habit-shaped leash frayed, holding on by a quickly diminishing thread. He pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, barely an inch from the first, but his other hand took your other calf and gently urged your legs wider. More room for his advance. His gaze was dark and heady on you. You shivered, nipples peaking under your nightdress.

“Dex—” you beseeched breathlessly. You could feel eyes on you, pressing like a weight. It wasn’t Dex’s wanton gaze. It was powerful, all-knowing. The ceiling of the chapel curved over you, an impossibly large space. God was watching. He could see you, desecrating this Holy altar with your depravity. Dex passed his tongue over your skin in an open-mouthed kiss, and your eyes rolled with a shaking inhale.

“I think He sent me to reward you. To give you what you deserve for all the time you spent serving Him, and for leading me to what I was meant to do.”

He was centimeters from your core. Dex’s breath fanned hot over where you were wettest. You throbbed for him, you clenched in anticipation of a thick intrusion. The leash creaks in your mind. God was watching, holding the Earth still until you overcame or yielded.

And suddenly, Dex pulled away, leaving you reeling. Why did he stop? Why were you suddenly so cold? Your thoughts jumbled and zoomed a mile a minute, refusing to organize into anything that makes sense. What you could identify, however, was a simmering indignation rising unpleasantly in your belly.

How dare he stop.

“Sister,” Dex said with shining, glassy eyes. His tongue swiped over his lower lip before croaking, “Please.”

The leash snapped. Let Him watch, the old pervert.

You leaned forward with speed that surprised even you, and your fingers found their place on the back of his head, pulling at his fine blond hair. His breath caught in his chest, going rigid, just as he did in the tub. Moonlight filtered through the stained-glass windows behind you, leaving a spotlight over his bared neck. You could see the flush creeping up his skin. You wanted to sink your teeth into him until he cried.

“I don’t remember telling you to stop,” you said lowly, dangerously. Dex’s Adam’s apple bobbed enticingly. “Finish what you started.”

His mouth fell open in a soft keen as he nodded eagerly. “Yes, Sister, yes,” he sighed breathlessly, beautifully. “I wanna taste you, I’ll make you feel so good, please, please…”

You released Dex to his work, and his mouth was back on your thigh. Moments ago, he was tentative, slow, giving you an opportunity to stop him, you realized. Now, with your permission, your demand, he feverishly sucked at your skin as if a man starved. Every pass of his tongue had an accompanying groan.

Clumsy hands reached for your panties, pulling them away, dropping them somewhere. You couldn’t be bothered to wonder where, because Dex was mouthing eagerly above your slit.

As his tongue finally parted your folds, grazed your clit, maybe you saw God, maybe you didn’t. Regardless, you felt something that could only be described as true sanctity. As he drank from you, you were holy, providing sustenance to a supplicant in need. Your body responded in kind, coating his tongue as a reward for his service.

Dex’s tongue circled, gentle upon your sensitive and needy bundle of nerves. Despite his bruising grip on the backs of your thighs, he was careful with you, reverent. Distantly, you could see his hips working at the steps of the altar, a desperate bid to rid himself of the building pressure in his cock. You shuddered at the thought, crying out, and he stuttered under you as if in response.

Your body tensed again and again, as a rising tide rose under your skin. Dex’s lips closed over your clit and sucked. You called out his name, echoing in the empty chapel. The build to that space you were in your body when you were dreaming was rapid. After so long without being touched, you were sensitive, as if your body was eager, greedy for release.

Close, so close. Your fingers found purchase in Dex’s hair, and you kept him still as you ground into his mouth.

“Yes, yes…” you found yourself saying, breathlessly, mindlessly, driven by a primeval instinct to reach that peak. “Good boy, almost there. I’m almost there, baby. Just a little more.”

The sound Dex made in response was broken and needy.

“Please, Sister,” he begged fervently, desperate. “Show me, please. I wanna see, wanna make you feel good. Fuck, I need it. Oh my God, please.” He was half-muffled, half unintelligible, pressed between your legs as he was.

You were right. Dex was beautiful when he begged. The whine in his voice, the pure, unadulterated commitment to your desire. Oh, fuck. Oh, God. He sucked again, your spine arched.

“Right there, baby. Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

Your toes dipped over the edge of a towering cliff, growing higher, higher. Your nails dug into Dex’s scalp as every individual muscle in your body bears down to focus on the singular point of rising sensation between your legs.

Your lungs froze, breath stopped in your throat. It was right there. There, there, please, theretheretheretherethere—

“Oh.”

Sanctity. Rapture. You convulsed with it. It spread its warmth from the soles of your feet to the top of your head. Your body belonged to you, but in that moment, you belonged to your shaking, sobbing, clenching body. You were a temple, hallowed and sacrosanct, meant for exactly. This.

A—fucking—men.

As all things must, the sensation fades. It should have left you languid, satisfied. Flexible bones melting into the floor.

However.

As Dex caught your gaze, lifting himself from your core, his chin glistened. He watched you with half-lidded, hazy eyes, panting like he’d run a mile. His lips quirked up in a hesitant, hopeful smile. Had he done well? Was he still a good boy? You could read it all over him.

He’d never been so beautiful. And you had never been so ravenous.

“Dex, come here,” you beckoned him with a curl of your finger.

Dex silently moved forward on hands and knees, climbing over you. With each inch approached, you let the tips of your fingers graze his fever-hot skin. His cheek, down the lines of his jugular, you could even feel it straight through his shirt. He must’ve been red all over.

“Did—“ he started.

“Shh…” you hush him with lips close enough to touch his. You let him lean forward, try to capture you in a kiss before pulling back at the last moment. Instead, before he’s able to feel too bereft at the loss, you allow yourself an indulgence.

Tongue out, you tasted yourself on his lips, his chin. The heady taste of his skin mixed with your own climax coaxed a sigh of pleasure from you as Dex’s breath froze- only to stutter right back to life as your hand reached its destination.

“You poor thing,” you cooed, pressing the heel of your hand into the twitching bulge in his pants. Hard as steel and throbbing. How long had he neglected himself? The thought made your mouth water.

“Oh fuck—” Dex’s voice caught as he pressed hard into the pressure of your touch. His arms shook, suddenly a struggle to keep himself upright.

“This probably hurts, doesn’t it, baby?” You stroked along his full length through layers of fabric, but Dex didn’t seem to care. He just nodded mindlessly, with hips stuttering in rhythm to your hand.

The urgency in which Dex moved against you, he would come just like that, wouldn’t he? He hadn’t asked, hadn’t indicated a want for more. Just you, the suggestion of your touch. He let out a high little whimper. Close, already.

“Sister,” he sighed, though his body did not stop. He pressed harder against you. “If you keep doing that…”

You removed your hand, reveling in the aborted grunt from the back of his throat as Dex clenched his teeth. His whole body seemed to lock up, reeling from the loss of you. You smiled, pressing a kiss under his ear just to feel him shiver.

“How long have you been like this?” You asked innocuously. He did not answer immediately, just panting against the bared skin of your neck. “Dex, answer me.”

“Since—” he swallowed. “Since earlier. In the bath.”

“That’s a very long time.” You let your lips graze along the shape of his scar. “Did you want to touch yourself?”

“Yes.” Dex was shaking again as you took the lobe of his ear between your teeth. Sensitive all over, he was.

So he hadn’t touched himself. Though he wanted to, oh, did he want to. That much was apparent from what you could feel under his jeans. What a sweet boy, keeping his hands off himself. Just how far would he go, if you asked?

“But you didn’t. Why?”

“You didn’t…” he trailed off, eyebrows twitching together in thought. “I didn’t think you wanted me thinking of you like that.”

Oh, he wanted your permission. The thought had you melting, dripping all over again. Something inside clenched deliciously. You graze your lips against the shell of his ear, petal-soft.

“If I told you to go home right now, to keep your hands off yourself forever, would you do it?” You knew the answer; you both did. You just wanted to hear him say it. The unfurling darkness you’d kept inside for years salivated for it.

“Yes, Sister” he whimpered, despite the twitch in his hips. Your skin prickled. “I’d never touch myself again. I wouldn’t. Not ‘til you told me to. I promise.”

Hearing him say it aloud, the words coursed through your veins like dominance. It tasted like power, like godliness. He’d worship at your feet, give you your pleasure, taking nothing for himself. And he’d thank you for it. You were so fucking wet.

“That’s the right fucking answer,” you said and surged forward.

Your lips crashed into Dex’s in a vicious kiss. Teeth, tongue, and hunger. You swallowed every sigh, every sound he gave you like they were little wordless prayers. He would take what you gave him and be happy for it, but that didn’t stop him from hoping for your benevolence. A loving touch, not because he needed a reward, but simply because it was your choice to bestow upon him. You sucked on his tongue, tasting your combined essence, and Dex keened.

You pulled back, but not before biting his lip hard enough to taste blood welling to the surface. Dex was ruined, hair mussed and clothes rumpled, a stripe of red across his mouth, but his heavy-lidded smile told you he was exactly where he wanted to be. He touched his tongue to the blood and folded his lip over his teeth to suck it away with the same pleasure he took from tasting you. You wanted to bite him all over, just to see if he’d lap that up, too.

“Take off your clothes,” you ordered with a smile. “Slow, I want to appreciate you.” To appreciate all the places you could bruise him, mark him as yours.

Dex swallowed, nodding. He backed away, standing at the bottom of the altar stairs. First, his jacket. As he pulled it from his shoulders, he revealed strong, flexible arms. Veins bulging under skin. You shifted your hips, just a little.

Next, his shirt. Peaked nipples and hard muscle. With every shifting of his shoulders, you could see the lines underneath, a veiled look at the inner machinations which propelled his body. You’d tasted his skin, felt it under searching hands. Now, there was so much of it, and nothing preventing you from taking. Already, you were aching again. Dex unbuttoned his jeans.

“Slower.” You wanted to feel the anticipation, rile yourself. Enjoy the creeping pleasure sinking back into your nerves. You graze the inside of one thigh, still wet from his saliva and your nectar.

Dex smiles, eyes locked on the hem of your nightdress, hiked high and hiding nothing. The evidence of his work on you glistened in the moonlight. With each pair of teeth separated in the zipper of his jeans, you inched closer to the place your body craves, already so greedy again after just being touched.

Dex eased his pants down his hips, revealing light gray briefs. They do little to hide the swollen length of him. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d been hard since you left his apartment. The stain of his precum was still wet, shining in the limited light, clinging to the shape of his cock.

Letting your fingers finally graze the slickest parts of you, you sighed at the sight of him. An Adonis, truly, and leaking for you for hours. You stroked a little circle and Dex watched with rapt attention, lips parted and panting. One callused, overworked hand twitches. Oh, he wants to touch himself, wants to relieve that building pressure so bad. He’d been holding it in for so long.

But you hadn’t given him permission.

You were starting to pant a little yourself by the time he pulled down the soaking briefs to bare himself fully to you. His cock bounced against his stomach, leaving a mouthwatering smear of liquid. He was engorged, aching, and flushed with deep color. God, he was beautiful. And he was all yours. Your pussy clenches in anticipation. It had been a very, very long time since you’d last felt that stretch, the sensation of being filled right to the brim.

“You’ve been very good, Dex. I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?”

Dex swallowed, his cock twitched, he nodded.

“Please, Sister.”

With only a small hesitation, you pulled your fingers away from yourself. Your clit pulsed, deliciously unhappy. But your cunt was ready. You nodded your head toward a nearby pew.

“Sit. Hands at your sides.”

He obeyed easily, and you let yourself enjoy the sight of his body in motion. Years of diligent work to hone himself into a vehicle for bloodshed, now ready to be used to bring your body alive. How’s that for a balancing of the scales?

Once Dex settled into the pew, you approached him, pulling away your nightdress. His jaw slackened, his breathing stuttered. What did you look like to him in that moment? An angel? A messenger from God, come to grant absolution at last?

If that were true, no one told you.

You could hear the creak of the wooden pew under him. He was gripping the edge hard enough to turn his knuckles white. You were close enough to touch now, and he kept himself in check. He wanted to be a good boy. He wanted to truly earn the reward you would give him.

With the fingers you used to touch yourself, you touched the head of his cock, still leaking, still soaked. Dex hissed, involuntarily thrusting into the touch. How cute. You spread your index and middle fingers, watching liquid thread cling with tenuous connection.

Dex eyed your fingers, licked his lips.

Greedy boy. But you could humor him.

You placed one knee on either side of his lap, towering over him, letting him crane to look up at you. It was a heady feeling.

“Open.”

He did so, tongue peaking just past his lips.

“Good boy.”

You slid your fingers over his tongue, coating him in your combined taste. Dex let out a hungry groan, closing his mouth over them, sucking hard. The sounds he made were obscene, wet, desperate. Another taste of ambrosia for him, a reward in and of itself.

As you pulled your fingers away, he chased you with swollen lips and dilated pupils. You stop him with a gentle touch on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” he slurred. “Thank you, Sister.”

And you hadn’t even had to ask him. How sweet. Your entrance twitches, impatient. He was right there for the taking.

“Shh, baby,” you whispered, one hand at the side of his neck, thumbing at his gulping Adam’s Apple. “I have one last gift for you tonight. Do you want it?”

“Yes, please.”

“That’s what I thought.” you kept your voice low, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m going to fuck you now. You will not come until I say.”

“I wont—I won’t come. Please, Sister, let me feel you. Let me—”

You didn’t let him finish. Instead, you took him into your hand and settled your weight down. He parted you, stretched you, filled you, and you both shared a shaking sigh. Dex’s head fell back.

“Thank you God, thank you, thank you, thank you—”

Your hand tightened on his neck, stopping his exclaim short. You could feel him twitch inside you.

“God isn’t the one fucking you right now, Dex.”

With that, you started moving in earnest. A slow, excruciating rhythm that has you rolling your eyes. It only takes a slight shifting of your hips before he’s rubbing against that perfect spot inside, one that leaves you panting and shuddering.

Dex, however, is gone. With every downward press of your body, he’s calling out, slurred and unintelligible. Sometimes ‘thank you’ sometimes ‘please’, sometimes something altogether incomprehensible. He was flushed all the way down his chest, a sight that made your mouth water. His hands had not moved from the edges of the pew. They shook with pale knuckles and red fists.

“Touch me, sweet boy. Fuck me.”

The instant your order was given, Dex was in motion. One hand with a bruising grip on your thigh for purchase, and another arm around your back, pulling you close as he delivered a powerful thrust upward. He panted, open-mouthed and trembling against your neck.

“Fuck, thank you Sister. Thank you. Oh fuck, oh fuck…”

Finally unleashed, Dex’s pace is punishing, but the pain, the battering of your most sensitive parts, was exactly what you need after so much neglect. You meet him, thrust for thrust, feeling a rapid building of newly familiar sensation.

“Just like that. Perfect,” you cry breathlessly.

Dex cried out with every thrust, sweat beading over his body. He was already losing his rhythm, close, chasing.

“Are you close, baby?”

“I’m so close. I want—please let me. Please, I’m so close.” Dex’s voice cracked, wet.

Gripping his hair, you pulled his head back and clenched hard at the sight. Tears, freely running down his cheeks. Lashes wet. A beautiful crier. Begging and pathetic. You grind down hard as a full-body throb wracks through you.

“Not yet, baby.”

“I can’t. I can’t—”

“You can.”

You rolled your hips, now in pursuit of your own building climax. Dex crying, panting, moaning body moves on it’s own, as if he has no other function than to rut into you. And as far as he was concerned, it doesn’t. He was a machine whose only purpose was to submit to your pleasure.

Clutching his chin, you maneuver his head to the side, tasting the tears running down his face. The salty flavor burst over your tongue and you shiver. Another thrust. Another. Fuck, you might come.

Dex’s eyes were rolling. He was beyond words. just clutching your body and moving. His cries were high and broken and desperate.

“Almost, baby, almost. You’ve been so good. Such a good boy.”

You grind down again, once, twice. Oh fuck. Your clit rubbed against him. Almost there. Fingertips brushing the precipice. You wove your fingers in his at your thigh. He held it like a lifeline. Your body clenches.

Yes. Yes. Oh—

“Come for me, baby.”

The sound Dex made didn’t sound human. It sounded animal as his entire body shook, consumed with throbbing sensation taking complete control over his faculties. You felt him burst inside you, warm and filling just as you clamped down. You were only able to shake with him as your bodies worked in tandem for their basest functions.

As you came down from that final, fully satisfying high, Dex had his face buried in your neck, shoulders shaking as he struggled to control his breathing.

“Thank—you—thank—you…” he was muttering between sobs.

Hearing him, feeling Dex clutch to you so hard, you were filled with such affection that it nearly scared you. You wrapped your arms around him, running your nails along his back, scratching at his scalp as he slowly calmed down.

He wanted to be a good man. He was trying. He just needed someone to guide him in the right direction. He needed a North Star, an Angel to be his conscience. Maybe you weren’t the best person in the world, you’d broken nearly every promise you’d made, but you knew what he needed. You knew you could be what he needed.

You pressed a kiss to his temple, and Dex let out such a soft sigh that it nearly broke your heart.

He was a good boy. He deserved a chance to redeem himself, and you would help him. No one, not even God could stop you.

[kadannish]

Touching You, Touching Me

((So I mentioned in my last writing how Cullen always loved watching Nerys touch herself. I thought I would do a little thing about how all that came about.))

Cullen Rutherford x Female Lavellan

NSFW Mutual Masturbation 1300 Words

Cullen gulped, hearing a small squeak in the rafter above his head. His eyes quickly glanced at the messenger from Josephine talking about… Something. He couldn’t have even repeated the last five words that had been said to him. Another squeak. Was that a sigh he heard? The messenger didn’t seem to notice, thank the maker. If anyone were to catch wind of what was happening just one floor above… His train of thought stopped abruptly as his attention travelled to his aching cock straining in his breeches.

It was too early to be doing this. Just a few short minutes ago he had been woken by gentle kisses on his chest, slowly heading down to where his cock was already raising the blankets they slept in. Just as he felt the tight wetness of her mouth around him, there was a loud knock at the door below.

“Commander?” The messenger asked. “I have an urgent form for you to sign.”

Cullen growled lowly, hips gently thrusting of their own accord as she felt Nerys’s tongue flick the head of his cock. “Yes, leave it at my desk and I shall look it over in a moment.”

There was a pause. “Ah… Lady Josephine said it needed to be signed immediately. I am to bring it back to her as soon as you’re done.” The messenger said just as Nerys’s head began to bob. Cullen had to bite the back of his hand to keep from moaning. After the messenger spoke, she lifted her head, licking her lips.

Feeling profoundly frustrated, Cullen sighed and sat up. “I’m coming down now.” He called and looked to the beautiful elf sitting in his bed. “I’ll be right back, dear.” He whispered to her, catching her lips in a long kiss. Suddenly, she separated from him, a small smirk on her face. She pressed her lips to his ear and whispered, “I suppose I’ll just have to keep myself warm until you come back.”

Cullen sighed shakily at that and nodded. “I suppose so.”

He quickly got himself dressed and presentable, intently watching the show Nerys put on for him. Nimble fingers teased at her nipples, tracing a line along her stomach, raising goosebumps in its wake.

He headed down the ladder right as she began to touch herself.

When he came into the present again, Cullen saw the messenger staring at him with a confused expression. Belatedly, the commander realized that the other had said something that needed a response. “I…” He paused, distracted by what he thought was a barely audible groan overhead. He needed to end this quickly. “Yes. Excellent idea. I will be sure to speak with Lady Josephine as soon as possible. You’re dismissed.” He handed over the paper with his signature.

The messenger looked confused, before hesitantly nodding and leaving, paper in hand. Cullen had a feeling he would regret whatever he agreed to later, but right now… He stood, rapidly crossing the room and climbing the ladder to his bed. The sight was before him as soon as his feet were steady was… Better than he could have imagined.

Nerys was flushed from cheek to chest, biting her lip to keep from being too loud, he couldn’t doubt. His eyes lingered for a moment on her breasts with peaked nipples straining in the cool morning air before he followed down her arm to where her fingers were making rhythmic circles between her legs.

In that moment, Cullen realized that seeing Nerys like this was the most beautiful he had ever seen her. A light sheen of sweat covered her deep brown skin as her hips gyrated in time with her fingers.

Cullen gulped, clearing his throat. Nerys languidly turned her head to look at him with glassy eyes filled with pleasure. She smiled at him, keeping her fingers moving all the while.

“You… Seem to have kept yourself quite warm since I was away.” His eyes were locked on her. There was nothing in this world that could distract him from the picture he had before him. He could feel a wet spot forming on his smallclothes just from the sight of her.

Nerys chuckled and her breath suddenly hitched as she no doubt was getting closer to her release. “Warmer than any summer.” She sighed. “Why don’t you come over and feel? Or would you rather stay there and watch the show?”

Cullen was torn. On the one hand, he wanted desperately to feel how hot her skin was under his hands, taste the nectar that had built between her legs. But on the other, the way she moved was entrancing. She knew every touch she needed to bring her closer to that edge. It was so intimate, he almost felt as if he would ruin the moment for her if he took over.

But then another thought came into his head. Why couldn’t he have both?

Cullen moved forward, shedding his clothes as he did. He shivered as the cool air touched his cock. Climbing onto the bed, he watched her intently. He could see that while the movements of her right fingers manipulated her clit, her other hand was two fingers deep inside of her entrance. Nerys licked lips that were dry from her open mouth panting. She looked back at him, her movements slowing.

Cullen shook his head. “Keep touching yourself.” He whispered. Nerys smiled and began moving her fingers in earnest again, her hips twitching in response.

Cullen ran his hands along her scorching body, groaning as he put his lips on her breasts, teeth and tongue grazing one nipple until her hips lost their rhythm and she cried out wantonly before moving to the other. His cock was begging for the attention it had been denied for too long. He removed one hand from her hips to wrap around himself, leaving one to tease the nipple he didn’t have his mouth on. He let out a low groan, finally feeling the pressure he needed.

Nerys began to tremble, her hands working at herself desperately. She looked at him, then down to his hand that was beginning to stroke in earnest. He knew already that he wouldn’t last long. He had been teased for too long. He needed his release, soon.

Suddenly, Cullen felt a hand on the arm that was on her body, clenching tightly. He looked at Nerys, her pupils blown so he could only see a ring of violet around them. Her hand traveled to his, gently pushing it down, past where her fingers worked her clit. “Please…” She whispered, her hips moving more forcefully. “Maker, I need it. Fill me.”

Cullen groaned against her chest, his hand tightening on his cock. He began thrusting in her with two fingers, quickly adding a third to make her wail. Nerys cried out his name, grinding desperately into the rhythm of his hand. He worked himself at the same pace, nipping at her neck, her chest, her collarbone, wherever he could get his lips.

“Cullen… Cullen… I’m so close… I-“ Nerys gasped, her whole body going rigid as he could feel her tightening again and again on his fingers. After that, it didn’t take much longer for Cullen to spend himself on the sheets and her belly.

Feeling positively drained, Cullen collapsed next to Nerys, kissing her neck lovingly. “That was… Lovely.” He chuckled.

Nerys giggled. “I would have to agree, Commander.” She pecked his lips and slowly got up on wobbly legs. He watched with a smirk on his face as she struggled to pull her clothes on. “But after all that, I think a bath is in order. Care to join me?”

Cullen nodded happily. “Of course.”

[kadannish]

After the Storm Coast

((So, this kinda got away from me. It started as a little exercise to get myself used to writing some characters and then... This happened.))

Cullen x Female Lavellan

NSFW Hurt/Comfort 2500 words

It felt strange seeing Skyhold again after everything that had happened on the Storm Coast. The trip had been quiet for the most part. Every once in a while one of the Chargers would try to break the solemnity with a joke, or a story, but all of Bull’s responses had seemed kind of… Hollow. Nerys hadn’t been much help either. As much as she knew that this was more about the Iron Bull than herself, she still couldn’t shake the guilt that was slowly swallowing her from the inside out. With only a few words, she had condemned a whole ship of Qunari to die. A whole ship full of people. For a moment she had thought to ask someone how many tended to operate a ship like that, but… That wasn’t a good idea. It would only hurt Bull more, and she would have more to torture herself about when there were other things that needed to be focused on.

Nerys wiped damp black hair from her face as she passed the large arch at the end of the bridge. Even the sky had felt the loss, it seemed. It had been raining ever since that day. She dismounted her horse at the stables and looked at her companions, violet eyes lingering on the large Qunari with loss in his eyes. Everyone else was pretty quick to leave their horses to the attendants and go do other things, but Bull took his time. Nerys’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to think of something, anything to say to him. She didn’t find her voice until his back turned to leave.

“Bull…” Nerys began before she realized she hadn’t thought of what to say after that. The Qunari sighed and turned his large horned head to look at her with a sad smile.

“It’s okay Boss,” he began. “You don’t have to say anything.” Nerys closed her mouth and nodded. What was there for her to say? ‘sorry I condemned the people you knew since childhood to death to save the company you’ve been riding with for years’? Somehow that didn’t seem very appropriate.

“But…” Bull’s words startled Nerys out of her thoughts. “I did want to say thank you, for making the call. I wouldn’t have been able to myself.” He paused for a long time before seeming to decide that there wasn’t anything else he wanted to say. “Good night.” He said before walking back toward the tavern.

Nerys sighed, closing her eyes tightly to keep tears from rolling down her cheeks. She knew as soon as she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Getting to her quarters was a blur, but she was thankful no one bothered her. She assumed Harding had sent a report out after everything happened and it got there before she did. Nerys plopped onto her fancy Orliesian bed, leaning forward to put her head in her hands. One small sob escaped her throat before the floodgates seemed to open. She couldn’t stop the tears after that. Her hands and face were soaked before she knew it, and she had to laugh bitterly at that, standing to get a towel to wipe herself up. She hated crying more than anything. It was messy, loud, and her throat always hurt afterward.

As Nerys was in the closet, she heard the door to her quarters open and close quietly. “Leave me.” She ordered in a voice much more sure than she felt, grateful that she wasn’t in a place where she would easily be seen. “Whatever it is, I’ll gladly deal with it in a few hours, but right now I need…” Her mind was suddenly blank. What did she need? Rest? An hour to cry? To not be the Inquisitor? There were honestly a lot of things she needed, but not many were things she could voice to some messenger. “Rest.” She finally settled on, waiting for the door to click again before she exited the closet. When she didn’t hear it, Nerys sighed, frustrated. She wiped her face with the towel quickly before turning to step out of the closet.

“I said-“ The next thing she knew, Nerys was in a vice, caught between two very strong arms and an armored chest. Cullen. Of course he would come to see her if the report had gotten in. He was so attentive sometimes it made her head spin. She had no idea what she ever did to deserve him.

“I read Harding’s report. I wanted to see you.” Cullen said softly, a gloved hand raising to gently stroke the short crop of her hair. “How is the Iron Bull?”

Slowly, Nerys leaned into his hold, pressing her face into his chest. The familiar scent was much more calming than she would have thought. “Not good. He hardly spoke at all the entire way back.”

Nerys could feel the gentle movements of Cullen’s nod before he pulled away, putting a gloved finger under her chin to make her look up at him. Honey brown eyes stared into sunset purple. “And how are you?” He asked seriously.

Nerys opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. She could feel the tears coming again. She didn’t want to talk if her voice cracked. She gulped hard and sighed before opening her mouth again. “I… I told him to let them die, Cullen. I-“ Her voice cracked anyway and she clenched her fists, moving back and burying her face in the towel she used earlier. “Maker damn it all!” She cried, the towel muffling her voice.

After a moment, she felt the towel being tugged from her fingers. Slowly, Cullen’s sad face was revealed to her. “You didn’t tell him to let them die. You told him to save his friends. Come with me.” He took Nerys by the hand and had her sit back down on the bed. Sitting next to her, he gently dabbed at her face with the towel until all the tears and snot were gone. “You made an impossible choice. Either way, there was going to be blood. But for what it’s worth, I think you chose right. As loud and… Rambunctious the Chargers are, they’re good people. And I’m glad they came back.” A small smile tugged at the scar on his lip, and Nerys couldn’t help but smile back. She could never resist it.

“Thank you.” She said softly, moving forward to capture Cullen’s lips in a gentle kiss. Her thumb stroked his cheek. Nerys could never get enough of the feeling of his rough stubble under her slender fingers. She gently ran her tongue along his bottom lip, and there he happily obliged by opening his mouth for her.

Slowly, Nerys lifted herself from the bed, moving so she straddled Cullen, her knees framing his hips. She had just settled in his lap before he pulled away, looking at her warily. “Nerys, are you sure you want-“ She pressed her finger against his lips to hush him.

 “Yes. Please.” Nerys whispered. She needed something to distract her, if only for a moment. She couldn’t bear another moment thinking about the consequences of her decisions as Inquisitor, of torturing herself over the people that were hurt by these consequences. She needed time away. She looked into Cullen’s eyes, willing all of those thoughts into his head, so he could understand. And he must have seen something, because he soon nodded, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling their bodies close as he crashed his lips against her own.

 Nerys let out a small whimper, moving her hips against his, hurriedly undoing the straps of his cloak and armor. Cullen sighed against her mouth as he lightly nibbled on her lip before peppering kisses along her jaw, nimble fingers undoing the top of her soiled travelling clothes. She could feel him hardening between her legs, under his leather breeches.

 As soon as Nerys’s breasts were exposed, Cullen let a gloved thumb graze a dark nipple. She let out a small moan, arching toward him as a jolt went straight from her breasts to her core. Cullen growled against her neck before hastily taking off his gloves to feel her soft brown skin under calloused hands. His hands ran down her sides as his mouth travelled down, taking one dusky nipple between his teeth. Nerys gasped, taking her lip between her teeth as he soothed the bite with his tongue and lips.  “Cullen…” She whispered, gulping as his hands travelled lower, down her stomach, then under her breeches and smallclothes. Her breath hitched as she felt a finger glide between her folds. A shiver went through her and her thighs tensed as his fingers continued their exploration. 

 “You’re already so wet for me.” Cullen observed with a smile she could feel against her breast. 

Nerys gulped. “I need you.” She answered breathlessly. Suddenly, Cullen removed his hand, and she only had a moment to feel cold before her world was rotating from him laying her out on the bed. His mouth was on her stomach, pressing open mouth kisses across her belly, taking his time to get to her breeches.

 As he worked his way down, his hands slowly lowered her breeches and smallclothes. Nerys held her breath when her cunt was exposed, waiting for him to touch her, but it never came. Instead, Cullen continued to work his way down her leg, every once in a while giving her thigh a sharp nibble that made her whole body jump. It took too long before Cullen was finally kissing her ankle, breeches and smallclothes gone from her legs. Nerys looked down watching him, smiling wryly at the mischievous glint in his eyes as he worked his way back up, this time the other leg. 

As he got closer and closer to her core, her heart began to thump and her muscles tensed, anticipating what was coming. Cullen spread her legs, hooking one over his shoulder. His tongue slid across her inner thigh, making a damp trail to the junction between her legs. Nerys held her breath as his lips met her folds, kissing and flicking his tongue here and there. But he never breached her slit. Nerys’s hands were fisted in the sheets and her thighs were quivering. She was sopping wet by now, and needed to be touched. “Cullen, please…” She whispered, eyes screwed shut.

 Cullen looked up at her with a smirk against her groin. He chuckled softly, but seemed to decide to end his game, because the next thing she knew, his lips were against her slit again and his tongue was making its leisurely way from her entrance to her clitoris. Nerys cried out, her hands moving from the bed to grip Cullen’s hair for life as his thumbs opened her up and his lips closed around her bud, sucking gently. He let out a groan and she could feel the vibrations through her whole body. “Fuck…” Nerys whispered, arching her back.

 She was already getting close, her toes curling in the sheets as she let out shuddering breaths. Cullen’s fingers didn’t remain idle long. Soon she felt one sliding through her entrance, then another. He pumped into her once or twice, her hips moving with them of their own accord. Her mind was emptying. The closer she got to her orgasm, the more thoughts left her mind, slowly being replaced with a mantra of need, need, need, closer, closer, closer… 

Cullen’s fingers crooked inside of her, suddenly finding that spot that made her whole body seize up. The next thing she knew, words tumbled from her mouth as Cullen sucked on her bud and massaged that spot inside of her. Nerys didn’t know what she was trying to say, but the words came anyway, sounding a mess of, “Cullen, yes! There, fuck... I need it, I need it!” She was so close. 

Her whole body was as tight as a bowstring, waiting to be released. Need, need, need, closer, closer, cl- and then there it was. Nerys keened and suddenly fell silent as she felt the tightening of her abdomen before the sweet release of orgasm going through her body again and again. Cullen kept his fingers moving, coaxing her through the moment before her whole body relaxed at once.

Nerys lay panting as Cullen moved up with his pupils blown wide, licking his lips. He kissed her hard, more teeth than anything, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, finishing the job of taking off his armor, letting them tumble off the bed. Soon, he was only in his smalls, breathing heavily as he rutted between her legs. The feeling of his clothed cock against her overstimulated clitoris made her twitch with each thrust. 

 Nerys pulled down his smalls, finally letting his cock spring free of its confines. She pressed her hand against his chest, pushing Cullen onto his back as she straddled him. He watched with heavy lidded eyes as she took his member into her hand guide it inside. “Nerys…” He breathed as she moaned softly, feeling him fill her. Soon, she was seated with him inside. His hands held her hips gently, urging her to move.

 Nerys shifted her hips and they both groaned at the same time. She moved above him, getting into a steady rhythm, his hands tightening as time went on. Cullen was panting, watching intently as she bounced on his cock. Nerys watched him as well, a small smile quirking at her lips as she had one of her hands gently caress her belly, moving down until her fingers graze her clit. Her eyes slipped closed as she felt the pleasure of her own fingers combined with her Commander’s cock within her. Cullen let out a loud groan, moving his hips faster. She knew he loved to watch her touch herself, especially when he was inside of her. It wasn’t long before she brought herself over the edge again, feeling her entrance rhythmically tightening against his cock with each jolt.

 Cullen gasped, now with a bruising hold on her hips. He pumped once or twice before she could feel his seed inside as he cried out. Nerys rode him through his orgasm before leaning forward and pressing her head against his chest, panting softly. 

Cullen gulped, wrapping his arms around her naked back, his chin resting on her head. After a moment to catch his breath, he spoke, “How are you feeling?” Nerys smiled weakly and sighed, placing a few kisses on his chest. “Better.” Was all she could really say. It was nice to have an empty head, for even a moment. 

Ever since becoming Inquisitor, she had been sad about something, except when she was with Cullen. Sometimes it seemed he was the only one that could make her happy these days.

 Cullen nodded and Nerys moved, letting him slip from inside her. She settled herself next to him with her head on his chest, listening to the calming beat of his heart. “Thank you.” She added in a whisper, her eyes drifting closed. 

Before she fell into a deep sleep, she could hear the soft answer of “Always.”