hi, call me oshy :) im in my 20s, female, and rarely write (and what i do write it's ehhh) so this blog is mostly for fun and for reblogs. feel free to submit or send an ask, but no guarantee they'll get answered in a timely way. school is very hard and i am lazy! pls refrain from anything inappropriate - namely racism, homophobia...etc. thirsts are ok, but again no guarantees i'll respond.
translations, podfics, inspiration, etc. of my works is allowed, BUT ask me first just in case, and credit me!! pls DO NOT reupload, copy and paste, etc. my fics onto other platforms tho!
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⟡ currently working on: surviving university (victim of stem)
A/N: it’s actually crazy how ridiculously handsome this man is. Whatever… hope you enjoy <33
Dex was dangerous when he lost control.
Usually, Dex kept himself restrained around you. Every touch was careful. Like he was constantly holding himself back from something bigger underneath.
But tonight?
Tonight he was already on edge before you even climbed into his lap. The second your knees settled on either side of his thighs, Dex went completely still beneath you.
“Baby.” he said carefully, “what are you doing?”
You shrugged innocently despite the smile on your face. “Sitting.”
“Mm.” His hands landed on your hips automatically, fingers flexing like he was already struggling.
The apartment was quiet except for the TV playing some random movie neither of you had been paying attention to for the last twenty minutes. Mostly because Dex kept staring at your mouth every time you spoke.
Now he was staring at you like you were about to ruin his entire life. And maybe you were?
You shifted slightly in his lap on purpose and Benjamin inhaled sharply. Your face warmed immediately at how easy it was to affect him.
“You’re doing that on purpose.” he muttered.
“What?” you ask as if you don’t know the answer to that question.
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t play dumb with me.”You bit back a smile, pretending innocence while slowly rocking your hips again. This time his grip tightened hard enough to leave marks.
“Jesus Christ.” The roughness in his voice sent heat straight through you.
You rarely seen him like this before, messy and tense and visibly losing composure underneath you. Dex was usually so controlled, so precise with every movement. Because he wouldn’t forgive himself if he ever hurt you.
Now his head tipped back against the couch while his jaw clenched.
“You’re killing me.” he said quietly.
“You’ll survive.”
“Maybe not.” You laughed softly, but the sound caught in your throat when his eyes lifted back to yours. And his eyes were dark. Filled with lust and love.
Dex looked at you like he wanted to devour you whole. The realization made your stomach flip.
You moved again slower this time, grinding down carefully against his lap, and Dex actually cursed under his breath.
“Fuck.” His fingers dug into your hips immediately, trying to still you, but the second you felt how hard he already was beneath you, your brain basically stopped working.
“Oh.” Dex noticed your expression instantly.
“Yeah.” he muttered bitterly. “That’s your fault.”Heat rushed all the way up your neck. You could physically feel how affected he was and honestly it only made you bolder.
So you kept moving. Slow enough to test his limits. Aaaand maybe to annoy him a little.
Dex’s breathing turned uneven almost immediately. His hands kept tightening and loosening against your body like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or stop you completely.
“You have no idea…” he said through clenched teeth, “what you do to me.”
You leaned closer intentionally until your lips brushed his jaw. “Maybe I do.”
His head dropped forward suddenly, forehead pressing against your shoulder while a shaky breath left him.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying very hard to behave.” The honesty in his voice made your heart race faster.
You kissed just below his ear softly while rolling your hips again and Dex made the quietest sound you’d ever heard from him. Like he is on the verge of being a complete wreck.
And somehow that affected you more than anything else.
“Baby,” he warned weakly.
You smiled against his skin. “You sound nervous.”
“I am nervous.” That made you pause. Dex lifted his head again, looking at you with an expression so open it almost surprised you.
“You make me feel insane.” he admitted quietly. Your chest tightened immediately.
Then his hands slid up your back slowly before pulling you fully against him. The movement forced another friction filled grind between your bodies and he shut his eyes hard.
“Fuuuck…” he whispered again.
You laughed breathlessly. “You okay?”
“No.” The immediate answer made you grin. Dex stared at you for another long second before suddenly kissing you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. Like he finally snapped.
One hand tangled into your hair while the other kept your hips pinned firmly against him, controlling your movements now instead of stopping them.
The kiss turned messy fast. Desperate.
Every little movement from you pulled another rough breath from him and honestly you’d never felt more powerful in your life.
The dangerous man was completely falling apart underneath you. And he looked like he loved every second of it.
imagine being bullseye's target for a paid hit. he's so good at inserting yourself into your life, becoming an integral part of it. you're stupidly unsuspecting; he'd feel bad, but quite frankly, he's never seen such a high bounty placed on anyone's head yet, let alone a simple girl like you. it's almost too easy.
until it isn't. until he realises that he genuinely does like you, likes taking you out on dates and seeing you smile. even though you know him as tony, and he's been careful not to let the real him show, it's been slipping out anyway. and all the things he's catalogued in his brain about you under the pretence of knowing his target are things he keeps in mind around you—your coffee order, your morning routine, the temperature you like your shower water at.
he knows you charge your phone in the living room so you don't scroll in the morning, and your preferred way of waking up is when you're curled right into him with your legs tangled together, and when you're at home you skip more than you walk because you don't know what to do with the excess energy you have. and he's taken you on what, twenty dates now? and you call him your boyfriend and he's talked to your mum before—although it has been on the phone—and he has the spare key to your apartment.
he conveniently forgets to "do recon" sometimes, and he is not a man who ever forgets. he keeps on letting his guard down; he likes you too much. it has to be today.
or that's the plan, anyway.
it's a pretty warm day and you're already halfway through a tub of ice cream—or two; you've dumped both flavours in your bowl together and open the door with the spoon still in your mouth.
"hi," you say, but it comes out unintelligible, and he kisses your cheek and his hands slot into place on your hips. your free one traces the contours of his muscles up his side even through the hoodie he's wearing, and he kicks the door closed behind him.
"hi," he whispers back. you put the bowl and spoon down, licking your lips.
"y'miss me?"
"yeah."
then he kisses you for real, shuffling you back towards the wall. your arms loop around his neck, pulling him further into your space, and you taste like strawberry ice cream, a hint of vanilla. the weight of the gun, 3d printed to be untraceable, is devastatingly heavy from where it's tucked into the back of his jeans. just—just five more minutes, let me live this dream, he thinks.
you hum happily into his mouth, fingers brushing through the short hair at the back of his head. he doesn't mean to make a sound, but it happens, and you pull back to laugh at him. you're perfect, don't give him that look, now. you don't even know.
your eyes move to somewhere over his shoulder. "oh, my ice cream's melting."
he turns back, too, glaring at the offending mixture of pink and white. "oh."
you're scarfing it down at amazing speeds, sat beside him on the sofa with his arm 'round your shoulders. you'll get brain freeze if you keep going like this—
"i think i have brain freeze," you announce between mouthfuls of your strawberry-vanilla concoction. there it is.
he takes the bowl from you and finishes what little's left of it; your head's leaned back against the sofa, staring into space as you reconsider life.
"want me to kiss it better?"
you lift your head to stare at him, unamused. "tony, that's not how it works."
"i know that's not how it works," he responds, and his voice has dropped an octave, and you know what he wants, and you laugh.
"okay," you relent. he sets the bowl on the coffee table and you pull him down by the front of his hoodie to kiss him again and he makes the executive decision to not kill you tonight or forever. there's spit and teeth the way he likes it, the way you know he likes it. his knees bracket your thighs, arm braced by your shoulder as the other one tilts your head up; you push him away, back into the cushions, grinning at him with swollen lips already. he bites back a whine when you climb onto his lap, hand straying under the hem of your shorts. you guide his mouth to your neck with one hand, other one busy with god-knows-what (taking off your shirt, he hopes) and he's sure he'll leave bruises on your thighs, but the good kind, born of love and something more, ones only he gets to see, because your life will not end tonight. or anytime soon, if he gets to have a say in things.
the safety of your gun clicks off. you'd hidden it beneath the cushions, waiting for the perfect opportunity—as in right now.
"game's over, poindexter," you're still smiling, but its something sharper, meaner. so very unlike you, a mask fabricated for this very moment.
he draws in a breath, slow, controlled. "oh."
"i know why you came here tonight," you say. "to kill me, right?"
"wasn't gonna."
"no?" you realise with horror that even with your gun pressed up against his head, he's gazing up at you adoringly through his lashes, thumb still rubbing circles idly into your thigh. there's a faint flush on his cheeks. he doesn't seem scared.
"no," he repeats. "gun's under the hoodie. i changed my mind."
you reach behind him, pull it out, toss it to the floor like it burns to touch.
"you have no other weapons on you?"
his eyes flicker downwards, yours follow. then he looks up again, and your cheeks are burning because of what he's just implied. nothing you haven't seen before, of course, but under these circumstances…
"no, baby, i don't."
he looks like he wants to kiss you. and he isn't scared.
things are much, much worse, actually.
he's in love. with you.
a terrifying prospect, really.
(your heart skips a beat. or three.)
"you're my target," you say, more to convince yourself than him. "i'm going to have to shoot you now."
"okay." his voice is steady. he shifts, just a little, and the movement below makes your breath catch in your throat. "do you want me to put my hands up, or is this okay?"
your palms are sweaty, grip faltering. you're trembling. he tilts his head a little, surveying, and you push the barrel further into the side of his head.
"don't be scared," he murmurs. it's intimate, the way he's talking to you, like you're not holding him at gunpoint. "bravest girl i know."
"i'm not scared," you snap, but the gun's not even aimed at his head now; your hold falters. "any last words?"
his hand reaches up to yours, realigns it so it's like you'd originally held it.
"can you kiss me?" it's pathetic—he's pathetic, and he knows it. or maybe he knows you. "i know it was real for you too—"
he thinks he might've died and they accidentally let him into heaven.
or,
you chuck the gun away from you abruptly, scooting forward on his lap. you're not crying, 'cause you don't cry, especially in situations like this, but he swallows the distressed sound you make anyway and kisses you harder, licking into your mouth like a beast that's finally been uncaged. you're apologising with every breath, and a part of him wonders if he should too—
he pauses in place, pulls back just a little to look at you better, and you let out a soft tony, not liking the delay (even though you know it's not his name).
"dex," he corrects gently; you repeat it in the same breathless tone as before. he thinks he's never heard a prettier sound. when he cups your face, you lean into the touch with a sigh.
"i'm sorry," he says. he doesn't say it often, but he really means it when he does. "for everything."
and then a quieter confession. "i love you."
it's not like either of you haven't said it before, but something's changed this time. it's different, more honest in a way, even though you'd meant it every time you said it before.
"i know." it comes out a whisper, and you blink and swallow, hoping you don't end up crying. "me too. i mean—"
"i know," he echoes your words from before, before you lapse into a comfortable silence. it's almost normal for a second. then you sit up straighter, clearing your throat, and begin taking inventory of the situation. "we can't stay here for much longer. they'll know something's wrong."
he glances around, not as urgent as you. "we have time."
"hey," you say suddenly. "did you really get hard from being held at gunpoint?"
instead of responding, he shucks off his hoodie and his hand slips under your shirt, burning against your bare waist. he makes no effort to move it upwards; it just stays there, heavy, a brand on your skin. he looks up at you and grins, needy, wanting, and you get your answer.
hello god it's me gf2page BACK with ANOTHER fic about BENJAMIN POINDEXTER and before you ask YES i hate my life NO i will NOT stop writing. if you like this LMK :] 1.5K WORDS!
The trading of strikes and blocks had been fast and aggressive until a sudden, tangled mess of limbs sent you both crashing down to the hard floor.
Now you’re pinned right on top of him, your hands resting flat against his broad chest to catch your balance, your breath coming in short, ragged huffs.
Neither of you moves to break the position. The sharp rush of adrenaline from the fight shifts instantly into something entirely different; the air between you feels thick and heavy, making it hard to draw a full breath.
Dex freezes beneath you, his eyes locking onto yours as his pupils dilate, and you can see a sudden, dark flush creeping up his neck as his face grows intensely hot under your gaze.
As much as he hates the sudden loss of control, his body betrays him completely, his dick hardening beneath you in a matter of seconds. He knows there’s no hiding it — the position leaves absolutely no room for doubt, and he can feel himself pressed up right against your cunt through the fabric of your gear.
You obviously notice it right away, the sudden, rigid outline straining against you making your eyes lock onto his with a knowing look. Dex's face burns even warmer, and he tries to shift his hips to move away, but you don't let up, keeping your weight centered firmly over him.
“Come on, move,” Dex grunts as he avoids your eyes.
“Not until you admit defeat,” you tease with a small curve of your lips.
He absolutely doesn't want to give up that easily, especially not like this. “Get up.” he grumbles, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably.
Instead of listening, you deliberately plant your full weight down onto him, pressing right against the hard length of him. The sudden friction catches him completely off guard, and Dex lets out a small, breathless noise.
“Don’t- “ he gasps, his hands automatically coming up to grip your hips, trying to hold you still. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m not doing anything,” you say innocently, though you don't shift an inch. “I just want to hear you say that you lost,”
“No,” he rasps, his stubbornness fighting hard against the flush creeping all the way to his ears.
Dex is both bigger and stronger than you — he could easily wrap his arms around your waist, flip your positions, or just push you off him if he really wanted to. But as he tries to move, his muscles lock up and he freezes beneath you. A cloudy haze starts to roll through his mind, drifting over his thoughts until his sharp focus completely dissolves.
When you notice his defenses crumble, you shift your hips against his again. This time, it’s a slow, purposeful roll, grinding right against his growing cock.
Dex’s entire body goes rigid beneath you, his fingers digging into your hips as a helpless whine catches in his throat. His eyes flutter shut and his lips part, his breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches as he completely melts beneath your weight.
He starts to push his hips up towards yours, meeting your grind with a desperate thrust of his own. The sudden, deep contact of his bulge right against you sends a sharp shudder straight up your spine.
“I know what you've been up to,” you tell him, looking down at his pink face.
Dex swallows hard, his voice strained as he forces out a single word. “What?”
“Don’t act dumb Dex,” you tell him, a knowing look in your eyes as you press down firmer against his cock. “I know you've been stalking me.”
“I haven’t- ”
“I know you watch me walk home,” you interrupt, your voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “And I know you watch me when I'm sleeping,”
“I don’t know what you're talking about,” he sighs, his jaw tightens as he tries to force a cold, detached mask back over his face.
The confession ruins whatever restraint he has left. Your hips begin to move together in a heavy, frantic rhythm, the friction building rapidly between the two of you. Dex’s hands lock onto your waist, trying to silently encourage you to plant yourself harder against him. His eyes squeeze shut as he feels himself rapidly getting closer.
“The watching is fine,” you say, your voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “But then I started missing panties,”
Dex’s eyes snap open, wide and filled with panic as his chest heaves beneath you.
“I already knew you were a freak, Dex,” you purr. “But c’mon, that's just unredeemable,”
“‘M sorry, I-I’ll stop,” Dex gasps out, all of his pride completely disintegrating as his fingers press bruises into your skin. “Won’t -mmph- won’t do it again, I swear,”
He can't stop himself anymore. Even as you try to hold him still, his hips keep meeting yours in hopeless jerks.
Just as he’s about to make a mess of himself, you abruptly stand up. Dex lets out a broken, confused groan, staring up at you completely wrecked.
“You’re a smart boy,” You smile down at him, “Can’t you tell I’ve been keeping my curtains open for you?”
You step forward, pressing the sole of your foot firmly against his cock. Dex’s eyes roll back and a loud, helpless moan tears from his throat.
Leaning forward to apply even more pressure, you look into his dazed eyes before walking away.
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.
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
edit (5/28/26): please read this post before asking for a part 2. i am not a robot, i am a human being with a busy life. i do not know when a part 2 will be made, but i know it will take a while. please do not ask when part 2 will happen, because i don't know.
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you super nanny phil coulson. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
IS IT A CRIME TO LET YOUR LAW PROFESSOR FUCK YOU ON YOUR COUCH?
SYPNOSIS. after that heated encounter in his office, you've been dodging his lectures and ignoring every reminder of what happened that night. higuruma hiromi is more frustrated than ever—until he finally stops waiting and takes what you've both been circling for weeks.
— PART ONE
PAIRING. law prof! higuruma hiromi x law student! reader
A/N. art by hunnismoker on x. first post after getting flagged !!!
you’ve been ghosting his class for almost two weeks.
not on purpose…at least, that’s what you tell yourself. it started innocently enough when midterms starts, three back-to-back exams in four days was hell. then the cold came, a scratchy throat turning into fever. you told yourself you’d catch up once the fog cleared but even after the fever broke, you didn’t go back.
a stupid group project drama piled on next. one groupmate ghosted entirely, another argued over every citation, and the third kept rewriting your sections without asking. you spent nights in the library staring at shared google docs, highlighter bleeding through pages you weren’t reading, mind drifting somewhere else entirely.
and underneath all of it was the real reason.
the humiliating, pulsing truth you couldn’t admit out loud even to yourself.
every time you pictured walking into that lecture hall, sliding into your usual seat, you felt his eyes on you again. the one he gave you that monday evening in his office when the door was locked and your knees were on carpet and his hand was fisted in your hair.
the memory played on cruel repeat, you could still taste him—still feel the stretch of your throat when he fucked it.
you tried to study criminal intent the way you always had: highlighters, flashcards, color-coded notes. but every time the mens rea slides appeared in your mind, you saw him at the podium instead. black marker in hand, diagramming voluntary manslaughter like it was nothing, his voice never failing to sound low and tired.
you imagined him turning to the board and writing your name in the margin next to “reckless disregard.” imagined him underlining “guilty mind” twice, then looking back at you over his shoulder with that unreadable stare.
your stomach would knot. your thighs would press together under whatever table you were hiding at. heat would crawl up your neck and settle low in your belly until you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe.
so you skipped.
there’s no way you could focus anyway.
one lecture became two. two became four. by the sixth absence you were submitting everything online. you polished every pdfs attached to curt emails with subject lines like “week 7 reading response” and “torts ii problem set.” you were still doing the work. still getting As on the assignments he graded without comment. no one could say you weren’t keeping up.
but he noticed.
higuruma hiromi doesn’t chase students. he doesn’t send gentle “concerned professor” emails with smiley faces or pull anyone aside after class with a hand on the shoulder and a murmured “is everything alright?” he isn’t built that way. he marks absences in neat red ink on the roster.
so you knew he’d seen it. knew because the last assignment you submitted came back with feedback that was longer than usual.
“strong analysis of actus reus, but your discussion of mens rea lacks depth. consider the subjective vs objective standard more carefully. office hours are still available if clarification is needed.”
was that an invitation? you don’t know.
you deleted the email without replying. closed your laptop. buried your face in your pillow and tried not to think about how badly you wanted to walk into his office again.
instead you stayed away.
it’s a thursday evening and the sky is already dark by 5:30, rain hammering the campus like it’s trying to wash the whole place clean. you’re huddled under the inadequate bus shelter outside the law building. you opened your phone for the third time to check the ETA, the next bus kept getting pushed back.
your fingers are numb on the screen. the cold seeps through your hoodie, makes your teeth chatter in small, embarrassing bursts.
you keep thinking about how stupid this is—standing here freezing when you could have easily just stayed in your apartment with the heater on and another excuse not to face him.
you only came here cause you needed air.
you needed it because every time you close your eyes all you see is him.
the tired lines around his eyes that made him look older and sharper. the way his jaw tightened right before he told you to open your mouth. the low rasp in his voice when he said “that’s it” while he pushed deeper, like he was grading your ability to take him.
it's making you insane.
it makes your chest ache now. it’s not just want, you actually need him. shame mixed with this stupid, gnawing need to know if he thinks about it too. if he replays the way you looked up at him with tears in your eyes, or the sound you made when he finally let you breathe. you hate how much space he takes up in your head.
headlights cut through the downpour suddenly. a black sedan slows, pulls right up to the curb in front of the shelter. the passenger window slides down with a quiet hum.
“get in.”
his voice slices through the rain noise.
you stare for a second. higuruma is behind the wheel, his face is half-shadowed, but you can see the faint crease between his brows.
you hesitate.
“i’m not waiting,” he says. “the bus is delayed. you’ll be here another half hour at least.”
you feel your pulse jump in your throat. it’s really him, sitting there in the driver’s seat with the same rolled sleeves and the same tired expression you’ve been replaying for weeks. part of you wants to stay right where you are under the shelter and keep pretending none of this exists, because getting in the car means facing whatever this is head-on. but the cold is biting through your hoodie, your jeans are soaked at the bottom, and the thought of waiting out here alone while he drives away makes your chest tighten. you already know you’re going to regret it either way, but standing here freezing feels worse than whatever happens next.
your feet move before you decide. you duck out from under the shelter, yank the door open, slide inside. the door thuds shut and suddenly the world is muffled…everything else gone quiet except your own heartbeat thumping loud in your ears.
higuruma doesn’t look at you right away. just checks the mirrors, pulls away from the curb smooth and controlled.
silence stretches awkwardly for a few minutes.
“address,” he says finally.
you rattle off your off-campus place a few miles away. he nods while he inputs it into the gps without comment. the screen glows blue on the dash … then more silence. the wipers sweep steady as you steal glances at him, his hands on the wheel look steady, veins standing out against his skin.
“six absences,” he says out of nowhere. “consistent, aren’t you?”
“i submitted everything on time.”
“i know.” he flicks the turn signal, merges left. “your work is fine. better than fine but you’re not in the room. that’s still a problem.”
you swallow, “i’ve been busy. you know midterms…group stuff, also got sick for a bit.”
“convenient timing.” he chuckles as heat floods your face.
“it’s not like that.”
“isn’t it?” he glances over. “you avoid the lecture hall, avoid my eyes. but you still send polished assignments like nothing happened.”
“i didn’t know what else to do.”
“you could have come to office hours.” his tone is even, you almost hear boredom in it. “asked for clarification on mens rea like i suggested in the feedback. like a normal student.”
but that’s the thing, there’s nothing normal about this.
“i didn’t think you meant it,” you mumble.
“i don’t say things i don’t mean.”
the car fills with quiet again.
“where do you live?” you ask suddenly, desperate to change the subject, to make this feel normal.
he raises an eyebrow. “why?”
“just curious. i mean you know where i live now.”
“apartment near the courthouse district. walking distance, it’s convenient.”
“do you… drive students home often?”
“no.”
another turn, the surroundings are familiar now. your complex is coming up soon.
“you’ve been thinking about it,” he says.
“about what?” you play dumb.
“monday.” he doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t need to.
you press your thighs together, try to ignore the pulse between them. “yeah.”
“and?”
“and it’s hard to sit in class pretending it didn’t happen.”
he pulls into the loading zone in front of your building. you hear the engine idles, rain drums on the roof. he finally turns to look at you—like really look. eyes dark and unreadable, but you want to believe that there’s something under the tiredness. hunger, maybe. or just patience wearing thin.
“then stop pretending,” he says quietly.
you stare at him.
“come inside,” you whisper. “just… to get out of the rain.”
he studies you for a long second. then reaches for the keys, kills the engine.
the sudden quiet is deafening.
he gets out first, circles around, opens your door like it’s nothing. you step out into the downpour again, colder now after the heater. he doesn’t offer an umbrella…he probably doesn’t have one. just waits while you fumble for your keys, both of you getting soaked in the short walk to the entrance.
inside the stairwell it’s warmer, but your clothes are heavy with rain and dripping onto the concrete steps. you lead the way up, feeling him right behind you—close enough that you can hear the soft squeak of his shoes on each stair, feel the faint heat coming off him even through the damp air.
your hands shake a little when you unlock the door. it swings open into the small entryway, string lights from the living room spilling faint yellow across the floor.
you step inside first, kick off your soaked sneakers by the mat. he follows closing the door, he doesn’t take off his shoes right away, he stands there observing your place. he takes a mental note of it, looking at the stack of textbooks on the coffee table, the open laptop with his class portal still pulled up, the half-empty mug of tea.
you turn the lamp on higher, then head to the kitchenette to grab towels. anything to keep moving. “i’ll get something to dry off with,” you mutter, mostly to fill the quiet.
when you come back with two towels, he’s already peeled off his wet jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. his shirt is clinging in places—white fabric turned semi-transparent over his chest and shoulders, sleeves still rolled up, forearms flexing when he takes the towel from you.
he dries his hair roughly, then his face, eyes never leaving yours.
you try to focus on drying your own arms, but your gaze keeps dropping to the way the wet shirt outlines the lines of his body—the faint definition of muscle under the fabric, the dark trail of hair visible through the damp material where it sticks to his stomach. your mouth goes dry. you remember exactly how that skin felt under your palms last time, how his abs tensed when you swallowed around him.
he notices it.
“you’re still shivering,” he says, voice low. he steps closer, takes the towel from your hands, and starts drying your hair himself. fingers brushing your scalp through the fabric. it’s so gentle that you froze.
“take the hoodie off,” he says after a moment.
your fingers fumble with the hem. the wet fabric peels away from your skin with a cold suck, leaving you in just your thin t-shirt and bra underneath. the shirt is clinging too, nipples hard from the chill and from him watching. you cross your arms instinctively.
he drops the towel on the floor. reaches out, hooks two fingers under the hem of your t-shirt, and tugs it up slowly. you lift your arms without thinking. the shirt comes off, lands somewhere behind you. his eyes drop to your chest, then back to your face.
“still cold?” he asks.
you shake your head. you’re burning now.
he steps in until your back hits the wall by the entryway. one hand plants beside your head, the other slides down your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the bra making you inhale sharply.
“tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
you don’t.
you don’t want him to stop.
his mouth finds yours—harder than the first time he kissed you in your memory. there’s no buildup, just pure hunger. his tongue pushes in immediately and you moan into it, hands scrambling up his wet shirt, fingers digging into the fabric over his chest. he groans low against your lips, presses his hips forward so you feel how hard he already is through his slacks.
your fingers curl into the wet cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s already no space left between you.
he breaks the kiss first, just enough to speak against your lips. “kitchen counter now.”
you nod, legs shaky as you lead him the few steps into the narrow kitchenette. he doesn’t give you time to think. his hands find your waist, lift you onto the counter in one smooth motion like you weigh nothing. the cold granite bites into the backs of your thighs through your damp jeans. you gasp at the temperature difference.
“these need to come off,” he mutters, fingers already working the button of your jeans. you lift your hips when he tugs, helping him peel the soaked denim down your legs along with your underwear.
you’re bare from the waist down now, legs dangling off the edge, thighs trembling slightly from the chill and anticipation. his eyes tracing the curve of your hips, the soft skin of your inner thighs, the way you’re already glistening for him.
“spread wider,” he says.
his palms slide up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing close but not quite touching where you want him most. you desperately shift forward, chasing his hands; he presses one palm flat to your lower stomach, holding you still.
“patience,” he murmurs. “you’ve been avoiding me for two weeks. you can wait a little longer.”
“hey i told you i wasn’t–”
“ah yes, right… you were busy, right pretty?”
his thumb finally grazes your clit and your hips jerk. he does it again, slower, watching your face the whole time. your breath comes in short pants. he circles then collects wetness on his fingers before bringing them back up to rub slowly.
“you’re soaked,” he continues, “been like this the whole ride?”
“since you pulled up,” you admit, which makes him hum in approval. two fingers slide inside you without warning, stretching you open. you moan, head tipping back against the cabinets.
“look at me,” he says.
you force your eyes open. his expression is focused, almost clinical, but his pupils are blown wide and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones.
he’s affected too.
he adds a third finger, stretching you further. the slight burn only makes it better.
“good,” he mutters. “just like that.”
his free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss. his tongue fucking into your mouth in time with his fingers. you’re rocking against his hand now, chasing the pressure, little whimpers escaping between kisses.
“mhm…so good.”
he pulls his fingers out right when you’re teetering on the edge which you whine in protest.
“not yet,” he says against your mouth. “want you to come on my tongue first.”
he drops to his knees between your spread legs. the sight of him there, kneeling on your kitchen floor, hair damp and messy from the rain—it does so much things to you. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, hands gripping your thighs to hold you open.
he doesn’t tease this time. just leans in and licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. you cry out, hands flying to his hair. you feel him groan against you. his tongue is relentless, pointed flicks over your clit, then sucking it between his lips. he alternates, never letting you settle into one sensation long enough to predict it.
“hiromi—” his name comes out broken.
he pulls back just enough to speak. “you can go louder, right? wanna to hear it.”
“hiromi,” you moan again, louder this time. he rewards you by sucking hard on your clit while two fingers slide back inside, curling ruthlessly against that spot.
you’re dangerously close. your thighs start to shake around his head. he doesn’t let up, he keeps the same steady rhythm, tongue and fingers working in perfect tandem.
“come,” he orders, voice muffled against you. “now.”
your whole body tensing as you come apart on his tongue. you cry out his name, fingers tightening in his hair, hips grinding against his face. he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation.
he finally pulls back, his lips and chin all shiny. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands slowly. his erection is straining against his slacks now.
it’s obvious and thick.
you reach for his belt with shaky hands. he lets you undo it, lets you push his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him. he’s heavy in your hand, hot and hard, precum beading at the tip. you start to stroke him making him hiss through his teeth.
“enough,” he says, catching your wrist. “want inside you.”
he lifts you off the counter, hands under your thighs again. he turns, carries you a few steps into the living room, and drops down onto the couch with you straddling his lap. the cushions sink under your combined weight.
his cock is still hard, pressed up against your stomach now. he lifts you just enough to line himself up. you feel the blunt head nudge at your entrance…thick and insistent.
“relax,” he says, “breathe, won’t you? let me in.”
you try. you really do. but the stretch is already intense just from the tip pressing in, and your body tenses instinctively. you bite your lip, hands braced on his shoulders.
“i’m trying…” you mutter, half-laugh, half-whine. “...you’re big.”
he huffs a quiet laugh against your collarbone, the sound rough and amused. “i know but you took it fine with your mouth before, this should be easier. just relax those hips for me.”
his thumbs rub slow circles over your hipbones, coaxing. you exhale shakily, try to loosen up, but when he starts pushing in harder.
your breath hitches and your nails dig into his shoulders.
“easy,” he murmurs. “why’re you fighting me?”
“hey i-im trying,” you repeat pouting. “but y-you’re stretching me so much.”
he pauses halfway in, lets you adjust. his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then back down to your ass. he squeezes gently, spreads you a little more.
“there you go,” he says. “good girl. feel that? you’re opening up for me already.”
you can feel every inch of him...too thick and hot, it burns in the best way, that full, almost-too-much pressure that makes your thighs shake. inside, he feels heavy like he’s pressing right up against every sensitive spot at once.
“fuck,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “you feel—shit…so tight. like you’re trying to keep me out and pull me in at the same time.”
you both groan at the same time when he pushes all the way inside.
“you okay?” he asks, one hand to come up to brush damp hair off your forehead.
“yeah,” you whisper. “just really full. you feel huge like this.”
“good,” he says. “you want me to move?”
you nod fast, breath coming in short bursts. “yes please.”
“then tell me properly. use your words. what do you want, hm?”
you swallow feeling slightly embarrassed. he’s looking right at you, eyes half-lidded but sharp, waiting.
“i want you to fuck me,” you mumble.
he tilts his head, one eyebrow lifting. “that’s cute but i said properly baby.”
your thighs twitch around his hips. he’s still buried all the way inside, the fullness is driving you insane. you can feel every vein, every slight shift when he breathes.
“hiromi…” you whine, rocking your hips a little.
he tightens his grip, holding you still. “nuh-uh. no cheating. say it like you mean it. you’ve been hiding from me for two weeks—least you can do is ask nicely.”
you bite your lip, embarrassment and need twisting together until it hurts. “i want you to fuck me hard,” you say, louder this time, “pleasee…i-i need it.”
he smirks again, feeling satisfied. the corner of his mouth tilting up just enough to show he likes hearing you beg.
“there we go,” he says quietly, “that wasn’t hard, was it?” his hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in as he lifts you a couple inches, then drops you back down hard onto his cock. the sudden thrust makes you yelp.
“o-oh hiromi-"
he doesn’t let you catch your breath. starts fucking up into you. each thrust is deep enough to make your whole body jolt while the couch groans under you both, springs protesting every time he bottoms out.
“does this turn you on?” he asks, “fucking your professor on your shitty little couch? hm?”
you moan louder than you mean to, head tipping back,
“thought so.” he thrusts harder, one hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, keeping your face close to his. “been skipping my class, sending me perfect little assignments like nothing’s wrong, but every time you typed my name you were probably dripping thinking about this. about me splitting you open just like this.”
you can only moan in return too gone to comprehend what he’s saying. he curses under his breath when he feels you clench, pace turning rougher. the wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the quiet apartment, mixing with your gasps and his heavy breathing.
“look at you,” he mutters, eyes locked on where you’re taking him. “taking it so well. my good little student, finally getting what she’s been aching for.”
he shifts his angle slightly, tilting his hips so every thrust drags right against that spot inside you. your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open on a broken moan.
his face is flushed, hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight with restraint. but he’s watching you like he’s memorizing every twitch. like this won’t happen again.
“tell me,” he says, voice dropping lower. “tell me whose cock is making you feel this good right now.”
“yours,” you gasp. “ah hiromi’s! only yours—”
he rewards you with a particularly deep grind, rolling his hips so the base presses hard against your clit. “that’s right,” he murmurs. “and you’re gonna come on it again. gonna soak my lap like the needy little slut you are for me.”
his hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, firm circles that match the brutal rhythm of his hips. your stomach tightens, thighs trembling uncontrollably.
“puh...please i’m close.”
“i know,” he says, voice strained now. “can feel you fluttering around me. go on come. make a mess…it’s yours anyway.”
it hits fast and hard. your whole body locks up, back arching, cry ripping out of your throat as you come apart.
“fuck—good girl—fuck—”
he keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking, until his thrusts turn sloppy.
“where do you want it?”
“inside,” you gasp immediately. “please inside.”
that’s all it takes. he grinds deep as he comes, filling you up. he groans long and low against your neck, arms wrapping tight around your waist, holding you down on him while he rides it out.
for a long minute neither of you moves. all heavy breathing, sticky skin, the faint patter of rain still outside. you can feel him softening slowly.
he kisses your shoulder, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth.
“you good?” he asks quietly.
you nod against his chest, still catching your breath. “yeah. really good.”
he huffs a small laugh, hand stroking slow down your back. “what do you wanna do?”
you’re still straddling him. the living room smells like rain and sex. your forehead is pressed to his shoulder.
“stay,” you mumble into his neck. “stay like this a little longer.”
his fingers keep tracing lazy lines up and down your spine, from the nape of your neck all the way to the small of your back, then back up again. it’s soothing in a way that makes your eyelids heavy.
his gaze drifts past your shoulder, landing on the open laptop still glowing faintly on the coffee table. the screen’s dimmed but not off since his class portal is still pulled up from earlier.
“this where you took one of the photos?” he asks casually.
your stomach drops and flips at the same time. heat rushes back to your face so fast it makes you dizzy.
“what?” you whisper, even though you know exactly what he means.
he nods toward the couch. “right here on this cushion. ass up, looking back over your shoulder. the third one you sent. background looked familiar, same string lights in the corner, same throw blanket bunched up like that.” his hand pats the cushion beside you. “thought it might’ve been the bedroom at first but no kitchen light’s wrong for that angle. had to be here.”
you bury your face deeper into his neck, mortified. “hiromi…”
“what?” he sounds genuinely amused now, the low rumble vibrating through his chest. “you’re the one who attached it to an entrapment analysis. i had to look closely.”
you groan, half-laugh half-embarrassed whimper. “i didn’t mean for you to—i mean, i didn’t plan—”
“sure,” he cuts in gently, fingers sliding into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. “but you didn’t delete it either.”
you lift your head just enough to peek at him.
“you kept them?” you ask quietly.
he doesn’t hesitate. “yeah, all three. printed them out, remember? filed them under ‘supplemental materials.’” he pauses, thumb brushing your cheek. “don't get me wrong, it's not for grading, it's more for...reference...?"
“reference for what?”
“for nights when i’m grading papers at 2 a.m. and wondering why a certain student keeps disappearing from my lecture hall.” he continues, “or for when i need to remember exactly how you looked when you were trying to tempt me into breaking every rule in the faculty handbook.”
“and… did it work?”
he looks at you for a long second, then leans in and kisses you, a simple one. when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.
“obviously,” he mutters. “look where we are.”
“shower soon,” he says again. “then bed. and tomorrow—”
“i’ll be in class,” you finish for him.
“get a better seat,” he adds. “where i can see you properly.”
a/n. @yourlocalmeta1head requested iwa, so here’s pt3 >_< (srry if you didn’t wanna be tagged, just lmk and i’ll remove it!!)
link to pt1 , pt2 , pt4 , and pt5
☆ — IWAIZUMI
he likes when you beg him to go faster and or harder. your cute little moans and whines as you cry out a "haji— faster!" makes him nearly cum right there. just hearing you so blissed out with pleasure gets him going, but when you want even more? how can he deny you?
"yeah? you want more? say please."
☆ — MATSUKAWA
obsessed with the way your eyes get wide and your mouth drops open with pleasure when he first slides inside of you. he’s just so big, you can’t help but react like that. he loves it though, especially when you gasp at first, your hands grappling to hold onto his biceps. nothing is better.
"does it hurt, baby? too big? you’re okay."
☆ — BOKUTO
likes when you praise him. he gets an extra thrill out of any praise from you, especially during sex. loves loves loves when you gush about how good he’s fucking you, moaning out a "jus' like that!" subconsciously goes faster whenever you babble compliments, and he won’t break the rhythm until one of you is cumming (probably him).
"it’s good? mhm? tell me how good i’m fucking you."
☆ — AKAASHI
eye contact. he honestly never thought he’d be into it until he met you. now he’s constantly seeking out your gaze, wanting you to struggle to maintain it while he hits deep inside of you. he thinks it’s so cute when your eyes can’t help but roll back, or when you get too embarrassed and look away. he'll urge you to look downwards, where the two of you are connected, if you can’t just look at him.
meian - a photo of him, his wife, and kid, a photo of his family, and another with the current msby team. spare change of clothes and toiletries. extra set of keys for emergencies. protein bars (peanut butter chocolate), protein powder (also peanut butter), and expired sample snacks from sponsors. ratty towel inherited from the previous locker owner (it's a msby captain legacy).
barnes - a photo of his family, a photo of his old professional team in america, magnetic mirror. toiletries, hair dryer, shaving kit. a worn mascot plushie from the 2012 london olympics as a good luck charm. spare clothes for both him and his kid, who likes to drop by and play with him after hours.
inunaki - 3 polaroids of his favorite video game characters, one of which signed by the seiyuu. 2 spare changes of clothes (1 casual and 1 date fit for the surprise date), toiletries. 2 pairs of shoes (extra court shoes and dress shoes for the surprise press conference), some snacks not part of his meal plan. some money and an extra bus pass.
adriah - a photo of his family and photo of the current msby team. a pocket japanese to english translation guide. spare clothes and a pair of crocs. umbrella and jacket because you can't underestimate the weather. an old paper canadian bill as good luck (he has a $100 bill signed by his old university friends). an omamori he bought the first day he landed in japan.
bokuto - a photo of him, kuroo, tsukishima, kenma, and akaashi. a cheap pair of glasses, eye drops, and cleaning kit for his contacts. a deck of playing cards and karuta cards that he never opened because he doesn't know how to play. extra clothes and toiletries. a massive container of flavored sports mix. between him and hinata, the entire team is well-fed and hydrated. an owl plush for good luck.
hinata - a photo of him, natsu, and their mom, and a photo with the current msby team. a vabo-chan keychain plush to match natsu's. spare change of clothes and toiletries. an entire box of protein bars and packets of electrolyte powder. old sun visor and sunglasses, in case there's ever a chance to play beach volleyball.
atsumu - photo of him, osamu, and ma, and photo of him, osamu, kita, and aran. spare clothes, toiletries, and travel-sized products for his hair. extra braces and supports that he never used (but maybe someone else will), alcohol wipes and hand sanitizer, an empty bento box in case osamu comes by with food and he can save it for later. a 1,000 yen bill and loose change (he technically owes sakusa, but...)
sakusa - three spare changes of clothes (training gear, 2 sets of casual clothes), first-aid kit, travel-sized bottles of ointments and creams for muscle and joint pain, a bottle of disinfectant and hand sanitizer, hair accessories and treatment (hair ties, clips, bands), protein powder (no sugar, no fat), and a hand mirror. extra braces and supports. a spare wallet with money inside it (he never told anyone about it, yet is somehow missing 1,000 yen...)
he didn't even want to come. but bokuto swore up and down that it would be fun. which, in his vocabulary, translates to “i am about to make a series of poor decisions and require a responsible witness.”
then he sees you, and well. he-
“keiji! hi. can i sit here?”
what really scares him — is how he can’t even tell if you’re sober. but he can’t ever say no to you, can he?
one knee slides between his, then the rest of you follows, easing down into his lap; the most natural thing in the world. “i’m sitting here.”
“i noticed,” he says to your back. “comfortable?”
you turn around like you’re about to tell him a secret, breath tickling his ears. “i would be if you weren’t sitting like you were in a business meeting.”
that earns a soft laugh from him. his other hand comes to rest just above your knee. he squeezes it gently.
“better?” low enough that only you can hear.
you hum, nodding while you readjust. your skirt flies up a little, and he fixes it for you. “getting there.”
“you’re drunk,” he says, as if noting the weather.
you laugh into his neck. “tipsy. not stupid.”
akaashi hums, low in his chest. “there a difference?”
“mhm,” your hand slides up and down his shoulder, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. “if i were stupid, i’d be over there—” you point.
bokuto and hinata were trying to convince atsumu to climb on kuroo’s shoulders for a chicken fight in the middle of the living room. grown men, may i remind you. osamu, in the kitchen, looked two seconds away from lighting the countertop on fire.
“—and not over here.” you boop his nose, then scrunch your own because you can feel it flush.
“you’re tense,” you murmur, drape an arm over his shoulder, toy with the curls at the back of his neck.
he moves his head to study you. “you’re drunk.”
you pull at your collar. “i’m hot.”
“that too.”
“oh shut the fuck up,” you push his head away, laughing, and he chuckles. “is the air on in here?”
he glances around. it’s hot, yes. not to mention loud, and someone cannonballed into the inflatable pool in the backyard. bokuto’s acting like it’s the olympic finals.
but you, flushed and draped across his lap, eyes glossed over, skin warm — you’re the real problem.
“c’mon.”
you lift your head. “what?”
“we’re going outside.”
“but i’m-”
“you’re sitting on me, yes,” he says evenly, “which makes it very difficult to stand up. so help me out.”
you groan, dramatic, and peel yourself off with all the grace of someone who is definitely more than tipsy. he steadies you with one hand at your waist before slinging your arm over his shoulder and gently sliding his own around your waist.
you blink, a little thrown. “keiji, if this is your version of kicking me off your lap, just say that.”
he doesn’t answer, shrugs off his jacket without a word, draping it over your figure before weaving you through the bodies in the crowd ‘till you’re settled out in the cool air.
“i told you i was hot.”
“it’s going to be cold outside.”
“you’re kind of a romantic, you know that?”
akaashi laughs, and you curl your fingers around the jacket lapels. it smells like him. of course it does.
“so what’d you drag me out here for?”
he sits down on the porch step and pats the space between his legs. “here. since that’s apparently your favorite seat tonight.”
you narrow your eyes at him, legs already moving anyway. “don’t act like you didn’t like it.”
“don’t put words in my mouth.”
you twist in his lap, knees on either side of his hips now, straddling him while he swallows his own name from your lips, and he groans into your mouth like that’s what he’s been trying not to do all night.
“you’re—” you gasp between kisses, “such a liar.”
“about what?”
“i think you do like having me in your lap.”
his teeth graze your bottom lip. “isn’t that obvious?”
when you laugh into his mouth, he kisses you again like he never wants you to stop. and he thinks maybe, he doesn’t hate parties after all.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ he has you sitting on and riding his face, with his hands gripping your hips to keep your weight on him—none of that hovering pussy shit—and guiding your movements until you’re crying out his name. death by pussy? his dream way to go.
BOKUTO KOUTARO, sawamura daichi, KITA SHINSUKE, motoya komori, MIYA OSAMU
₊˚⊹ ᰔ he bends you over the arm of the couch and fucks you, hard. with his hips snapping against your ass, paired with little grunts of “oh, baby, y’take me s’good—” that you forget all about everything because you’re just too busy creaming on his cock… what were you even sad about again?
₊˚⊹ ᰔ he gets you all comfy in front of a mirror and fingers you, alternating between little circles on your clit and curling his fingers inside your gummy walls, telling you to keep your eyes on yourself and to watch how pretty you look when you cum for him.
atsumu miya is notoriously bad at keeping secrets.
if you ask anyone he knows - and i mean, anyone at all - they'd all be able to tell you the exact same thing: never ever trust atsumu miya with a secret, because chances are he won't be able to keep any of them.
"okay, it is so not fair that osamu knows, but i don't."
atsumu groans, his gloved hands stuffed tightly in his coat pockets, and he curses once again that he didn't anticipate the snow coming down onto the city tonight.
it's ten in the evening, you've just clocked out for the day, and even despite your numerous insistence that you'd be fine walking home alone, atsumu happily strides beside you anyways.
"samu can keep a secret," you remind him, and your shoulders rise as you laugh, "you can't."
"wrong." atsumu scoffs, shaking his head disapprovingly, "i can keep a secret. i just purposefully tell everyone what it is because it's part of my natural charm."
you narrow your eyes, giving him an unconvinced look as you try to stifle a laugh.
"it's part of your natural charm to literally never be able to hide anything from anyone ever?" you repeat, your intonation asking him if that's really the excuse he'd want to go with.
"yes." he nods confidently, "it is part of my natural charm."
so you grin, wide, with childish stars in your eyes, "which adds reason to why i shouldn't tell you my secret!"
"wait," he blinks, realizing what you've just said, and he stops walking for a second, "no, of course you should tell me the secret - you duped me into saying that!"
you cross your arms over your chest, "they were your words."
and you overtake him, walking past where he stopped, and you turn on your heels slightly, turning to look back at him with the same smug grin on your face.
"you're horrible." he tells you, shaking his head as you only look back at him with that same expression.
you take your free hand out of your coat pocket, the smile on your face pursed slightly as you hold your hand out to him, and before you know it, atsumu's back on your side, your hand in his own as he easily takes yours, and just by the way he's holding on to it — you have a strong feeling he has no plans on letting it go.
"i'm not telling you my secret tsumu." you smile, starting to walk with him again, your hands swaying in the middle of the both of you.
and his eyes narrow, "did you do something bad?"
and you think - maybe - but you're not sure if you want to tell him that yet.
"no." you answer.
"are we planning a murder? a nuclear attack?" he presses, the same grin on his face lacing into his voice, "i will get on board with it, i swear."
and the hold he has on your hand feels so much tighter.
"but you have to tell me what it is." atsumu shrugs, the way he's looking at you overwhelmingly soft.
"it's not that." you shake your head as you laugh, "but i admire your loyalty though, i'll definitely call you when that happens."
"well, why won't you tell me?" he asks you again, looking at you this time, and he stays this way long enough for you to actually notice that he is, in fact, looking at you.
he narrows his eyes, "and i know it's not because of that "i can't keep a secret" excuse, cause we both know that's not why you aren't telling me."
( leave it to atsumu miya to know exactly what to say or do to back you into a corner. )
you look at him, laughing, "why does it matter so much?"
and this is what gets him to look back onto the road, completely acting like he never was looking at you in the first place.
"i like..." and he pauses mid-sentence, "i like knowing things."
( he was going to add "about you" to the ending of that sentence, but he decides against it - it isn't the right time for that. )
you stop walking.
straightening out your jacket and making sure your bag is still with you, you look up to see atsumu who's walked a few steps ahead of you already, looking back with half-turned heels in anticipation.
"what're you doing?" he smiles, eyebrow raising.
"this is my stop." you say, your voice not as loud as you want it to be, and you reluctantly point to the building beside you, "i live here, remember?"
and atsumu's smile drops, "oh."
he's been walking you for a few weeks now, even driving you home when he has the chance, so he feels pretty stupid right now for forgetting to stop when you did.
"oh, yeah." he lets out a chuckle, his hand making it's way to the back of his neck in embarrassment, "i think i forgot about that."
and you smile, telling him it's okay, and there's nothing more in the world that he could want except for you asking him to stay.
he looks to the ground, "so i guess i should go."
"you know, you really didn't have to walk me home." you tell him, smile still as unsure as ever, and you tell him this every chance you get.
and he says, the way he always does, with that same smug and lazy grin, "i know - i wanted to."
( and that makes you smile, because atsumu always makes you smile. )
he takes a step away, getting ready to leave, but before he does, he tells you, subtly pointing to your front door, "you should get inside."
and you smile, "yeah."
"bye." he tells you, the smile on his face smaller this time, but the crinkle in his eyes doesn't leave.
and you repeat, laughing slightly, "bye."
and that would've been the end of it - atsumu walking home under the snow, and you walking up the steps of your building to get inside your home.
he would've went home not knowing your secret, and well, for a short second, atsumu really did think that he was okay with that.
but he's not.
"no," atsumu says, more to himself than to anyone else, and he turns, running back to the foot of your building and he yells, "wait, hey!"
( of all the stupid things he could do tonight, stopping you as you're mid-way into coming home would probably be the worst of them. )
but you turn to look at him anyway, the smile on your face easily reaching your eyes, and atsumu likes to think it's because you wanted him to come back and call to you.
"atsumu?" you ask.
and maybe it's the snow or maybe it's you saying his name like that, but he really really wishes that for once — even if it's just for tonight — things would go his way.
"how about this - i tell you a secret, something no one knows," he's breathless, but he looks at you anyway with a nervous smile, "and you tell me yours."
because believe it or not, atsumu miya, most notorious for never being able to keep anything quiet, has been hiding something extremely important to him for a very long time now.
so you say, "okay."
and atsumu smiles.
the edges of his eyes crinkle upwards as he hears you say that, and for the first time tonight, he's got a strong feeling that the universe is finally on his side.
your keys are in your hand, dangling lightly as you take the short three steps down from your building and coming back onto the pavement where atsumu waits.
he stands awkwardly, the smile on his face almost as nervous as you paint it out to be, and when you finally stand in front of him, it only appears to get a tiny bit wider.
you tilt your head, "tell me a secret."
and atsumu nods, an expression on his face that you've only seen a handful of times, but before you could ask him about it, he's already taken a step forward, his hands on either side of your face—
and he kisses you.
atsumu miya has always wanted to kiss you, not that he ever planned to do anything about it, he just — for as long as he's known you — wanted to know what it would be like to kiss the person he's been in love with for the past two years.
so he steps back, pulling away from you first, feeling not so different from the man he was two minutes before all this, but now, he’s someone who doesn’t have to wonder what it’s like to kiss you anymore.
"i've always wanted to do that." his smile taints his voice.
it's snowing — it's ten in the evening and the snow just keeps on falling.
the cold is almost unbearable, and even beneath all those layers of clothes, you still can't deny the slight chill coming on your spine.
atsumu's face is red - his ears, nose, and cheeks covered in a pinkish glow, and this time, he's sure that it's not just from the cold.
“i told you i can keep a secret.”
he smiles, breathing out a puff of white air, and the hand he has on your face still hasn't let you go.
for as long as he can remember, atsumu has always, always, wanted to kiss you the way he's dreamed of, and now - now that's actually done it - he decides that he's done with secrets.
whatever this is, whatever he feels for you, it isn't a secret anymore, because this time, he decides that he's finally gonna do something about it.
his smile is unwavering, watching you as you stand in from of him, and his eyes are expecting of what you're going to say next.
"atsumu," you blink, "i'm transferring out of the msby jackals."
you had a creep-sized problem, and you spot your solution sitting on a bench next to a pretzel cart. he doesn't have time to brush you off before you're hurriedly making your case.
"hi there," you begin with a shaking voice. "i'm so sorry, but would you mind walking me just a little bit that way?" you point past the arena's third-floor gift shop toward a hidden walkway designated for volunteers and staff only. his surgical mask covers half his face, but his abrasive nature is clear in his body language.
"ask someone else," he replies dryly and shifts away from you, but your sound of panic makes him pause, slightly irritated why you continued to bother him. "what?"
"i just need to get over there, past that," you elaborate, pointing in the same direction but lingering your hand over a figure stalking you in the distance. he clocks the guy pacing a few yards away to block your path, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. the guy is holding his phone in a way that allows him to quickly point it and take a photo before the victim is none the wiser, and you'd caught him following you through the glass reflection of a soda fridge. with only a few minutes left until you had to start your shift, you needed a way to bypass him without drawing too much attention to yourself, so you roped in the nearest strong-looking guy to hopefully escort you to check-in. "please. i work the merch stands, i can get you a free shirt or something."
for a moment, you think he's going to refuse again and you're on the verge of apologizing before he mutters a barely perceptible "fine." he stands to his full height, and it makes your mouth go dry. he could be one of the olympians, all broad-shouldered and strong-calved. his figure was relatively lean, but you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles rippled under the tight fabric of his track jacket. without another word, he positions himself on your left side between you and the creep and begins walking.
"i like your jacket," you offer. if he was going out of his way to help you, the least you could do was make polite conversation. you hurry behind him and miss the way the crowd of game spectators stop in their tracks to look at your escort. "first time at the olympics?"
"been here before," he answers and you're surprised by the way annoyance has disappeared from his voice.
"oh, really? do you have a favorite event?"
"volleyball," the stranger replies without hesitation.
"that's mine too. all the teams are really talented this year, but i think japan is in it to win," you agree and he hums in what you can only consider as amusement. you don't notice the way the crowd pulls out their phones and whispers among each other, pointing at his mask-clad face and the two moles above his eyebrow barely covered by a perfect black curl.
"you think they'll get gold?"
"i'd be shocked if they didn't, what with the new guys they just signed and all. that striker from the private school in tokyo is supposed to be super good." you accidentally bump his shoulder as a marker and poster are shoved in his direction, but think nothing more of it.
"mmm, the germaphobe with the mask," he deadpans. "people think he's a freak."
"i think the mask makes him cooler, the mystery of it all," you argue obliviously, and he glances at you and your endearingly clueless nature. your eyes sparkle. his cheeks feel warm under the fabric of his mask.
a few minutes later, he deposits you at the staff check-in and nods a curt goodbye.
"i'll be coming to collect that free shirt," he concludes with the barest hint of humor in his voice. at ease, you finally crack a smile and thank him profusely before he turns to leave. you've just finished signing your initials when you finally notice your supervisor staring at you. her eyes dart between you and the receding silhouette of your bodyguard down the hall; specifically, the words printed on the back of his jacket you were so busy admiring earlier.
men's volleyball team - sakusa kiyoomi.
bear with me i haven't written in a long time but i miss my silly little volleyball player grump of a bf so badly
synopsis; a compilation of atsumu’s stupid innuendos and (y/n)'s unexpected comeback.
a/n; icl this is dumb af, read at your own risk
this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)
One thing about Atsumu—he loves an innuendo.
Like, really loves one.
It’s not even always on purpose. Sometimes it just slips out—smooth as butter, dumb as hell, and way too confident for someone way past the age of fifteen.
He’s got a sharp tongue and a terrifyingly fast brain. Combine that with the maturity level of a teenage boy and the charisma of someone who’s used to getting away with too many things, and well—that pretty much sums up Atsumu as a person.
(Y/n) has known him since they were fifteen. She thought she’d be used to it by now.
She was wrong.
She could still remember some of his dumbest jokes…
Exhibit A: The Shared Bed Setup
It was a weekend trip, one hotel room, two beds. And unfortunately for (y/n), three overgrown boys with zero regard for personal space.
Osamu and Suna claimed the first bed without hesitation, leaving (y/n) to share with Atsumu—who, in a rare show of self-control, was actually lying still for once.
Until she started shifting.
“Ugh,” she groaned, adjusting the pillow again. “I can’t find a good position.”
Atsumu turned his head, already smirking in the dark.
“I can think of a few.”
From across the room, Osamu’s muffled voice cut in like a disappointed parent.
“No one asked, man.”
(Y/n) smothered him with a pillow.
Exhibit B: The Smoothie Scene
Osamu had just finished making post-workout smoothies—one of those weirdly thick, borderline gloopy protein-packed ones that could double as cement.
He handed hers over proudly. “Strawberry banana. Real fruit. No sugar.”
(Y/n) took a sip. It was good—cold, creamy, but the texture really did throw her off guard.
“Jesus” she said. “It’s so thick.”
She should’ve known better.
“Ya like it that way, huh?” Atsumu grinned from behind his own glass like he’d been waiting all day for that setup.
(Y/n) exhaled slowly, closing her eyes in silent prayer. “Don’t.”
Suna, who was sat on the floor with his back against the couch, bit back a groan.
“It’s 8:17 in the morning.”
Exhibit C: The Baking Scene
Osamu was feeling domestic, so naturally, everyone else was dragged into a cupcake-making session against their will. (Y/n) was reading out the recipe, Atsumu was licking batter off a spoon he wasn’t supposed to be touching, and Suna was there for moral support only and nothing else.
“Okay,” she said, scrolling on her phone. “It says to beat it for five minutes—”
“I’ve gone longer,” Atsumu said smoothly, without an ounce of shame.
There was a long pause.
Osamu sighed, not even surprised. “We’re talkin’ about eggs, for fuck sake.”
(Y/n) put down the bowl, debating walking out the kitchen. “Honestly I'm just not gonna speak."
Exhibit D: The IKEA Furniture Scene
The mission: build a bookshelf.
The reality: two mental breakdowns, splinters, and a tiny Allen key that had no business being this powerful.
Osamu was reading the instructions like it was ancient scripture, Suna was lying on the floor pretending to help, and (y/n) was trying to force a stubborn wooden peg into a misaligned hole.
“This won’t fit in the fuckin' hole,” she huffed, pushing harder.
Atsumu, lounging beside the scattered box of parts, raised an eyebrow and purred,
“Want me to give it a try?”
(Y/n) clenched her teeth. “I swear to god.”
Suna chuckled despite himself.
Osamu sighed. “Ya walked into that one.”
Exhibit E: The Workout Scene
Someone (Atsumu) had declared it “Group Fitness Day.”
Someone else (Osamu) had refused to participate unless there were snacks after. Suna had stretched once and called it a day.
(Y/n) actually tried. She followed a YouTube Pilates video, flailing through positions that felt scientifically designed to break her spine.
By the end, she collapsed onto the floor, groaning, “God, my legs are so sore.”
Atsumu barely missed a beat, flashing his stupid bedroom eyes at her. “Must’ve been a good session.”
(Y/n) glared but was too exhausted to retaliate.
She had surrendered both physically and mentally.
Osamu smacked him for her.
Exhibit F: The Moving Day Scene
Helping a friend move was always a mistake. Doing it with these three? Borderline masochism.
The van was full. The elevator was broken. (Y/n) was carrying a suspiciously heavy box labeled “light stuff :)” in Atsumu’s handwriting.
“This is heavier than I thought,” she huffed, adjusting her grip.
Atsumu who was climbing the stairs behind her, grinned. “That’s what she said.”
Suna smirked. "Classic."
(Y/n) let the box drop on Atsumu’s foot.
Exhibit G: The Jenga Scene
It was supposed to be a peaceful night. Snacks, a movie, maybe a board game.
Emphasis on supposed.
They were five rounds deep into an increasingly vicious game of Jenga. The stakes? Loser had to do the dishes and let the others post one embarrassing photo on their story. And with Suna—serial picture taker, blackmail king—there was no room for failure.
(Y/n) was locked in.
Unfortunately, she’d been paired with Atsumu.
And Atsumu… did not have what one might call a delicate touch.
He was moving way too fast, yanking blocks like he was hurrying to defuse a bomb.
“Stop!” (y/n) snapped. “You’re moving too fast!!”
He glanced up, grin already forming, offering a cocky little shrug. “Heard that before.”
(Y/n) reached for the nearest block.
Atsumu threw both hands up. “Joking! Joking!”
Suna’s grin widened as the tower crumbled before them, securing his sweet, sweet victory.
Osamu gave his twin a long, tired look. “Yer gonna get yerself smacked.”
Exhibit H: The Ice Cream Scene
It was a brutally hot day. The kind that made pavement shimmer and ice cream trucks emerge from the shadows like seasonal beasts.
Naturally, (y/n) sprinted for one as though her life depended on it.
Now she sat on the curb, cone in hand, doing her best to keep the scoop from dripping onto her shorts.
“It’s melting too fast,” she complained, frantically licking at the sides.
Atsumu leaned over her shoulder, smirk detectable in his voice. “Guess ya gotta lick it faster, babe.”
She froze mid-lick.
Slowly, silently, she turned to glare at him.
Suna reached over and gently turned her head back toward the cone. “Don’t make eye contact.”
Final Exhibit (and the exhibit nobody expected): The Head Bump Incident
It happened quickly.
One second (y/n) was standing on the kitchen stool, reaching for a bag of crisps someone had stashed in the top cabinet.
The next—
Thunk.
She misjudged the angle. Her head collided with the cabinet edge. Hard.
“OW—”
The stool wobbled. She stumbled off, clutching the side of her head, blinking stars out of her eyes.
Atsumu was the first on the scene, hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether to help or make fun of her.
“You good?” he asked.
(Y/n) winced. “Fine.”
He squinted. “How’s yer head?”
She paused.
Blink.
Then, slowly, dramatically, she tilted her chin, shot him a lazy smirk, and said—
“Never had any complaints.”
Osamu and Suna whipped their heads toward her thinking they'd misheard.
Atsumu took a minute to process her words.
Then—
His eyes went wide.
And his face split into the biggest, dumbest grin known to man.
He slapped her shoulder with a bark of laughter. “Atta girl!!”
Osamu shook his head but couldn’t hide his chuckle.
Suna closed his eyes and mentally checked out.
(Y/n) beamed, still rubbing her sore head. “I’ve been saving that one.”
“Proud of ya,” Atsumu said, still grinning. “That was good."
Then, after a beat:
“Are ya serious though? ‘Cause I can be the judge—”
She swatted his arm before he could finish his sentence.
synopsis; it started with a massage. she’d had a long day, he offered, and she didn’t think twice. but then his hands slip under her shirt, his hands slowed, and suddenly they’re somewhere they were never meant to be.
warning; very suggestive!!! mature content
this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)
The apartment was dark when she stepped in—just the faint glow of the hallway lamp left on, humming gently against the silence. The scent of fresh linen and something faintly sweet lingered in the air, a comfort she didn’t know she’d been craving.
Her shoes hit the wall with a dull thud as she kicked them off with little ceremony, limbs dragging like she was wading through molasses. Her legs were heavy. Her spine ached like it’d forgotten how to hold her upright. And her shoulders—tight as wire, wound so high they nearly brushed her ears.
She didn’t sigh. She groaned. The kind that came from deep in her soul, coaxed out by too many hissing steam wands, clattering mugs, toddler meltdowns, and customers who still couldn’t grasp the concept of boiling water.
And of course, it had to be Free Drink Day.
More like Free Mental Breakdown Day.
They say not to cry over spilled milk, but after the third oat latte incident of the day, she was ready to weep into the mop bucket.
Her bag dropped with a final, resentful thud. She muttered something obscene under her breath and shuffled toward the living room like the ghost of capitalism’s finest victim—burnt out, steamed dry, and foamed to death.
“Rough day?” came a familiar voice—low, lazy, and way too smug for someone who didn’t just spend eight hours on their feet dealing with entitled customers who kept insisting on speaking to her manager.
She didn’t look at him, just flopped face-first onto the couch with a grunt. “Don’t speak to me, Miya.”
Soft footsteps, then:
“‘Miya,’ huh?”
She could hear the grin in his voice.
“Don’t.”
“I’m just sayin’. You only call me that when you’re feelin’ a certain way.”
“Yeah, when I'm tired, cranky, or borderline murderous."
He snorted. “You sure it ain’t somethin’ else?”
Her only reply was a muffled groan into the couch cushion.
Normally, she’d have some kind of quip locked and loaded—something dry, vaguely threatening, maybe even flirty if she was in the mood. And sometimes she did use his last name with that teasing edge, just to get a rise out of him.
But not tonight.
Tonight there was no smirk behind it. No playful undertone. No provocative lilt that made it sound like something else.
When she said Miya, she meant it. Plain and simple. No code. No joke. Just: leave me alone before I bite.
She was tired. Everything hurt. And she wasn’t in the mood for verbal sparring or Atsumu’s usual theatrics—not even a little bit.
Not tonight.
Beside her, the floor creaked.
And then she felt it—his fingers, brushing the fabric of her hoodie aside, settling gently on her shoulder.
“Let me help.”
Her head lifted slightly and—ow. Even that took a great amount of effort. “What?”
“You're all wound up,” he murmured, thumbs circling slow against the knots in her back. “Let me fix it.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but god… the way his hands were already working over her hoodie—firm, warm, grounding—it was hard to protest.
“Take this off,” he said, tapping her back.
She shot him a glare over her shoulder. Everything?
He raised his eyebrows, amused. “The hoodie.”
“…Oh.”
Still grumbling, she pulled it over her head and tossed it aside, revealing the flimsy camisole beneath. She settled back onto her stomach, cheek pressed to the couch, breath leaving her in a long exhale.
Then his hands returned—bare, strong, and unfairly skilled.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
She hated how good he was at this. How steady his palms felt against her skin. How his fingers dug in deep enough to hurt, but just enough to make her feel relaxed. Like he knew exactly where the tension lived—exactly where to press, where to drag his thumbs to unravel her piece by piece.
“You’ve done this before,” she muttered, face still buried in the couch.
“Mmhm.”
“Who?”
“Not important.”
That annoyed her more than it should’ve. But the way his hands pressed into her lower back, dragging down, circling, gripping—god, it was hard to stay mad when her brain was slowly turning to soup.
A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding left her in a soft sigh.
“You know,” he said casually, “there’s a dangerous amount of trust involved in lettin’ me touch ya like this.”
“Don’t ruin it,” she mumbled.
“M’not. Just sayin’. One minute I’m bein’ nice and helpful, the next…”
She didn't let him finish his sentence.
“Atsumu?”
“Yeah?”
“Be quiet.”
He laughed—quiet, smug—and kept going, kneading along the tight lines of her shoulders, down the dip of her spine, slow enough to make her toes curl.
The kind of slow that made her forget things. Like how tired she was. How annoyed she’d been walking through the door. How many hours she’d spent on her feet.
Each pass of his hands pulled her deeper into the couch, deeper into herself. Her thoughts blurred into a soft haze. And for a moment, it didn’t feel suggestive or flirty or like something to overthink.
It just felt good.
Safe. Easy. Blissful.
Until he shifted.
Straddled her hips.
The weight of him was gentle, careful—not overwhelming. But it still took her by surprise.
“Wh—what are you—?”
“Better angle,” he said, offhand. Like it was nothing.
Somehow, it wasn’t very convincing.
His hands returned, slipping beneath her shirt. The change in temperature made her shiver, but his palms were warm—gliding lazy, deliberate lines along the soft skin of her back. Steady. Measured. Too measured. Like he was focusing too hard on not making it something else.
“You’re tense here,” he murmured, thumbs pressing slow circles just beneath her shoulder blades.
That’s when she heard it. The dip in his voice—the subtle, sultry shift she’d learned to recognize. Rare, but unmistakable. The tone he only used when his thoughts wandered somewhere they shouldn’t. The kind that meant trouble.
(Y/n) tried not to react. Tried not to read into it—keep it casual. But her skin was too aware of his hands. Her breath, too shallow. Her thoughts, not nearly as neutral as she wanted them to be.
“Mhmm,” she hummed, noncommittal. A deflection. Weak, but it was all she had.
His thumbs slid lower.
“And here.”
His fingers fanned at her waist, dragging down her sides with a softness that didn’t feel so clinical anymore. It felt…curious. Attentive. Too much like a question.
Her breath caught. Not loud. Just a flicker—a stutter of air through parted lips. But he caught it. Of course he did.
He chuckled—low, quiet, maddeningly pleased.
“I can feel your heart racin’, y’know.”
She didn’t answer right away. It was difficult to when she was now hyperaware of every point of contact.
“I’m—tired,” she mumbled weakly. “...Not turned on.”
A pause.
Then—
“Liar.”
It wasn’t a tease. Not really. Barely a whisper, but it landed like a spark to dry leaves.
(Y/n) stiffened. Her brain scrambled for something—logic, protest, retreat—but her body had already gone still. Listening. Waiting.
Because suddenly, the room felt smaller.
The couch felt warmer.
The line between playful bickering and something dangerous blurring far too fast.
And Atsumu—still perched on her hips, hands firm and steady at her waist—felt like something more than a friend doing her a favour.
His hands never stopped moving in those slow, rhythmic circles. Not rushed. Not forceful. But no longer innocent, either.
And then—he moved.
Just a small shift of his hips. Barely there. But it was unmistakable.
Intentional.
She sucked in a breath. Her body tightened instinctively, unsure, unprepared—but she didn’t pull away. Not yet.
Atsumu exhaled—quiet, shaky, like he hadn’t meant to do it in the first place. Like her reaction had knocked something loose in him.
“Shit,” he muttered, almost to himself.
He rocked his hips again—slower this time. More tentative. Deeper. Lower.
Her lips parted.
She didn’t mean to make a sound, but it slipped out anyway—a soft little breath, something between a sigh and a gasp, too quiet for full embarrassment but loud enough that he heard it.
Felt it.
His hands tightened at her waist.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed, voice frayed and mildly stunned. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna lose every bit of sense I’ve got left.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because somewhere between the first touch and now, her resistance had started to unravel. Not all at once. Just enough to let him in.
Her body betrayed her—arching, pliant, already so far gone.
Her eyes were shut tight, pulse hammering in her throat as he ground against her again—slow, controlled, like he was savouring every second of it.
“You feel that?” he murmured, hips moving just enough to make her thighs tense. “That’s what you do to me. You come home all tired and soft and whiny and y'expect me to behave?"
He leaned down, mouth at her neck, hot breath tickling her skin.
“All those little sounds you’re makin’. The way you're meltin' under my hands. You gotta know what you’re doin’ to me.”
Another roll of his hips—harder this time.
Her mouth opened.
A sound escaped her—quiet, shamefully honest. Just enough to make his breath catch this time.
He stilled.
Then groaned. “Jesus.”
Something cracked open after that.
He braced himself over her—slow and heavy—elbows caging her in, breath rasping as his hips ground down again, rougher now, less restrained. Over and over.
His mouth brushed her shoulder blade—hot and barely contained—and then he kissed her there. Once. Then again. Then a third time, slower now, lips dragging over her skin like he couldn’t help it.
(Y/n)’s eyes squeezed shut.
And that’s when it hit her—really hit her. The weight of his body. The heat of his skin. The way his hips pressed into hers like it was instinct, and the way her body arched into him like it had a will of its own.
Her mind screamed at her to push him off. To tell him to stop.
This was too much.
Too intense. Too close.
They didn’t do this.
This wasn’t banter. This wasn’t teasing. This wasn’t some flirty game they’d forget by morning.
This was heat. This was need.
This was her—on her stomach, panting into the couch cushion—while Atsumu Miya kissed down her spine like he was about to lose his goddamn mind.
She should’ve told him to stop.
But she didn’t. Couldn't. Not when her every nerve in her body was screaming for his touch.
“Atsumu,” she breathed.
His movements stuttered—just a fraction. One word. Just his name.
But fuck—did that turn him on.
He groaned softly into her skin, hips still locked against hers, grinding like he needed the friction. Like it physically hurt not to move.
“...What are you doing?” she managed, voice hoarse, thin with disbelief.
“Losin' it,” he whispered, like it wasn’t obvious.
His hand slid up her back, fingers tangling in her hair—then tugged. Lightly. Just enough to lift her face from the cushions, just enough to bare the sound that slipped out of her—something between a wince and a moan, sharp and breathy.
His mouth found her shoulder again—open-mouthed this time, breath hot, tongue brushing slowly over her skin like he was trying to memorize the way she tasted.
“I shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he muttered, more to himself than her, like he was trying to convince his body to back off.
He didn’t.
And she didn’t stop him.
Her fingers dug into the cushion. Her breath caught in her throat. Her body burned in places she didn’t know could ache like this.
Every roll of his hips sent a shockwave through her spine, and every kiss on her skin made her forget why this was a bad idea in the first place.
She felt his breath by her ear.
Felt the restraint in the way his hand clenched at her waist, like he was holding himself together with threads.
And then his mouth was at her neck—warm, open, hungry—before his teeth sank in just enough to make her gasp.
He exhaled hard, barely catching himself as he pressed his forehead to her shoulder, like he needed the anchor—like staying close was the only way to keep from falling apart completely.
“You’re lettin’ me,” he said hoarsely, disbelief threaded between his words. “You’re not tellin’ me to stop.”
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because if she spoke, she’d confess something they couldn’t take back.
And maybe he knew that—because his hand slid from her hair, tracing along her cheek before curling around her jaw. Gentle, but firm. He tilted her face toward him, made her look at him.
And god, he looked ruined.
Eyes blown wide. Lips parted and pink. Expression completely wrecked.
And still, he moved.
Hard. Needy.
Her moan slipped out—quiet, involuntary, the kind that tore straight from her chest.
It was all he needed.
“Fuck, baby—” he breathed, voice shredded and barely holding together. His hips stuttered, movements turning messy, desperate—like he couldn’t slow down even if he tried.
His mouth found her skin again. Kissed whatever he could reach. Sloppy. Starved. Every kiss less precise than the last.
He was close.
Too close.
A deep, broken sound tore from his throat as his hand locked tighter at her waist—his other still cupping her jaw like he needed to see her. And for one breathless, blinding second, the world narrowed to this:
Heat.
Friction.
Sweat.
His hips snapped into hers, too drunk on her to stop. Like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
They were right at the edge of something they weren’t supposed to reach.
So close to—
CRASH.
A loud, metallic clang. Something hit the floor in the kitchen.
They both froze. (Y/n) almost whined.
A beat of stunned silence—
Then:
“For fuck's sake—My ramen!”
Suna’s voice cut through the moment like a slap.
A second later—
“YOU’RE CLEANIN’ THAT!”
Osamu’s voice, furious and far too loud.
Just like that, the spell shattered.
Atsumu collapsed onto her back with a guttural groan, his entire weight slumping down like the wind had been knocked out of him.
“…I’m gonna kill 'im.”
(Y/n) didn’t move. Just whimpered into the cushion. “...Why are they like this?"
He slid off her slowly, like he wasn’t sure how his limbs worked anymore. His breath was still uneven, his cheeks flushed. He flopped onto the floor beside the couch like he’d just fought for his life.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
A long, awful silence stretched between them.
Her heart still pounded in her chest like it hadn’t gotten the memo.
Then—
“…Three more seconds and I'd have bust.”
She blinked. Then let out a broken, exhausted snort. “Miya.”
He covered his face with both hands and dragged them down his face. “Don’t say my name like that right now.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Bonus:
The next morning...
The apartment smelled like eggs and impending doom.
(Y/n) sat stiffly at the dining table, fingers curled around her mug like it was the only thing tethering her to reality. She hadn’t spoken more than four words since she entered the kitchen. Not because she was mad. Not because she was tired.
Because Atsumu was in the room.
Leaning against the counter.
Hair messy. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Cheeks still flushed from whatever godless dreams he probably had last night. Arms crossed over his chest like they hadn't just been gripping her hips twelve hours ago while whispering pure filth and sin into her shoulder blades.
She took a long sip of coffee.
Don’t look at him. Don’t think about it. Don’t clench your thighs.
“You’re bein’ real quiet this mornin’,” Osamu said, setting down a plate of toast in front of her.
She blinked. “Hmm? No, I’m fine. Just a bit tired is all."
Suna, across the table, didn’t look up from his phone.
“Someone’s tense,” he muttered. “Again.”
Her soul left her body.
“I’m not tense,” she snapped a little too fast.
Atsumu made a small choking sound behind her. She didn’t turn around.
Osamu raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. “Did you two fight or somethin’?”
“No,” she said.
“No,” Atsumu echoed.
Osamu squinted. “Weird. Yer both lookin' a lil guilty."
Suna’s eyes narrowed. “Y’know, the couch is looking kinda... dented this morning.”
(Y/n) stared at her mug. “Rin, please stop speaking.”
“And there was a hoodie on the floor. Yours, I think,” Suna added.
Osamu frowned. “Weren’t you wearin’ that last night?”
Suna turned fully in his seat. “Don’t tell me.” Seconds passed. Then—
“No way. Did you guys fu—”
Atsumu broke into the broadest grin.
(Y/n) turned bright red.
“NO!”
Osamu almost spit out his orange juice.
Suna's jaw actually went slack. “Holy shit.”
Osamu looked offended. “On the couch? Seriously?!”
Atsumu leaned forward, elbows on the counter, smirk straight out of a rated-R movie. “All I’m sayin’ is… ya leave a man alone with a pretty girl complainin’ about her back and—”
“It was JUST a massage!” (y/n) yelled, utterly mortified.
The room went silent.
Suna slowly pushed his plate away, crinkling his nose.
Osamu looked like he needed years worth of therapy. “I eat on that couch.”
"Okay," she blurted, pushing her chair back with the grace of a dying goose. "I’m going back to bed. None of you speak to me.”
“You didn’t finish your toast,” Suna called.
“You didn’t finish your massage, either,” Atsumu added.
(Y/n) stormed off, narrowly missing the doorframe on the way out.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Her door slammed shut.
Her body hit the mattress.
Her soul left her body.
She face-planted into her pillow with a strangled groan—the same noise people make when they think they’ve beaten a final boss, only for it to regenerate full health and announce a hidden phase two.
Her brain felt like the scrambled eggs she'd left behind.
Because it was replaying everything—every. single. second.
The massage.
The way his fingers dug into her back like he knew where she was most vulnerable.
The phantom warmth of his hands still lingered on her skin, like her body couldn’t quite let go of his touch. And the weight of him—solid, hot, heavy—still pressed against the back of her hips like muscle memory. Like her body remembered what her mind was trying to erase.
His mouth on her shoulders, her neck.
His voice—needy, breathless—almost desperate.
Her whole body flushed so violently she was surprised she hadn’t burst into flames on the spot.
What the hell was that?!
They didn’t do that. They never did that. Sure, Atsumu flirted—he flirted with everyone. She was used to it. Used to rolling her eyes and brushing it off, calling him insufferable while secretly liking the attention.
But this?
This was not harmless.
This was him, grinding into her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her body. This was her, moaning into a cushion like she was part of some kinky romance novel. This was—
“I should’ve pushed him off,” she muttered into the pillow.
But she didn’t.
She let it happen.
Worse—she wanted it to happen.
Oh my god.
The doorframe she almost walked into? Deserved.
The toast she didn’t eat? Deserved.
The ghost of his voice still echoing in her ears, haunting her?
Absolutely deserved.
She flopped onto her back, stared at the ceiling, and whispered:
“What have I done."
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Meanwhile in the kitchen...
Atsumu wasn’t proud of himself.
Okay, maybe a little. But also not really. Not when Suna was staring at him like he was one word away from committing a crime, and Osamu looked ready to throw up in the sink.
“You touched her where?”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I already told ya,” he said, sinking deeper into the kitchen chair. “It was a massage. She was tired. I was bein’ helpful.”
“Helpful?” Osamu echoed, crossing his arms, his expression somewhere between offended and utterly gobsmacked. Probably both.
Atsumu winced. Yeah, maybe that hadn’t been the best word.
“What happened to runnin’ her a bath? Or—I dunno—cookin' her dinner like a normal person?”
Atsumu just shrugged.
Not defensively. Not exactly confident, either.
Just that lazy, noncommittal lift of his shoulders—the kind he pulled when he didn’t have a good answer and hoped no one would call him out for it. Sheepish. A little guilty. Mostly trying not to squirm under the look Osamu was giving him.
Suna, meanwhile, hadn’t blinked once. Didn’t even flinch. Just stared at him, jaw tight. “You’re genuinely insane.”
Atsumu threw his arms up. “Whaaat? (Y/n) didn't seem to mind."
Osamu made a noise. Something resigned, possibly a little traumatised.
“Keep it to yourself,” Suna muttered, voice low, sharp.
“You asked!” Atsumu protested, slouching into the kitchen chair like he was halfway through a trial he was absolutely guilty of. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”
“But it did,” Osamu snapped, gesturing dramatically. “On the couch. Where I eat.”
That earned him a grimace. “Okay, ya don’t gotta say it like that.”
He slouched further. Rested his chin in one hand. “It wasn’t even a thing. She came home all cranky and— I dunno. I just wanted to make 'er feel better.”
That was the truth, wasn’t it? At the time, it was innocent. Mostly. He hadn’t planned to grind on her like a man starved.
But then she'd moaned, and the rest was history.
“Right,” Suna said, and something in his voice made Atsumu look up.
The usual flat deadpan wasn’t there. Something sharper had taken its place.
“Are you sure she was okay with it?” Suna asked, meeting his eyes at last. “She didn’t look like she was in a good mood this morning.”
Atsumu blinked. His heart stumbled over itself.
“What? She’s probably just—embarrassed,” he said, a little too quickly. Then, bristling, “Are you sayin’ I did somethin’ she didn’t want?”
Suna didn’t back down. “No. I’m saying you didn't think." A beat passed. "'Least not with your head."
The kitchen got quiet. That kind of quiet that made Atsumu want to throw something just to fill it.
His nostrils flared. He straightened in his seat, bracing his hands on the table like he was ready to stand.
Suna just stared.
Unflinching.
Judging.
Calm and lethal as always.
And yeah, okay, maybe Atsumu hadn’t thought it through. Maybe he had gotten carried away. But he wasn’t some creep.
“She didn’t stop me,” he muttered, then immediately winced because wow, what a terrible sentence.
Osamu, to his credit, jumped in before the stare-down turned into an actual fight. “Alright, both of ya, enough.” He slapped a palm to Atsumu’s shoulder, forcing him back down when he’d started to rise. “I’m sure (y/n)’s fine. She probably is just embarrassed. But, 'Tsumu—” He gave his brother a look. “Make sure ya check in on 'er."
The tension thinned. Barely.
Atsumu slumped back into his chair.
But he never looked away, still locked in a silent death stare with Suna, waiting for someone to blink first.
Osamu rolled his eyes and went back to his breakfast.
But the words were already climbing up Atsumu's throat, too big to keep inside.
“…She moaned.”
Osamu’s fork hit his plate with a clink.
"Please," he groaned, covering his ears. “Spare me.”
“I’m not makin’ it up!” Atsumu insisted, leaning forward like this was somehow a defence. “I wasn’t even doin’ that much and she—" He cut himself off, then added in a desperate whisper, “She was movin’ with me, so she definitely—”
“Atsumu.” Suna’s voice was cold. Firm. “We get it.”
Atsumu’s mouth snapped shut. His ears burned. God, he sounded like a perv.
Osamu exhaled slowly, like his brain had just rebooted. Then, against all odds, he snorted. Covered his face, elbows braced on the table, but that stupid grin was peeking through his fingers.
“What is wrong with you guys?”
Atsumu stared at his cereal. Suddenly way too aware of how pathetic he must’ve looked, sitting here like a kicked puppy, talking about a moan like it was a Nobel Prize.
Still… his lips twitched.
“...What?” he said, trying for innocent. It came out boyish.
Osamu didn’t even look at him. “Nothin’,” he muttered, voice muffled and lowkey judgmental.
Suna shook his head and pulled out his phone. “You’re the horniest person I know."
Atsumu sighed.
Ran both hands through his hair.
And smirked.
Guilty as charged.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The kitchen was quiet.
Dim, too—lit only by the under-light above the stove, casting everything in a sleepy haze. It was late. Past midnight, maybe. She’d lost track of time after her shower, after the world stopped spinning quite so fast.
(Y/n) padded in with socked feet, her damp hair sticking to the back of her neck, water bottle loose in her grip. She wasn’t even thirsty. She’d just needed somewhere to be that wasn’t her room. Somewhere her thoughts wouldn’t chase her down and pin her to the bed like they’d been trying to do all evening.
The massage.
The weight of him.
The way her hips moved.
The sound she made.
God.
She opened the fridge just to cool her face against the blast of cold air. Stood there a moment longer than necessary, trying to freeze the memory out of her skin.
She stared at the contents without really seeing them.
If she was lucky, she could grab a drink and slink back upstairs before anyone—
The floor creaked behind her.
She knew that creak. Recognised the rhythm of those lazy footsteps.
Atsumu.
Of course.
She didn’t turn. Just shut the fridge, hugging the bottle to her chest like it could absorb the flush threatening to rise to her face.
“Hey.”
His voice was quieter than usual.
Not cocky, not teasing, but... soft.
Her heart stuttered.
She braced herself, then glanced up at him. “Hey, ‘Tsum.”
He looked like he’d come down for something too, but now he was just… standing there. In his sweatpants, hair mussed from his pillow, rubbing at the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure what to say.
Her chest tightened. It was impossible to ignore it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.
“Somethin’ like that.” He shrugged, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Figured I’d grab somethin’ to drink. But…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck again, “…guess ya beat me to it.”
She gave a breath of a laugh, barely there. “Sorry. I was just... thinking.”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
He hummed, mulling over his next words, like he wasn’t sure if now was the best time to ask—but he did anyway.
“You okay?”
(Y/n) blinked.
The question was soft. Careful. And completely sincere.
It disarmed her more than it should have.
She opened her mouth—then shut it. Swallowed. “Mhmm. I'm okay.”
Atsumu nodded, but didn’t move. Didn’t turn back around like he meant to leave. Instead, he stepped a little closer, resting one hand against the counter, glancing down at her.
“How’s your back?” he asked, lips quirking slightly.
That earned a glare. She stood up, arms folding over her chest, suddenly too aware of how warm the kitchen was. "Very funny."
He almost smiled again—but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
She was dodging. That much was obvious.
And he hated that he almost let her.
“What? Too soon?” he offered, like the teasing might lighten things again.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Ya love it, really,” he shot back—without thinking, without blinking. It was one of those lines. One of his lines. Something he said all the time, to her, to anyone, usually with a smirk and no consequences.
It rolled off the tongue like second nature. Easy as breathing.
But this time… it landed different.
Because her face changed.
She looked down at her water bottle, fingers tightening around the cap. Her smile—if it could even be called that—faded. Not annoyed. Not offended. Just... gone.
And for the first time, Atsumu regretted saying it.
He felt the air shift. He took a breath.
“…Listen,” he said, more seriously now, his voice low and laced with hesitation. “About… y’know. The other night.”
She stiffened.
And he noticed.
“I shouldn’t have—uh, gotten so carried away,” he added, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to make things weird. I was just—”
“—It’s okay,” she cut in, too fast.
He blinked.
She still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s fine, 'Tsumu. Let’s just… pretend it didn’t happen, okay?”
His heart stuttered.
Pretend it didn’t happen?
He watched her closely. She was fiddling with the bottle cap now, like it was the most interesting thing in the room. Her expression guarded. Tight.
She was embarrassed.
Not because he crossed a line—he was sure of that—but because she didn’t know what to do with what happened. Because she let it happen, and maybe, just maybe, she regretted it a little.
And that stung him a little.
“Really?” he asked, careful.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Like. It was a one-time thing. Heat of the moment. Whatever.” She waved a hand in the air vaguely. “Let’s just never bring it up again.”
A one-time thing?
He tilted his head, slowly. “…Never?”
She looked at him then. Briefly. But it was enough.
“Never,” she confirmed. Then, a little firmer: “Forget it ever happened.”
He paused.
“…Even the part where you—”
“Yes.” Her cheeks flared. “Especially that part.”
There was something so sharp and exasperated in her voice that he couldn’t help it—he pressed his lips together, biting back a laugh. “Ya sure? ‘Cause I think about it like… hourly.”
“I swear to god—”
“Alright, alright.” He looked at her a second longer than he should’ve, hands held up in surrender, then forced a grin. “Forgettin’ it. Totally gone. Brain wiped.”
He paused. Tilted his head.
Then, dryly: “…What were we talkin’ about again?”
She groaned, but her mouth twitched too. Just a little.
And he'd have been blind to miss it.
The way she tucked her hair behind her ear, how her shoulders finally relaxed. He wouldn’t push. Not tonight. But he also wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t feel it—didn’t want it.
He cared. More than she probably realised.
And if forgetting it made her feel safer, more in control… then fine.
