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I like dilfs and documenting my tragedies

[orchidsgrowfromthesoul]

when the fic has 10k+ words, fluff, angst, smut right at the end, friends to lovers, character who’s down bad for reader, AND Y/N DOESNT ACT LIKE A CHILD

[yukiiaiai]

OKAY. This is an announcement for all the writers out there who write smut and are obsessed with Soldier Boy and Bullseye. Please. I’m begging you. Write a one-shot about these two. PLEASE.

[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

[milleniumpire]

Ben flirting with Firecracker in the new TB episode by showing off his gun made me think about the nasty gun kink he would definitely have 🫣🫣🫣 It’s canon…Like tell me he wouldn’t fuck you with it, and tease you about how “big” and “thick” it is, as if he’s talking about his damn cock 😭 I’m sweaty and dripping

How big and thick it is... jesus christ. He has you in position to 69, his cock right in your face while your thighs straddle over him, giving him a perfect view of your pussy.

"Suck my cock good enough and maybe I'll fuck you with it. Gotta prove you really want it, though."

Your lips closed around the head, gently suckling the swollen tip. You took more in little by little, licking and humming along his shaft.

"There you go, sweetheart. Gonna give your pussy a little treat while she waits for you to prove yourself."

You felt the cool barrel of the gun against your folds, shivering and reflexively pulling away at the intimate sensation. He noticed you eyeing the way he was cleaning it earlier, and when you hadn't flinched at his crude comment about cleaning it in something else he knew it was game over. That was this morning, and apparently he thought you liked it enough to give you another taste. He nudged the tip in, and you winced as the sharp edge caught on entry.

"Don't act all shy now, doll. Know you wanna get all stretched out around the grown-up toy. Feel how thick it is while you get all in your head about what you 'should' like. Wouldn't be havin' any thoughts at all if you let me shove it in your ass."

You whimpered around his cock, trying to stay focused on your task to save yourself from him deciding to go off-script. You hollowed your cheeks, letting the foamy mix of spit and his precum drip back down to his base. Ben kept easing the barrel in, the thick unforgiving metal mercilessly stretching you out.

"Look at that. Knew you didn't need my fingers first. You're a big girl now, huh? I've broke you in enough?"

Your hands gripped his thighs when he punctuated his statement by fully seating the weapon, the trigger guard mashed against your needy slit. You moaned, experimentally clenching around it. You kept getting wetter, and the realization of how much you like this made your cheeks burn.

"So fuckin' easy," he said, voice low and strong with appreciation.

He started rocking it, the tip feeling impossibly deep in your guts.

"Brain's too damn empty to even think to ask if it's unloaded, huh sweetheart?"

Your blood felt like it froze in your veins, and you couldn't move even if you wanted to. Every hair on your body seemed to stand up straight, the skin pebbling and breaking out in a cold sweat.

"But that's what dads are for, right honey? Make sure their little girls don't get horny enough to stick a loaded gun right up their cunny?"

You whined, first wondering how you got stuck with someone mean enough to even put that thought in your head and then how the fuck you didn't think to check.

He kept gently pushing it up in your cunt, uncharacteristically slow and thoughtful. It felt way better than a gun had any fucking right to.

"That feel good, doll? Can see the way your hips are getting all needy for more."

You hummed around him, taking him extra deep in affirmation. He was hitting the back of your throat in earnest, the pressure and warmth a nice juxtaposition to the cold and unforgiving thing he had nudging against that spot you have deep inside.

Ben slipped it out a couple inches, rotating it once the handle had clearance to pass your thigh. You were too focused on taking him deep to pay it much mind, but your body felt like it caught on fire when his thumb found your clit.

"Fuck, you're not gonna last long, huh doll? So fucking desperate to cum on my glock," Ben rumbled, snorting to himself at his pun.

A moan fell from your mouth, the friction too good for you to do anything about his awful fucking joke. He started fucking the gun into you quick enough to hear the wet suction of the barrel against your walls. Your nails scrabbled against his thighs, desperate to ground yourself for the wave of pleasure you can feel coiling in your belly. The sounds dribbling out of your mouth and onto his cock were obscene, but you were too far gone to care

"Should record how you sound right now and make you listen next time you try to tell me you don't like this. Sound like a proper fuckin' slut the way you're cryin' around my big fat gun."

His words pushed you over the edge, and pleasure crashed through your body while he fucked and rubbed you through it. He slowed down with your orgasm, slipping his gun out of you when you collapsed on him like deadweight, only lazily licking and fisting at his cock.

"Good fuckin' girl. Take anything I give you like a champ."

[milleniumpire]

Ben flirting with Firecracker in the new TB episode by showing off his gun made me think about the nasty gun kink he would definitely have 🫣🫣🫣 It’s canon…Like tell me he wouldn’t fuck you with it, and tease you about how “big” and “thick” it is, as if he’s talking about his damn cock 😭 I’m sweaty and dripping

How big and thick it is... jesus christ. He has you in position to 69, his cock right in your face while your thighs straddle over him, giving him a perfect view of your pussy.

"Suck my cock good enough and maybe I'll fuck you with it. Gotta prove you really want it, though."

Your lips closed around the head, gently suckling the swollen tip. You took more in little by little, licking and humming along his shaft.

"There you go, sweetheart. Gonna give your pussy a little treat while she waits for you to prove yourself."

You felt the cool barrel of the gun against your folds, shivering and reflexively pulling away at the intimate sensation. He noticed you eyeing the way he was cleaning it earlier, and when you hadn't flinched at his crude comment about cleaning it in something else he knew it was game over. That was this morning, and apparently he thought you liked it enough to give you another taste. He nudged the tip in, and you winced as the sharp edge caught on entry.

"Don't act all shy now, doll. Know you wanna get all stretched out around the grown-up toy. Feel how thick it is while you get all in your head about what you 'should' like. Wouldn't be havin' any thoughts at all if you let me shove it in your ass."

You whimpered around his cock, trying to stay focused on your task to save yourself from him deciding to go off-script. You hollowed your cheeks, letting the foamy mix of spit and his precum drip back down to his base. Ben kept easing the barrel in, the thick unforgiving metal mercilessly stretching you out.

"Look at that. Knew you didn't need my fingers first. You're a big girl now, huh? I've broke you in enough?"

Your hands gripped his thighs when he punctuated his statement by fully seating the weapon, the trigger guard mashed against your needy slit. You moaned, experimentally clenching around it. You kept getting wetter, and the realization of how much you like this made your cheeks burn.

"So fuckin' easy," he said, voice low and strong with appreciation.

He started rocking it, the tip feeling impossibly deep in your guts.

"Brain's too damn empty to even think to ask if it's unloaded, huh sweetheart?"

Your blood felt like it froze in your veins, and you couldn't move even if you wanted to. Every hair on your body seemed to stand up straight, the skin pebbling and breaking out in a cold sweat.

"But that's what dads are for, right honey? Make sure their little girls don't get horny enough to stick a loaded gun right up their cunny?"

You whined, first wondering how you got stuck with someone mean enough to even put that thought in your head and then how the fuck you didn't think to check.

He kept gently pushing it up in your cunt, uncharacteristically slow and thoughtful. It felt way better than a gun had any fucking right to.

"That feel good, doll? Can see the way your hips are getting all needy for more."

You hummed around him, taking him extra deep in affirmation. He was hitting the back of your throat in earnest, the pressure and warmth a nice juxtaposition to the cold and unforgiving thing he had nudging against that spot you have deep inside.

Ben slipped it out a couple inches, rotating it once the handle had clearance to pass your thigh. You were too focused on taking him deep to pay it much mind, but your body felt like it caught on fire when his thumb found your clit.

"Fuck, you're not gonna last long, huh doll? So fucking desperate to cum on my glock," Ben rumbled, snorting to himself at his pun.

A moan fell from your mouth, the friction too good for you to do anything about his awful fucking joke. He started fucking the gun into you quick enough to hear the wet suction of the barrel against your walls. Your nails scrabbled against his thighs, desperate to ground yourself for the wave of pleasure you can feel coiling in your belly. The sounds dribbling out of your mouth and onto his cock were obscene, but you were too far gone to care

"Should record how you sound right now and make you listen next time you try to tell me you don't like this. Sound like a proper fuckin' slut the way you're cryin' around my big fat gun."

His words pushed you over the edge, and pleasure crashed through your body while he fucked and rubbed you through it. He slowed down with your orgasm, slipping his gun out of you when you collapsed on him like deadweight, only lazily licking and fisting at his cock.

"Good fuckin' girl. Take anything I give you like a champ."

[nperoconelcositoarriba]

This is my 10K like heheh

[nperoconelcositoarriba]

¡ 10000 «Me gusta»!

[captainfern]

Fix Me

Maekar Targaryen x fem!reader

✿ after coming into contact with a strange flower, maekar seeks the help of his trusted healer (or, a sex pollen fic with our favourite grumpy targaryen). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 7.5k ✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is not physically described and she’s well-travelled asfff (slay), sex pollen, SMUT, finger-sucking, oral (m!receiving), throat-fucking, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv, mentions of anal, rough sex, painful sex (initially), praise, pet names (sweetheart, etc), use of ‘woman’ as a term of endearment lol, foul-mouthed and moody maekar, a bit of fluff, strong language, maekar being maekar <3

Maekar groans atop his horse, slumping forward slightly as he watches his hunting party fumble with their bows in an attempt to shoot a distant stag. The creature bellows as it spots its hunters, vanishing into the brush as the smartly-dressed hunters take off on foot, pursuing the animal with too-loud shouts.

“Fucking idiots,” Maekar mumbles, watching the lords disappear deeper into the woods. He rolls his eyes before looking around, finding himself alone save for a pair of guards lingering several metres away.

The prince dismounts his horse, giving her a solid pat on her flank, before he pulls his riding gloves from his hands and pockets them. His thighs are aching from being in the saddle for too long, his knees creaking upon his dismount. Pressure builds at the base of his spine, and he reaches his arms up, cracking his lower vertebrae in a satisfying pop.

He needs to go for a walk. And he has no interest in joining the hunting party in pursuit of a stag they most definitely will not catch.

Maekar makes for the opposite direction, ducking between a pair of towering pines. Behind him, the shuffle of footsteps, and with a disgruntled huff, he turns and shoots daggers at his approaching guards.

One of them pauses, nodding at his prince. “Your grace, you must not stray far.”

“Yes, yes, fuck off,” Maekar mumbles in response, before disappearing between the trees and leaving his guards behind.

The air is thick with the smell of pine needles and wildflowers, and Maekar finds himself drawing in a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed. A lovely spring afternoon, Summerhall glimmering on the nearby hills, sunlight reflecting from its multitude of windows. There is hardly a breeze, and the space around the prince is warm enough that the thinnest sheen of sweat collects beneath the thick collar of his tunic.

He continues walking, hearing the distant shouts of the hunting party he was supposed to be a part of. He didn’t even want to be out here. If it were up to him, he’d be lounging around his own gardens and doing, for lack of better words, fuck all. But the Prince of Summerhall, his older brother had insisted, must keep up appearances.

Eventually, Maekar’s legs bring him into a small clearing surrounded by an array of trees. Their branches weave together overhead, creating an intricate patchwork of greens and browns. Bright white sunlight filters between their thin leaves, bathing the area in angelic light. The ground is thick with soft grass which sprouts small purple flowers, their petals dainty and delicate as though they’re made of silk.

Maekar’s knees crack as he squats to pluck one of the flowers between his thumb and forefinger. The dark violet petals are soft beneath the pads of his fingers: they felt like silk just as much as they looked like silk. He has never seen anything like it, and when he raises it to his nose, he smells a rose-like sweetness that he can almost taste. It lingers in the back of his throat, and when he brings it away from his face, the smell seems to stick to his sinuses.

Maekar looks around the small clearing, not much bigger than his solar in Summerhall. The little flowers grow plentiful, and his mind wanders to his pretty healer back at the castle, wondering if she knows what these things are.

He shakes his head, grumbling curses to himself. He drops the flower.

He should not be thinking of you.

The best healer in all the realm, it seems, and yet you’re right here in Summerhall. He can remember the day you arrived at the royal residence—bright eyed, smiling ear-to-ear, looking so much… happier than any of the home’s previous healers. You weren’t like the other maesters with their scowls and curt instructions. You were the personification of sunshine: you helped anyone and everyone, you were cheerful and amiable and so incredibly easy to talk to.

Which is why Maekar couldn’t stop thinking about you. He still can’t stop thinking about you, and you have resided in his castle for long enough, having spent three of his namedays brewing remedies for his frightful hangovers.

He decides he’ll bring a few home for you. He likes the way they look, and the way they smell, so surely they must do something.

With surprisingly gentle hands, Maekar plucks several flowers from the base of their stems. He collects a bunch, holding them between pale fingers, and when his fingers struggle to hold around the collection, he stops. He peers down curiously at the cluster of violet flowers in his hand and notices something glistening on his skin. From their ivory centre, a shimmering powder dusts out as they’re jostled together.

He swaps the bundle to his other hand and raises his fingers, appraising the sparkling substance that settles between the grooves of his fingerprints. It’s as though he had run his fingers across the surface of a pearl and the sheen had stuck to the dew of his skin.

“Strange,” he thought aloud, then almost on impulse, he brought his hand to his face. Inhaling, he once again caught the pungent aroma of roses. Sweeter than roses, as though they had been drenched in sugar water.

His mouth began to water.

“The fuck?” Maekar frowned, feeling his saliva pool around the base of his lower teeth. But it was subconscious: the flowers smelt so sweet, so dessert-like, and he had been out in the sun for way too long.

So he licked the powder off of his finger before his brain could tell him otherwise. Before his brain could tell him that No, Maekar, we don’t lick strange powder from strange flowers in the middle of the forest.

But he felt like a child, finding something he just had to try. He has to.

The powder was almost better than he imagined. A thinner, lighter version of the sugar stocked in the kitchens back in the castle. Smoother on his tongue, the flavour brighter, almost floral in its aftertaste. He couldn’t help himself from licking the dust from his other fingers, his brain telling him to. Something swirling around his brain like a gentle breeze, urging him to taste more: it tastes good, your body needs it, it’s not poisonous.

Well, he deduces it isn’t poisonous when, after a three minute stroll back to his guards and his steed, he hasn’t keeled over and sicked his guts out. In fact, he feels great. His sinuses have cleared of a small spring sniffle he had developed several days ago, his vision seems clearer and less misty, and his thighs no longer ache as he boosts himself onto his mare.

Maekar stuffs the flowers carefully into a small pouch and fastens it to his belt.

The hunting party returns, as he expected, empty-handed. They look up at him bashfully, and he simply shakes his head. A couple of the lords look at him strangely: the prince didn’t reprimand them for their incompetence? He didn’t chide them for being too slow, or too stupid, or too pathetic?

No, he didn’t.

Because Maekar is too busy staring off into the distance, his bright vision now beginning to blur at the edges. That pleasant heat trapped beneath his collar is now beginning to blaze, his skin prickling as sweat begins to build. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, and he can still taste rose-tainted sugar along the lines of his teeth. Something is happening to him, but his brain is telling him that everything is fine. Everything is great.

“I must… return to… my castle…” Maekar manages to say despite the lead weight of his tongue. His tone remains the same—stern and measured—so no one questions him as he abruptly pulls his horse around and flicks the reins hard.

—✿—

Your quarters are in a shadowy, quiet corner of Summerhall, but you don’t mind. It serves both as your work space and as your chambers, with your bed pushed into the corner of the cramped room surrounded by drapes of black and green silk. A long wooden table is pinned against the adjacent wall, the wall above crammed full of plants and jars filled with all sorts of natural remedies. They are all carefully labelled, and even colour coded, and you often find yourself staring up at your creations with pride bursting from your chest.

You have lived here for three years, and have come to be very fond of the Targaryen’s who so often spent the warmer months within the stone walls. Despite the work of other maesters, it seems Prince Maekar has developed an affinity for you—seeking you out for medicaments to treat the seemingly never-ending ailments of his children.

You have become an expert in applying salves to the cuts and scrapes Rhae receives toppling from her palfrey; brewing soothing teas to ease the pain of Daella’s moonblood; tending to the wounds of the adventuring Aegon; and, of course, ensuring the troubled Prince Daeron did not drown in his own sickness. Even the wayward Aerion allows you to clean and bandage the lacerations he receives after a day’s training.

For most of your life, people have referred to you as a woods witch. But here, within the walls of Summerhall, you are a healer. A maester, of sorts.

Sunlight streams in mottled stripes through the tall windows on the far wall of your chambers. The trees that grow outside obscure most of the light, but enough gets in to settle the room in a pleasant, milky glow. You busy yourself at your workstation, replenishing a large vial of ground herbs used as the base of moon tea: a heap of tansy and wormwood, and a bunch of mint.

You hum to yourself as you pop a cork onto the vial, and as you slot the bottled powder onto its slot on your shelf, your door bangs open.

The heavy oak door slamming against the stone wall trembles the glasses sitting on your shelf, and you jump, yelping as you whirl around. Your eyes grow wide as Prince Maekar’s tall frame fills your doorway, one large hand splayed over the door, the other balled at his side. His shoulders move as he pants, and when he takes a step inside, he slams the door behind him with just as much strength as when he had opened it.

You hurriedly sink into a curtsy. “My prince—”

“Tell me what these are.” Maekar produces a small pouch from his belt and tosses them onto the table.

You eye him curiously as he continues to suck in laboured breaths. You carefully pry open the pouch and spot small flowers, their silky violet petals coated in a shiny white powder. You catch a whiff of roses, and immediately draw the pouch shut.

“Where did you find these, your grace?” You ask him, turning quickly to find him approaching.

He grabs the edge of the table with both hands, leaning his entire body weight onto it, his knuckles white with his grip. He groans and you frown, noting the way his white hair clings to his sweaty forehead. His cheeks are flaming red beneath his beard too.

You speak again, “My prince? Where did you find these?”

“The fucking forest,” he replies curtly, head hanging between his arms. You note the strong expanse of his shoulders and back beneath the stretch of his black hunting tunic. He grunts. “You didn’t answer me.”

You sigh through your nose, watching the prince tremble where he stands. You have half the mind to run your hand down his back as if you were soothing Rhae to sleep.

“They’re an incredibly rare floret, I didn’t even know they grew around here! I believe they were brought over from Essos, possibly from the forests of Lesser Moraq—”

“I didn’t ask for a fucking history lesson,” Maekar grumbles, lifting his head. His light eyes are black beneath the expansion of his pupils, his white eyelashes fluttering as he sucks in another troubled breath. “What are they?”

“...Flowers,” you say slowly and simply, noting the way his eyes drop down your body. 

You have only ever seen the effects of these flowers once, and that was long ago on your travels around the known world. You found a small pot being cultivated on the roof of a pleasure house in Lys, and watched the way experienced courtesans applied the sugared pollen to their necks before allowing patrons to lick their way across their shimmering skin.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh, gods, your grace, did you consume the pollen?”

Maekar grunts, eyes snapping up to yours. “What?”

“The pollen,” you repeat. “The white powder. Did you taste it?”

Maekar’s eyes drop. This time, he appears bashful as he stares down at the ground. He’s still gripping the edge of your table, willing himself not to topple over under the weight of the burning pleasure no doubt coursing through him. You almost feel bad.

“My prince,” you say sternly. “Why did you do that? You should know better—”

“Do not berate me,” Maekar growls, finally pushing himself away from your table.

He walks across the room, sweat slick across his skin. He begins to unbutton his tunic, his doublet likely tossed somewhere down one of Summerhall’s winding corridors. Across the room, he turns to you and you swallow thickly as he finally unbuttons his tunic, exposing his pale chest and stomach. He’s wet with sweat, moisture beading between the soft grooves along his strong abdomen.

He gestures to himself. “Fix this.”

You shake your head. “My prince, there is no medicinal cure.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he tells you. “You can fix anything.”

His tone softens as he tells you that last part, and you find yourself leaning back against your table as your knees tremor slightly. With a loud groan, Maekar sits down on the edge of your bed, the straw mattress dipping deeply beneath his weight. He sheds himself of his tunic, exposing his strong, scarred shoulders and the muscled length of his arms.

“My prince,” you squeak, averting your eyes. Your body heats up beneath your cotton robes at the usually reserved prince’s boldness. “Please, there is nothing I can do—”

“Tell me plainly,” Maekar utters, his breathing erratic. There is a noticeable tent in the front of his trousers, and he covers it with his forearm, groaning before speaking again. “How do… how do I get this to stop?”

You swallow nervously. It was such a simple answer, yet you struggle to articulate the right words. Maekar stares at you, eyes dark with desire, his brows furrowing as his patience wears thin. Thinner and thinner like a fraying string.

“Out with it,” he snaps, a few strands of his hair falling over his forehead.

“Release,” you spit out as quickly as you can. “You… you need to release.”

Maekar’s brows furrow deeper. “What?”

Gods, this was humiliating. Shame crawls up your spine, invading your nervous system as you fidget with a ring on your finger. A prince of the realm was under the effects of an aphrodisiac, half-naked on your bed, looking at you as if he wanted to rip you apart.

Just get on with it, you think.

“You need to come,” you tell him almost breathlessly. “You—”

“I heard you,” Maekar interrupts, his voice low. He stares at you, head cocking to the side. “So… I can pleasure myself and I will feel better?”

“Well…” You’re still fidgeting with your ring. “I believe you can, but it is more beneficial… it will ease quicker if you… release within someone.”

“Ah,” Maekar replies. “I see.”

His voice is scarily calm despite his entire body being on fire. You can see it within him: the dewy red flush across his pale skin indicates the burning of his blood in his veins, heading south. He’s panting like a dog too, still perching on the edge of your bed. You look at him carefully, your backside pinned to the edge of the table.

Maekar continues to cock his head, looking you up and down appraisingly. His eyes linger on where you fidget with your ring, the smooth metal hugging the base of your middle finger. His eyes lie on the movement, watching you spin, spin, spin the ring around until he finds himself growing dizzy.

“Your grace?” You speak softly, still not moving from your position across the room. You point to the door though, finally removing your fingers from your ring. “Shall I inform your maester? Or perhaps organise for… for a woman to be brought to your—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the prince interrupts. He removes his forearm from his pelvis with a breathy groan that makes you squeeze your thighs together. His handsome face screws up a little in pleasure as he presses his palm flat to the bulge in the fabric of his trousers. “You can fix anything,” he says for the second time.

Your mouth goes dry. “My prince?”

“Fix me.”

“Maekar, please—”

Maekar gets to his feet, fingers deftly unbuckling and untying the intricacies of his trousers. They drape open, but he leaves them hanging around his hips as he crosses the small chambers. Your eyes flicker down momentarily to the thick stripe of white hair that delves below his waistband from the base of his navel. There’s a deep, well-healed scar that runs horizontally through the line of hair too, like a bridge across a river.

“Fix me,” he repeats, looming over you now. You lean backwards, scared not of him, but of his proximity. You are lowborn, a commoner, a woods witch. He is the Prince of Summerhall. He is Maekar Targaryen.

“My prince,” you breath out, eyes finding his. 

You can see the scars that mottle his rouged skin beneath the white hair of his beard, and you can see a small knick across the bridge of his nose. You remember the day he came to you with it—you had sat him down on his chair in his solar and applied a soothing balm to it, your hand cradling his face, his eyes closed in what you now realise would have been bliss.

Maekar watches you. “Can you fix me?”

The tent in his trousers presses to your lower belly, and you can’t help the whine that escapes you. A low hiss leaves his mouth, the muscles of his jaw working as he fights to capture a groan before it rolls unfiltered from his tongue.

“Yes,” you whisper, but it’s timid. “But I can’t. I–I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’re—” You suck in a breath, and all you can smell is him. Sweat, pine needles, polished leather, fresh spring air. You shake your head. “I can call for a woman for—”

Maekar grunts. “I don’t want a fucking whore, woman. I want you.”

You gape, body hot beneath your cloak.

He continues. “I want you. I want you to fix me, for fuck sake. Are you blind to what you do to me?”

You stammer over your words, the heat of his clothed cock warm through the thick cotton of your cloak. “It–it’s the flowers, my prince.”

“Maybe it is,” Maekar whispers, shrugging. “But why was the first person I thought of you? Why did I need you, hm?”

I don’t know, you want to say.

The silence that stretches allows him to continue undeterred. “So, will you fix me?”

You bite your lip. It was no secret that the prince was a handsome man, even in his age now. He was always regarded as a handsome young man, but now? You heard the maids’ whispers from the first day you arrived, you heard the shy murmurs of the stablehands and the cooks and hell, even Aegon and Rhae’s tutor. Maekar’s a handsome prince, s’just a shame he’s such a moody bastard. A brewing storm, widowed for years now, stalking the halls of Summerhall or skulking around the gardens when the castle grew too loud.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive. Your eyes would linger when you rubbed ointments on bruises along his back; your hands would skim his warm skin when you applied bandages; you would try not to stare as you cuddled Aegon in your lap whilst his fever broke, Maekar watching from a chair across the room, legs splayed wide.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Maekar mutters, slightly impatient, but his tone is too breathless to hold any real weight. He peers down at you with his swollen pupils and his red cheeks, his sweat-slick forehead and his hair brushing his eyebrows. “I need you to be good and fix me.”

You nod, and the smile that splits across the prince’s face is vulpine. He crowds you now, a delighted groan slipping up and out of his chest as his hand reaches behind you as his face lowers. You gasp lightly as he traps you against the table, and you note the shimmer along the lines of his lips.

“How do you feel?” You ask quietly, your hands finding his bare chest.

He groans loudly, eyes falling shut. Your hands are heaven against his burning skin, fingers soft along the curve of his pectorals. When your thumbs brush over his nipples, his cock twitches heavily in his breeches and another groan slips between his teeth. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, and he simply holds you.

“Like I’ve been dragged through hot coals,” he hisses, hips grinding against you, the bulge of his erection hard on your soft belly. Your hands skirt lower, over the ridges of his abdomen. Maekar curses, eyes flying open when one of your thumbs drags over the dip of his navel. “Fuck, fuck, woman, Seven above.”

“How’s your head?” You ask, thumb pressing to the scar that cuts through his trail of hair above his waistband. “Are you dizzy? Does it hurt?”

“Yeah, yeah—uh, wait, no, not dizzy,” Maekar rambles as you stroke the scar, watching curiously as the lower muscles of his abdomen contract as his hips jerk. “Doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t… yeah, doesn’t hurt.”

He pants as he watches your fingers toy with the flaps of his trousers, nails tapping briefly on the unfastened buckles there. The point of your tongue presses to the corner of your mouth as you focus, eyes fixing up and along the sweat-slick skin of his abdomen.

“What about your cock?” You look up at him, eyelashes fluttering. “Does it hurt?”

Your hand slips down between you two, beneath the material of his trousers but overtop of his breeches. Your palm slides against his hard length, warm and leaking against the linen. The moan that leaves his throat is broken into shards of pleasure, strung together on thinning whimpers as his hips jerk, attempting to chase the contact.

“S’fine, s’fucking fine, it doesn’t hurt,” the prince grits out, but then opens his eyes. He stares at you, eyes narrowing, and you smile up at him shyly. He shakes his head. “Are you seriously trying—fuck, t-trying to map my symptoms? N-now?”

You stroke your palm up and down the imprint of his cock, relishing in the way his eyes gloss over as he watches you. He doesn’t seem so moody now.

“I’m a healer, my prince,” you tell him simply. “It is my job.”

“Fuck your job.”

“I need to know—”

“No, you don’t.”

You huff, vexed. “Maekar—”

Maekar bends and slams his mouth to yours, silencing your protests. His hand on the back of your neck forces you to arch up to meet him. He groans into your mouth as your lips part for him, and he finally slips his tongue against yours, flicking over your teeth momentarily. A sick thrill runs through you, something like fear, but he soothes you with his warmth: the warmth of his hands, his body, his tongue. Even the kiss is warm as the force knocks your teeth together, saliva slick against your tongue as his slides along it. It’s messy, and you find yourself digging your nails into the fat of his biceps as he curves you against the edge of the table.

His other hand crawls towards the pouch of flowers. He blindly opens it, his thumb delving inside until he can feel the silken petals, rubbing along the florets and collecting a fine layer of pollen. He does this while kissing you, drinking the little mewls that escape your mouth. Your lips are soft against his hard ones, supple from your herb-based remedies. He wonders if you can taste the rosy sweetness along his teeth.

You can. The smell of the flowers seems to be trapped in his saliva as your tongue struggles to keep up with his. The kiss is all Maekar—dominant, rough, particular. You succumb to it, letting yourself move in languid strokes to meet each of his. He seems pleased with this, a deep grumble vibrating where you hold his biceps. He continues to rut his hips, the tent in his trousers firm against you.

Maekar pulls out of the kiss with a quick lick to your lower lip. It makes you squirm, and he chuckles as he withdraws. Your hands drag down from his biceps, along his chest and abdomen, before finding his breeches and open trousers. You curl your fingers around the strings of his breeches, tugging gently until they begin to loosen, the knots unravelling.

Maekar hums, pleased. “Mm, that’s it. Y’gonna fix me, sweetheart? Gonna make all this go away, huh?”

You nod eagerly, guilt long gone now. You pull the laces undone and tear open his breeches, shucking them down until his cock can fall out. You manage to trap your gasp between your teeth as you take in the sight of his cock, heavy with pleasure and flushing a brilliant red towards the head. The velvet skin at the base is paler than the rest of his body, sitting before a patch of white hair that is an exact match to the hair on his head. Not a shade lighter or darker.

You look up at Maekar, all starry-eyed and wanting. If it weren’t for the pollen running molten in his veins, he would have kissed you again. But his cock was drooling, slit wet with precum as your small hand enclosed around the base. The hiss that leaves his throat is serpent-like, and he only just manages to squeeze the back of your neck to get your attention, your fingers barely touching where they grasp him.

He holds his thumb to your lips now, the pad shining with the white pollen. You look at it, then blink up at him.

“You want to suck it?” Maekar asks, voice dark. He doesn’t wait for a reply before his thumb presses to your closed lips, waiting.

Your response is to open your mouth. You part your lips, allowing the prince to slide the pollen-coated digit past the ridges of your teeth and onto the flat of your tongue. You whimper as your lips wrap around his knuckle, tongue laving across his thumb and tasting the sweetness of the pollen. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted before.

“There we go,” Maekar utters, running his thumb along your tongue. “What a good girl. Bet that taste’s real good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Yeah… yeah it does.” His eyes are black with lust and it makes your stomach flip.

His gaze is predatory, and you’re completely pliant beneath him. Vulnerable. His thumb pushes further, the base knuckle bumping against your lips, and he presses down, making you gag. He appears transfixed as he repeats the actions, making you gag again, and then once more after that, until tears build in your lash line.

“Y’’know what else’ll taste good?” He whispers, almost to himself then to you, but you know it’s for you by the way he drags his thumb until he can hook your bottom teeth. 

You yelp around his thumb as he pushes firmly, pressure on your jaw, other hand still on the back of your neck. He carefully guides you down until you understand what he wants, and you drop to your knees on the worn Myrish carpet beneath you.

The prince grips the base of his cock firmly as he aligns it with your face. He retracts his thumb, wiping it across your lips before patting your cheek.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, hips inclining forward until he can rub his wet tip across your parted lips. You pout at him, and he groans, the hand he had on your neck now resting on the top of your head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

With a gravelly groan, he continues to drag the head of his cock against the warm skin of your face. Precum smears across your chin, then your cheek, and you whimper at the heat that passes through your core. He moves his hand from your head to grip the edge of the table for support as he finally presses his tip to your mouth once more. Your face feels sticky, and he peers down at you proudly, no doubt committing the gloss across your skin to memory.

“Pretty fuckin’ girl,” Maekar mumbles as you open your mouth and he slowly begins to feed his cock inside. He groans, bending over you, crowding your space, trapping you parallel to the table’s edge. Your cunt is slick and molten-hot within your smallclothes, and you desperately want to rock against your heel, but Maekar keeps you pinned between him and the table. He groans again. “That’s it, that’s it, that’s a good girl.”

His cock stretches your mouth wide, and you find yourself gagging again as the thick tip nudges towards the back of your throat as he bottoms out as far as he can go. You take a deep breath, your nose brushing against the hair at the base. A string of grumbling noises falls from his mouth as he ruts his hips a couple of times, testing the waters, feeling the quivering of your throat around him, feeling the hot slide of your tongue against the vein on the underside. He spares a glance down at you, and you meet his gaze—your eyes watery, pleading as your hands shift to rest on his thighs.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Don’t cry for me just yet,” he says, but it isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, nearly whiny. He pulls his hips back and then jerks back in, cock slamming against the back of your throat, and this time you manage to hold back a gag. “Let me use your mouth and then—uhh, f-uh-ck—then I’ll fill t-that pretty little pussy.”

He groans at his own words, and at the suction you apply when you hollow your cheeks. You’d picked up a thing or two from the working girls you had befriended while travelling the Free Cities, and the girls in Lys were especially knowledgeable.

“Gods, woman, fuck,” the prince curses, his cock twitching in your mouth, his balls drawing up already somewhere close to your chin. That draws your attention: you reach a tentative hand away from his thigh and cup his balls, running your fingers gently along the soft skin. That makes his hips buck, the back of your head nearly hitting the table. “M’gonna spill down your fuckin’ throat, sweetheart, y’know that? And you’re gonna swallow it like a good—fuckin’—girl—”

Maekar punctuates his sentence with firm thrusts into your mouth, tip slamming into the back of your throat. A tear rolls from each eye as you take him, mindful of your teeth, fingers still working over his sensitive skin. A moan is torn from your throat when you swallow around him, and you feel his cock, burning hot against your tongue, give one last final jerk before he’s shoving himself to the hilt. You don’t have time to gag as your nose is pushed flush with his pelvis and he’s spurting down your throat with your name loud on his lips.

He heaves above you, still hunched over. His eyes open though, looking down at you in awe. Never in his life has he spilled that quickly before, and he can’t help the shame that further reddens his cheeks. But the pollen’s effects stop him from dwelling on it too much.

He’s still hard, and when he pulls himself from your mouth, the tip is still dribbling strings of cum and blood continues to pump hotly in the head. That makes him grumble, frustrated, as he fists the base and slaps it across your lips again.

“Fix it,” he mutters, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “Kiss it better.”

Your brows furrow, lips jutting out in an unimpressed pout. “I told you, my prince, the best fix for this is if you spill—”

“Inside,” Maekar grits out, as if only just remembering. 

The word is loud in the small chambers of your room, and you can’t help the yelp that escapes you as he hauls you to your feet with unsurprising strength. His mouth finds yours once again, and it’s just as desperate as before. His tongue is quick to breach past your lips, licking his spend from your tongue while his hands find the metal clasp of your cloak. Black and red, the House colours.

He remembers the day you wore it for the first time. Merely a month after your arrival, finally out of the old brown rag you had been wearing whilst you traipsed the Free Cities like some wandering merchant. It suited you well, he deduced, the moment he saw you whisk down the halls in it, his daughters in tow, giggling happily as you recounted a story of how your hair was pink for a month after visiting Tyrosh.

You looked like you belonged here.

The clasp comes undone and Maekar tears the cloak from your body. You wear only a simple linen dress, the warmth of the day making you reluctant to dress in your usual layers of skirts.

Maekar’s hands are warm on your waist as he pulls you to him. His mouth kisses away from your lips now, across your cheek, until he can suckle at the curve of your jaw. You moan for him, hands scraping down the strong expanse of his back as you arch against the table. His beard scratches against your skin. You moan even louder, sensations heightened as sweat peaks on your forehead. The pollen’s effects are well kicking in.

“Need you right now,” the prince mutters against you, teeth nipping. His hands find the ties at the back of your dress and he begins to blindly undo them. “I know you can fix me. Just know your pretty pussy’ll do it for me.”

Testament to his six children, you expect a lot from Maekar, but the filth that spills from his mouth is something else entirely. He undoes the ties at your back in record timing, your dress falling loose at your shoulders and waist as he continues to whisper to you. His rough hands push the fabric down, and you hurriedly pull your chemise over your head.

“Seven forgive me,” Maekar whispers as he pulls back and takes two large handfuls of your breasts, kneading the flesh roughly and making you keen.

“My prince,” you respond around a mewl, and he tuts at you in turn. 

While his hands are occupied, you help finally rid him of his trousers and breeches, until finally, you’re both bare and the heat of the chambers feels suffocating. You gasp out as he rolls a hardening nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

With no warning, Maekar grabs you once more by the back of the neck and hauls you across the room. You stumble, body falling across the edge of the mattress, your breasts pushing harshly into the soft sheets.

He kicks your legs apart as he holds you down. “S’this what I need to do?”

Your body is on fire, the dappled sunlight bright in your cleared vision. Visions of Maekar swirl around your mind, and you struggle to look back over your shoulder at him.

He clutches the base of his cock, slick with his spend and your spit, and fists himself a few times. He does this while he drags the leaking tip across the curve of your arsecheeks—the left, and then the right, before finally settling the length of himself between them. A pathetic whimper is your response, back arching, spine dipping further, and he simply chuckles, the hand around the back of your neck tightening.

Not squeezing, just holding.

“Something tells me you’d let me in here, too,” Maekar says lowly as he taps the tip against your arsehole. You draw in a deep breath before biting down hard on your lip, something clenching tightly in your tummy. The prince hums, intrigued. “Yeah… bet she’ll let me right in, won’t she?”

You shake your head, biting your lip so hard you taste copper over the rosy sweetness still on your tongue—somehow, even over the musk of Maekar’s cum, the sweetness still lingers, and it’s starting to make you dizzy.

“S’alright, sweetheart, not today,” he says, then drags his cock down. It catches at the entrance to your cunt, which is slick and wet in such a way it makes him choke on an unexpected moan. “Oh, now I know she’ll fix me.”

And then he’s pushing in.

There’s no warning, no trawl of his cock through your folds or a poorly drawn circle against your puffy clit. Nothing. The prince simply pushes in and doesn’t stop.

You thrash against the mattress, pussy splitting apart as Maekar shoves himself inside. Your walls stretch to accommodate him, and you can’t help the embarrassingly loud moan that leaves you as a heady mixture of pleasure and pain manifests in your brain. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, sweat clinging to the line of your spine as he holds you still, other hand moving to grip your hip now as he feeds his cock into you.

He had groaned when the tip sunk in with a wet pop, but the rest of his thrust consists of dog-like panting that ends in whines. It’s pure, unbridled desperation: his hips roll low as he fills you, gummy walls contracting tightly around the thick of him. You arch so perfectly for him, your legs tremble and your noises are music to his ears. His cock seems to pulse in time with his concerningly fast heartbeat, and he wonders, for a moment, if he’ll spill straight away.

“Maekar.”

He loves the way you say his name. And he feels no need to reprimand you for using it so openly.

“Am I doing it right?” He utters as his hips finally come to a rest against the fat of your arse. His cock throbs deep inside you, head nestled right up against the plug of your cervix. He sees you wince a little when he rocks his hips experimentally.

“Yes,” you hiss out, unable—but wishing—to turn around and look at him. But you keep your cheek pressed to your sheets as he holds the back of your neck and leans over you.

“This’ll fix me?” He pants, withdrawing.

Air fills your lungs and you gulp in a deep breath, but the thick head of his cock is still inside you. You try to answer him, but he thrusts back in again and cuts you off. Well, you cut yourself off, words strangled by a dry gasp as he fills you.

“Course it will,” Maekar mutters, answering himself. He continues to anchor himself with a hand to your neck and hip as he builds a rhythm, pollen potent in his bloodstream. His face stings with heat, and another orgasm is already contracting low in his abdomen. “All I have to do is come inside this tight little pussy and I’ll be better, won’t I, sweetheart? S’what you said. S’what you said I need.”

His thrusts drown you deeper and deeper into the tangle of sheets on your bed. Your hands grip them uselessly, attempting to steady yourself as the prince shifts in and out. Skin-on-skin echoes through the small chambers, and the force of his movements have your rickety bed creaking against the wall. His balls slap heavily against your clit too, and that makes you bleat out his name like a lamb, heat blooming through you.

“She’s so wet,” Maekar whispers behind you, watching a frothy white ring build at the base of his cock as he slams your hips back onto him. He watches the sweat build up along your spine too as your pussy sucks him in, the wet plap-plap-plap of his movements forcing him to draw in faster. “Fuckin’ listen to her. She’s just as wet in my dreams, y’know. Gods, woman, you soak me in my dreams, y’know that?”

You squirm beneath him, his cock hitting right up against your cervix. You want to cry, to sob out, the pleasure all too much as a huge ball of tension nestles itself deep in your gut. It sits low, tugging at the nerves that shoot up your spine and down your legs.

He dreams of you. Maekar Targaryen dreams of you.

“Maekar, please,” you moan, wriggling against him. Pleasure begins to prick down your spinal cord, tension building taut in your abdomen, pussy clenching tightly around the thick of his cock. “Uh–oh, fu–please, please, please—”

“M’not stopping you,” he slurs out as he rails into you. He’s chasing his high, his thrusts rough and ill-timed and barely rhythmic now. He grunts with each push and pull inside of you, your slick leaking down the seam of his cock each time he rolls his pelvis outwards. His thumb massages the side of your neck. “Be good and squeeze me nice and tight, okay? Then I’ll do what you said—I’ll spill deep inside this pretty little pussy, yeah?”

You’ve never heard him speak this much in a proper sentence, let alone speak with this much conviction. He’s a man possessed, his words churning together, forward and vulgar, and the ends of his sentences are beginning to taper off with each of his laboured grunts or whines.

“Yeah, let me feel you, sweetheart–uh, uh,” Maekar ends in a loud pair of groans. His cock knocks up against the perfect spot inside you, angling so deep you see stars. 

That’s when you come, your back arching even deeper, your fists balling your sheets and his name tumbling from your mouth like it’s the only word you know. Your body trembles violently as your cunt clenches around him, drawing a resounding moan from the depths of his chest. He sounds wounded, almost. He watches with hooded eyes as your body wracks with tremors as you come around his cock, and he finally lets go of your neck to let you melt comfortably into the sheets.

Your pussy is so wet, so warm, so perfect, he doesn’t last much longer.

He comes. A lot.

Right up against the plug of your womb, Maekar empties himself into you with a yearning gasp of your name. His seed spills in hot, continuous spurts, and you can’t help but let out a feeble complaint as it fills, and fills, and fills you until you can swear you feel it sloshing around in your belly as you shift to peer over your shoulder.

Maekar grunts, his cock twitching, and twitching again, a sharp pain shooting through his head before suddenly, he blinks, and his vision is clear. He can’t help but gasp as his cock finally begins to soften inside you, the ache in his stomach dissipating as his orgasm recedes, and he finally, finally stops coming. He doesn’t have to look down to know he’s leaking out of you and onto the Myrish carpet.

But he doesn’t pull out.

“See?” Maekar says, hands shifting to slide up and down your damp back. The subtle sting of regret is evident in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. Instead, he takes the time to gently lay himself over you, draping his body against yours, placing kisses along your bare shoulder as he pins you to the mattress. He whispers in your ear, “Told you you’d fix me.”

You huff. “You weren’t broken to begin with.”

He nuzzles your cheek, and your common sense urges you to pull away. But you don’t, and instead, you angle your head to drag your nose against his before your mouths meet again. He groans against you, rolling his hips against your arse enough times that his cock gives a tired jerk inside you.

“Actually…” You pull out of the kiss and Maekar grunts, annoyed, and continues peppering kisses along every inch of your face he can reach while being practically completely on top of you. “If you want it more potent, I can grind it up, petals and all, and you can put the powder straight onto your gums.”

Maekar licks the corner of your mouth and you shudder.

“And you know this… how?” He tries to draw your mouth back to his but you resist.

You can’t help but laugh. “I’m well travelled, my prince. I know plenty.”

———

i need him so bad it’s sickening

[head-window]

FIRECRACKER?!? IT SHOULD'VE BEEN ME!!!!!!!

[inbred-eater]

soldier boy confirmed to like bush and call you “doll”

IM SCREAMING

[nastyakotsk]

#306

[vhagars-dementia]

Maekar Targaryen's greatest hits: "OOUGH", "HA🦆HA🦆huh", "eugh🙄", "oh", "Hhhh-" and "idiOT!"

[greensdelight]

[aqvilegias]

me and the girls mourning baelor targaryen

[cloudyysworld]

Don't worry we are going to lose Jacerys too better prepare

[bluecoolr-main]

I want him

[mrskarma]

put me in there and call it 'The Whore of The Seven Kingdoms' the way I'd be dick hopping

[heavensdollface]

How I feel waiting for another fic because I've read every x reader fic in existence of my favorite character

[cassettemona]

The Holy Trinity

Wattpad for light reading.

AO3 for heavy long ones.

Tumblr for Oneshots.