I Love 24/7

MDNI

[pillow-princess-69]

| Adeline | 25 | she/her | Leo | bi | white |

I will block or unfollow you if you do not have your age in a pinned post or in your bio. I’d rather have no followers than minors following me so please don’t follow me if you are under 18.

•MDNI•

•I love reposting fics and that is my main purpose with this blog {it will be mostly smut fics but I’m a whore for angst}

•I love sports such as f1 and Football

•I love Marvel and shows such as TLOU, TWD, GOT, Dexter,Peaky blinders,Punisher, Daredevil, and JJK(I am fairly new to this fandom)

•I love FICTIONAL men (really heavy on the fictional part) and I love expressing my love for them

•I am Hungarian

•I love me some smut, but I also love some heart wrenching, heart breaking angst.

•MDNI•

[dirtygir1]

yknow i have this old ass farmhand reader x farmer Pope full fic part one that i haven’t posted bc it’s just so goddamn long. it’s literally from like february with probably almost 5k words. but i bring this up bc there’s this part where readers learning to handle a bumpy tractor while on Popes lap and it turns into subtly grinding on each other through the bumps, trying not to let the other know until Pope cums in his pants and has to push you off bc he’s so embarrassed. it’s really hot and i had to get this out

[dirtygir1]

all february. left to dust!

[groovyangelkisses]

HAND EM OVER!!!!

[cannibalkermit]

WE'LL PAY FOR THEM!!

i have uh... 1... 2... um... 4... uh

$7.34 (ㅇㅡㅇ)

[dirtygir1]

for seven dollars? girl…ur lucky i’m nice!

pick ONE fore i change my mind!!

i owe you a black eye and two kisses..

what, you scared?

dirty diana.

Voting ended onJun 11

[pillow-princess-69]

How the fuck do I press all three at the same fucking time. I AGGRESSIVELY DONT KNOW

[dexxingit]

I’m thinking dirty thoughts about pathetic!bf!dex who calls you when you’re at girls night because he’s so desperate for you and makes you dirty talk to him while he whimpers over the phone as he touches himself 😖😖

[pillow-princess-69]

Okay but like imagine if there was a longer beginning and a longer middle and a much longer end. LIKE just imagine. My turn to subtly beg you to actually write this.

How you got me in my own room thinking about this btw.

[opulentpeony]

antisocial - stepfather!titus x stepdaughter!reader

word count: 6.0k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, extremely dubious consent, fem!reader, fauxcest (you call him “dad” and he calls you “kid”/”kiddo”), age gap, streamer!reader (you're a recluse who streams online), brat taming, roughhousing (you literally slap him oop-), unprotected sex, cnc/rape roleplay, fear play, squirting, forced orgasms, bdsm, sex toys (including a sex machine, woah!), knotting (with a dildo), breeding kink (mentions of “giving you a sibling” bc im a freak!), anal sex, humiliation/degradation kink, he films you (and posts it online!), size difference, he's just trying to make you feel better after he murdered your mom (in his own unique type of way…) summary: your dad wants you to do more than just wallow away in your room all day playing video games. but you just sit behind your little screen, talking to your “chat” instead of going outside.  titus is the only person you actually interact with, even though all he does is get on your nerves…and in your pants… 

a/n: wait what is this? oh it's another fauxcest? wow did not see that one coming! 

I just had this horrid itch to call titus “dad” so uh sorry for what you are about to be subjected to…bc this is pretty much all porn, no plot, go crazy go stupid brrrrr 

hope it's a sick read ♡

Titus Danforth never wanted kids. But when he had to shoot his wife in the face on their wedding night, he got stuck with you.

Technically, he has no obligation to you. It was an arranged marriage. You were a kid she had back when she was twenty and you're currently the age she was when she had you. 

An adult, so Titus doesn't need to take care of you. 

But he feels like he should because he did kill your mom in front of you. 

It was unavoidable. 

The moment your mom pulled the Hide and Seek card, Titus had to put a bullet through her head. 

For the family. 

In a way, you should be grateful to him. 

If he hadn't done that, you'd be dead too since you became family the moment your mom said “I do” at the altar. 

However, you're ungrateful. You don't care that you live a life of luxury. 

You'd rather hole up in your streaming room, playing video games, having a one-sided conversation with random strangers on the internet that you call “chat”. 

Titus can't stand it. He comes home to you talking nonsense to these people online. It's the only time you willingly speak.

The moment you take off your headphones, you're completely mute. You barely speak a few words to him.

You only speak to him is when he touches you, which is why he has to. It's not his fault you choose to act like this!

“Ready to go to bed, kid?” He watches the way his words make your chest rise and fall quicker. 

Is it excitement or fear? Probably a mix of both. 

“Not tonight, dad.” You whisper, so quiet that Titus almost doesn't have to pretend not to hear it. 

“Did you say something?” He walks up to you in your room, liking how you immediately back up with every step he takes towards you. “Why are you running from me?” 

“I'm not…” You definitely are. 

“Come on, kid. We don't have all night. I have a flight to catch in the morning.” He puts his hand out. “Let's go.” 

You mumble nervously, “I-I don't want to tonight.” 

“That's what you always say.” Titus closes the distance between the two of you, pushing you up against the wall. “Unless you want to do it here? We can turn back on your stream and let your chat watch your dad eat you out.” 

You furiously shake your head in response. You cannot let him do that. It would ruin you if people saw Titus Danforth, one of the wealthiest men on the planet, your stepfather, with his head between your legs. 

Because they'd see how easily he can make you cum…

He knows your body too well now. 

You never should've let him touch you that first time. 

But you were weak. Depressed about your mom. And he said he could make you feel better. 

And he did, by making you cum so hard that you've been chasing that pleasure ever since. 

Now, even when you want to refuse, Titus won't let you.

How can he, when he has grown so used to being buried in his kid's tight pussy? 

“Please, not tonight.” It's a bad night. 

You're ovulating. 

And Titus never wears a condom…

“What are you afraid of?” He asks, his hands pressing up against the wall at either side of your head. He leans in, every word so hot on your lips, “let your dad make you cum like always.” 

“You're not my dad!” You shove him off of you as hard as you can before you sprint away, running for your bedroom. 

You barely get past your door before Titus tackles you to the ground, your back smacking against the hardwood floors, knocking the wind out of you. He climbs on top of you and grabs your wrists so you can't hit him. He holds them above your head, smiling when you wriggle in his grip. 

“Stop being a brat. It's irritating.” Titus lowers his voice, hovering over you so close that you can feel him whisper against your lips, “though, you've always liked it better when you're pretending to hate it.” 

Your breath catches in your throat when his lips land on yours. You hate it when he kisses you because it's sloppy and overbearing. He tastes like a freshly smoked cigar and well aged bourbon…the flavor more intoxicating than the kiss itself. 

The weight of him on top of you keeps you pinned down to the ground. Why does he have to be so much bigger than you, keeping you held down without any effort? 

You can't avoid his tongue sliding into your mouth, forcefully taking up space. You're getting dizzy from not being able to breathe properly. 

It doesn't help that Titus is grinding his hips against you like an animal in heat. 

Tears stream down your face when you get close to cumming from this. You shouldn't but his hard cock keeps rubbing against you so fiercely that it doesn't matter that there's layers of fabric between the two of you. 

It's like he's fucking you through your clothes… 

And it makes you wish he was actually fucking you. 

Titus smirks when he feels your resistance wane. You aren't struggling anymore. You lean into his kiss more, which helps you breathe easier. You moan against his lips when he rolls his hips just right. 

That's when he lets go of your wrists. 

So that you can start fighting him like you always do. 

You shove at his chest, trying to push him off of you. When that doesn't work, you grab a hold of his hair and yank his face off of yours, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth when his tongue finally releases yours from its grip. 

“Get off of me!” You shout at him before scrambling out from underneath him, trying to get to your feet.

Only for him to drop you right back to the ground. 

“You're such a little brat.” He shakes his head at you, then he clutches it, still reeling from the pain of you yanking his hair. “Do you know how hard it is to have a head of hair this nice at my age, naturally?”

“I don't care!” You slap him across the face. “Leave me alone!”

His jaw clicks. You know he hates being slapped.

That's why you did it. 

You're gunning for a punishment.

Titus lets out an incredibly menacing laugh in response. “You've really done it now, kid. Trying to piss me off.” 

“I'm trying to get you to stop raping me!” You scream back at him before raising your hand to slap him again but he snatches your wrist before you can. “Let me go!”

“You think I'm raping you?” That draws another laugh from him, goosebumps forming on your skin in response. “We both know that isn't true. I have the footage to prove it.” 

You freeze at that. Titus loves how scared you look when he mentions the footage. 

“No, don't.” You can tell by the look in his eyes what he wants to do to you. “Please don't. I'll be good. I promise. Just don't—”

He grabs you by your throat, tugging you up flush against him. He stares down at you then says, his tone more frightening than usual, “you're accusing your dad of raping his daughter. I need to prove my innocence.” 

You furiously shake your head. “No, no, don't do this, dad.” 

“Oh, so I am your dad? Didn't you just tell me I wasn't?” He taunts you, loving the tears that are pooling at the corners of your eyes. 

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. You are my dad. Please don't—”

“I am your dad, which means I need to teach my kid a lesson she won't forget since you didn't learn from the last time you called me a rapist.” He gets up, dragging you along with him by the throat. 

Titus doesn't throw you onto your bed. You claw at his arm as he drags you across the penthouse apartment instead. 

You know where he's taking you.

“No, please, no!” Your words barely come out because he's gripping your throat so hard. 

There's a door that's painted blood red in the apartment. The only door that's red. It can only be locked and unlocked by Titus. 

Which means you're fucked when he opens the door and tosses you inside. 

“Dad, please.” You didn't think he'd be this mad…

Titus rarely takes you in here. Normally he just takes things out of it, like the sex toys off the shelf or a leash or paddle. 

But if he brings you into the play room, it means you're staying there for a while…

“You should've thought about your actions before you did them, kiddo.” He shakes his head at you.

You sprint to the door, tugging on it, knowing that you can't open it but trying anyway. 

You have to try! 

While you attempt to escape your fate, Titus sets everything up. He scans the wall for which dildo he'll use today and settles for one that has a knot. He knows how you get when it pops in and out of you. 

He places it on the sex machine and debates how he should have you set up. 

Should he have it fucking you from behind? From below? Missionary? 

He glances over at you, then snaps, pointing at his feet. “Come here.” 

You don't listen. You never do. 

Titus sighs. From below then, since you want to be so stubborn. 

Your arms are sore from tugging at the door that you can't even fight back when Titus yanks you off from the handle by your hair. You shriek and kick at him as he rips off your clothes until you're completely naked. 

Then he drags you over and tosses you onto the leather seat. You scramble, trying to get out of it but he restrains your hands immediately, then your ankles, spreading your legs open wide enough that your pussy is exposed from below, given the cut out of the seat. It's specially made for this exact purpose. To render you immobile...

You glance down at the toy on the machine that's perfectly lined up to thrust into you.

“Oh god, Titus—”

“Don't fucking call me by my name.” It looks like you really want to get punished tonight. 

“Dad, please don't do this.” You can't let him. Last time he left you here for hours and you haven't been the same since. 

You've grown more and more depraved every time he does this to you… 

“You could've had my cock.” He lets out a sigh. “I would've went down on you, made you cum on my mouth and then fucked you real good until we were sleepy. But you just had to be a brat tonight. This is your fault, kid.” 

“No, no!” You brace yourself when Titus thrusts two fingers inside of you, checking to see how ready you are to take the dildo. 

You're dripping wet, your slick practically coating his hand already. He curls his fingers, digging into your pussy to find exactly where he needs to thrust to get you even wetter. 

“I don't want to cum.” You cry out as your orgasm builds. “Please stop!”

“It's better if you've cum once.” Titus grabs your thigh with his free hand for leverage before he starts ruthlessly fucking you with his fingers. You're tensing up, clamping down on his fingers, “that's it, kiddo, cum for your dad. You can do it.” 

You shake your head, not wanting to. But your body betrays you, like it always does. 

Titus draws out a violent orgasm that has your whole body convulsing, the tension unraveling at your core. His fingers don't stop moving until you've squirted all over the toy below you, coating it in your release, getting it nice and ready for you to take.

Once you've cum enough, he pulls his fingers out of you and then proceeds to wipe your slick down the length of your chest, causing shivers to rack your body. 

“I think you're ready.” Titus grabs the leather belt and secures it tightly around your waist, so you can't squirm too much. 

“Don't leave me here again.” You beg him. “Please. I-I have to stream tomorrow. I promise them I would.”

“I could always stream this for your followers.” Titus points to the camera that's facing you. “Besides, why are you so nervous? Don't you remember how much you enjoyed yourself last time? Why don't I jog your memory!”

He sets up the tablet off to the side, so you can easily view the video from the last time he did this. You were on your stomach then, the dildo driving into you from behind. 

You were bound, gagged and blindfolded. You stare at the video playing, then your eyes shift down to the view count. 

It already has a million views. Titus blurred your face and you never said his name so it isn't compromising anything to post it. 

Though, is it really a stretch to believe Titus Danforth makes forced orgasm porn videos in his free time? Maybe the stretch comes from the fact that he makes them of his stepdaughter. 

It's the perfect humiliation tool because you seem to go rigid every time you realize how many people have watched you cum over and over again online. You nearly cum at the thought of how many people have watched your video to help themselves cum. 

“I wonder if any of your followers have figured out it's you getting railed by a dildo against your will.” Titus chuckles that dark chuckle of his that sends chills down your spine. “Maybe I shouldn't blur your face in the next video. We can let the whole world know who's begging for her dad to let her cum.” 

“Please, I'll be good.” You plead with him. “I'm sorry I was bad. I'm really, really sorry, dad.” 

Are you actually sorry? Titus is unsure about that but…he decides he'll push you. 

“Tell me you love me and I won't leave you here for a whole day.” Titus looks you right in the eyes when he says that. 

“Y-You were going to leave me here all day?”

“I will if you don't say it.” He's not bluffing. He has something to do in the morning so he won't be back until the evening, so you would be stuck in here all day. 

“I love you.” You tell him right away. “I love you so much, dad. I promise I won't do anything bad anymore.” 

“Mmm.” He grabs your face, tugging you to look up towards him. “I don't believe you, kiddo.” 

“I do. I love you so much.” You lean in, kissing him, which startles Titus. 

You never kiss him first. 

He's not going to fool himself into believing this is real. It's definitely a ploy. 

But then you lay your forehead against his and whisper softly, “I'll always love you, Titus.” 

And now, he doesn't care if you're bluffing. 

Because to him, it's real. He's going to make sure it's real. 

“You're going to sit here and if you don't resist and you let yourself cum your brains out, I'll fuck you after. Understood?” He gauges your reaction. 

“I understand, dad.” You nod then give him a kiss on the cheek. “I know you're doing this to make me feel good.” 

Oh, you are testing him so much with this sweet act. Another bratty side of yours, pushing him to his very limits. 

“I'm such a good dad, aren't I?” His hand slides down to rub your clit. “How about I help you cum the first few times?” 

You gulp because he's never done that before. Usually he just turns the machine on and lets it pound into you until you see stars. 

But today, he's going to spoil you rotten. 

That'll keep the little brat at bay. 

“Let's make sure you're all set up.” Titus pulls the remote for the machine out of his pocket and turns it on. 

It slowly lifts the dildo upwards until he hits the button to stop it right before your entrance. He lines it up and you can feel the silicone tip of the toy pressing into you. Then, he pushes the button again and it slowly slides into you, drawing a gasp from your lips. 

Titus keeps his fingertips on your clit, rubbing methodical little circles as he control the toy that's inside of you. It does agonizingly slow, shallow strokes and you're already begging to cum. 

“I want to cum, please.” You promised Titus you wouldn't resist so you're being honest with your needs now. “Please, I need it deeper.”

“If it goes any deeper, you'll have to take the knot. I don't think you're ready yet.” Though, Titus is ready to see your tight little pussy swallow up that knot. 

It's one of his favorite sights. That, and when you cum all over it once it pops out of you. 

“I'm ready.” You want it so badly, to feel that full, to be filled that deep. 

“If you say so.” Titus hits the button and the toy goes deeper inside of you. 

You choke on your breath when you feel the knot pushing past your entrance, prying you open, demanding to be let in. Your eyes roll back into your head when it finally pops inside of you, your pussy swallowing it up. You've taken the toy all the way to the base now and Titus pauses the strokes just so he can watch the way you squirm from being so full. 

Then, he doesn't give you a second to prepare for it to suddenly begin pounding into you. You're screaming, gasping, moaning as the knot pops in and out of you furiously, causing your whole body to shake violently. 

“Dad, dad please, slow down, slow it down!” You can't move. You're stuck in place as the toy rams inside of you over and over again at a pace you've never felt before. 

“That's it, kiddo.” Titus smacks your clit as the knot sinks into you and you cum so hard, your mind goes fuzzy, your orgasm ripping through you when the knot pops back out. “Keep cumming for your dad.” 

Titus steps away to go back over to the shelf of toys. He pulls out a butt plug and a wand and brings it over to you. 

You shake your head, pleading, “don't, I won't be able to handle it, I won't—”

You bite down on your lip when you feel the wand press against your clit, the vibrations numbing your mind with pleasure. Titus slows the strokes of the toy inside your pussy, making you fully aware of the abuse on your clit. 

That distracts you from the feeling of cold lube on your ass. He pushes the plug slowly past your tight ring until it hilts. 

Then, he whispers in your ear, “I'm fucking that ass later.” 

You really start wriggling at that. “No, you can't, you can't!”

You don't even want to recall the last time he did. You're still trying to live with the fact that you came so hard with his cock buried in your ass. You can't possibly experience that again. 

It'll ruin you completely. 

You'll never be able to escape your dad… 

“But first, I'm cumming in my daughter's tight pussy.” He adjusts the machine until the toy is no longer inside of you and he pulls it aside so he has the space to stand in front of you, your legs already perfectly spread to take his cock. “I've always wanted to fuck you completely restrained like this. Means you can't fight me while I'm pumping a baby into you.” 

That has you tugging desperately on your restraints. “Dad, please, it's a bad day, I'll get pregnant if you cum inside of me.” 

“Don't threaten me with a good time, kiddo.” He smirks at you, unzipping his pants so he can show you his incredibly hard cock. “You'll make me want to cum inside of you more than once. Maybe I will. I wouldn't mind giving you a sibling.” 

Titus rams the entire length of his cock inside of you in a single stroke and you can't even hide your orgasm because you squirt all over him the moment he hilts, drawing a degrading laugh from his lips. 

“My daughter really likes the idea of me putting a sibling inside of her, doesn't she?” He rolls his hips, driving the tip of his cock against your womb, grinding at the entrance of it, making you whimper. “It sounds like you do. Admit it.” 

You shake your head, much to his annoyance. Still acting like a brat it seems. 

Titus grabs the wand and presses it back against your clit, making you fully aware of the plug in your ass and the vibrations bullying your clit. All while your dad is deep inside of you, thrusting nice and slow against that spot by your womb that has you panting. 

You mumble to yourself, cursing under your breath, “fuck, fuck, my dad is going to make me cum on his cock, oh fuck—”

Titus clamps his free hand over your mouth then, telling you sternly, “shut the fuck up and cum already.” 

You do. It's impossible not to. You cum so hard that you're moaning into his palm, your hips grinding into him as best you can despite being restrained, your body no longer denying itself of Titus. 

He rewards you by fucking you faster, pounding into you rougher, increasing the vibration against your clit, sending you over the edge of stimulation. 

Titus grins at how dazed you look, cumming on his cock so easily now. “There we go. I was wondering how long it would take for my kiddo to finally give up. Doesn't it feel so much better to let your dad fuck you?”

You nod then press a gentle kiss against his palm. 

Again, the first time you've ever done anything like that. 

Titus lifts his hand off of your mouth and cups your face instead.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Is he reading your signals right?

He definitely is because you nod. “Please, dad. I want to kiss you when I cum.”

Oh fuck, Titus is going to have to fuck you up now. 

His lips are on yours right away, his tongue fighting with yours for space in your mouth. His kisses, like always, are so overbearing but you moan against his lips, loving every second of it. 

“Please untie me so I can hold my dad.” You beg, wanting to touch him. 

And Titus doesn't know why he listens. 

He normally isn't so easily convinced but you're looking at him with so much affection in your eyes that he can't help but listen, undoing your restraints. 

You grab him by his shirt immediately, pulling him back to kiss you. Your legs wrap around his waist, tugging you close to him as you grind yourself against him, driving his cock deeper inside of you. 

You're so lost in the pleasure that you don't care how needy you seem. 

You just want your dad to fuck you silly. 

“Fuck me harder.” You tell him, your hands slipping into his lovely silver curls. “Please, dad.” 

He tosses the wand aside so he can brace both of his hands on the seat behind you, using it as leverage to pound into you furiously, making you cry out as you squirt all over his cock from the intensity of your orgasm suddenly ripping through you. 

You clench around him so tightly, milking his cock so perfectly, that he has to cum too, pumping every ounce of his release so deep inside of you that you can feel the heat of it in your lower belly. 

You're both breathless, which is why Titus is stunned to feel you cup his face and bring him towards you as you kiss him so gently, with so much love. He leans into it, kissing you back with that same amount of love. 

He's as dazed as you are when your lips finally part. And your words make him even more insane than he already is. 

“Do you love me?” You ask him, wanting to know. 

“Of course I love you. You're my daughter.” 

“That's not what I mean…” You cling onto him a bit tighter, your face flushing with heat. “I want to know if you actually love me or not.” 

He blinks at you, not knowing what kind of game you're playing now. 

The same game he was playing earlier when he asked you the same thing. 

Because he wanted to see what you'd say. 

And now you want to see the same. 

So Titus answers, “I'd love you more if you weren't such a brat.” 

You pout at him, looking sad. “So you don't love me?” 

He groans, not liking that you're upset. “Yes, I love you.”

“Forever?” You're pushing it now, to the very edge. 

Titus shoves the two of you off the edge. “Until the day the devil takes us.” 

You smile at that. “Good.” 

You lean your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around him, hugging him. Again, something you've never done before.

Which makes Titus suspicious.

“What the fuck do you want?” He pulls you off of him, glaring at you. 

You frown at him. “What do you mean?” 

“Don't play fucking coy with me.” He's not stupid. You're being too adorable. 

There has to be an ulterior motive. 

“Am I not allowed to hug my dad after he fucked my brains out?” You bat your eyelashes at him, purposefully acting cutesy. 

Titus growls at you. “You're being a brat again. Don't test me.”

You giggle, poking him in the chest. “This is way more fun than fighting you.” 

You yelp when he grabs you by your hair and drags you behind him out of the play room without any warning. 

You're promptly tossed onto his bed. 

“On your knees, ass up.” He snaps at you as he undresses. “Listen to your dad or I'm going to spank you until you bleed.”

You swallow at that. You definitely don't want him to do that. You have to stream tomorrow, which means sitting the whole time!

So, you submit, getting on your knees. Titus climbs into bed behind you. You feel his presence looming over you and you love the thrill of it. Of knowing he's going to make you cum again.

Titus dips his fingers into your pussy, drawing out some of your slick and his cum so he can smear it all over his already hard again cock, getting it nice and wet. Then, he grabs the base of the plug in your ass. 

“Deep breath.” He instructs and you listen, inhaling. “Now breathe out.”

On your exhale, Titus pulls the plug out of you with a pop that has your whole body shaking. He stills your movements when he presses the tip of his cock against the tight ring of your ass. 

“Same thing, kiddo.” He gives your back a light smack, since he said he wouldn't slap your ass. “Deep breaths.” 

You focus on your breathing as Titus slips more and more of his huge cock inside of you. You grip onto the sheets below you so much that they almost shred. 

“Easy now.” He rubs your back, cooing at you. “You can do it. My daughter is so good at taking her dad's cock. Say it.” 

“I'm so good at taking my dad's cock.” You repeat before screaming into your pillow when he hilts. “You're so big…it feels so crazy…”

“It'll feel even crazier when you cum from me fucking your tight little ass.” He grabs your hips hard, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh. “Are you ready for me, kiddo?” 

“What if I cum too hard?” You're still scared from last time. 

“You can make as big of a mess as you want.” Titus likes the idea of you being nervous about what you're about to leave behind for the help to clean up. 

“Go slow.” You know asking won't convince Titus of all people but you do it anyway, adding, “please, dad.”

“Okay, just because you ask so nicely.” He has to reinforce good behavior!

You whimper into the pillow when Titus starts his slow strokes, thrusting just an inch of his cock back and forth, letting you get used to him prying your ass open. Your whole body is quivering with every thrust, your orgasm building in your core, your stomach tensing up so much. 

He grinds against you, trying to figure out where to press his cock that has you crying out his name. “Titus!”

“Mmm, that must be the spot then.” He angles himself until every stroke of his cock teases the right spot in your ass that has you cumming beneath him, making you dry heave when the orgasm crashes through you all of a sudden. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck…” You can't believe how good that felt. “My dad made me cum from just my ass…” 

“And I'm going to make you do it again.” He smacks your lower back again, making you shiver all over. “Come here.” 

Titus hauls you up until you're seated on his lap with your back against his chest, his cock burying deeper into your ass. His hands drift up to cup your breasts, tugging at your perky nipples, drawing out the cutest whine from your lips from the sudden stimulation.

“Do you think I can make you cum from just this?” He pinches your nipples between his calloused fingers, watching your reactions to gauge how he needs to touch you to get you kicking your feet. “Feeling too much, kiddo?”

“Can I touch my clit?” You're aching to feel something there. “Please, dad.” 

Titus chuckles into the nape of your neck, kissing right there. “Sure, but only because you asked so nicely. You're being very good right now. Keep it up.” 

You eagerly play with your clit while he plays with your breasts and you arch your back into him, looking up at him. 

“Kiss me, please.” You want to feel his lips on yours when you cum. 

“You're going to be the death of me.” He can't deal with how cute you're being. 

Titus leans down to kiss you, loving the way you moan unapologetically now as you cum on his lap. 

“Please finger my pussy.” You don't care how desperate you sound. You beg in between kisses. “Please, please, please.” 

Titus doesn't answer. He just slides his hand down the length of your body until his hand is holding onto yours. 

“Keep rubbing your clit, kiddo.” Titus slips past your hand to thrust three of his fingers inside of you before suppressing your gasp with his lips. 

You're grinding yourself on his lap now, on your fingers, on his fingers, on his cock in your ass, needing more and more because you want to cum again. 

He's glad he came once already or it would be much more difficult to hold back. He's never had you so horny before. It's incredible to see you give in like this. 

“I love my daughter so much.” He breathes out, nibbling at your bottom lip lightly. 

“I love you too, dad.” You press a kiss against his lips then ask, “will you please make me cum?” 

“Gladly.” He curls his fingers inside of you, pushing up against where his cock is pressing into your ass and you fucking burst, squirting all over his hand immediately. He keeps thrusting his fingers right there, driving you further and further off the edge onto an insane orgasm. “Good girl, that's it, keep cumming until you feel your dad's cum in your ass.” 

The moment he spills his release deep inside of your ass, Titus pops his fingers out of you so he can furiously rub your clit, swiping back and forth so quickly over your wet pussy that you drench his hand uncontrollably, the sounds so erotic and unbelievable with how sloppy they are. 

“Oh fuck, I can't stop—” You're dripping tears from your eyes from how hard you're cumming still, your mind going numb from the pleasure. 

Titus licks up your tears, humming softly to himself when he finally slows his movements and lifts his hand off your overstimulated pussy. “What a mess you've made, kiddo.”

“I'm sorry.” You curl up into him. “I can clean it up.” 

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Don't bother, the help will deal with it in the morning. We'll sleep in your room tonight.” 

“Okay.” You snuggle up against him. “I'd like that.” 

Titus grabs your face, making you look at him, “what the fuck is up with this sweet act, hmm?” 

“What do you mean?” You blink at him, feigning confusion. 

He lifts you off of his cock slowly then throws you down on the bed, climbing on top of you so he can glare down at you. 

“You're suddenly being nice to me and you want me not to find that odd?” 

“What if I just wanna spoil my dad a little?” You open your arms. “I want a hug, dad.” 

Titus grumbles. “You're so fucking annoying.”

You giggle as he comes down to scoops you into his arms, hugging you. You let him lift you back up and carry you to his bathroom, bringing you into the shower with him. 

You give him a lovely peck on the lips when you both finish washing up and he drags you into the tub with him so he can spend more time with you like this. Titus is enjoying this more loving side of you.

He wishes it was permanent.

“Are you going to act like this from now on or is this a one time thing?” Titus lays his chin on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling your back closer to his chest, wanting to hold you close. Giving away a bit too much of how he feels about you.

“Depends how mean you are.” You lay your head back against him, snuggling your cheek against his, feeling his light stubble tickle you. “If you keep spoiling me, maybe I'll be a good girl from now on.” 

Titus nips at the skin of your neck. “Only good girls get spoiled. You have to be good first.” 

“Hmmm.” You shrug. “I'll think about it.” 

He groans. “Now I know this is the real you.” 

You smile at him. “You love the real me. You like getting to punish me.”

“I do.” He does, a lot. “I didn't realize I raised such a naughty kid.” 

“You didn't raise me at all.” You remind him that he's not actually your father. He's barely your stepfather. 

“Glad I didn't. I wouldn't be able to fuck you if I did.” 

“I bet you still would've.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” He grumbles because he is fucked up in the head so…

But it would have to be you. 

He only loves you.

His sweet, lovely daughter. 

Who is finally talking to her dad openly. 

To the point where you're letting your stream meet him. 

Just briefly, because you asked Titus to bring you food on his way home from whatever he had to do.

You look at your chat, giggling. “Chat, that's my dad. Don't be weird!”

“What are they saying about me?” Titus peers at the monitor you have that's tilted vertically so you can read the incoming chat.

They're all…talking about how hot he is. He furrows his brows at this. 

Then, he sees someone comment: if he was my dad, I'd fuck him. 

Little do they know, you're doing exactly that…

a/n: I had so much fun writing the play room. titus, in my mind, is a sex toy connoisseur who ofc has a play room! he can afford it! its where he rails his stepdaughter, duh! 

this was a nice set up so that I could eventually write them fucking on stream oop! ive been craving writing that kind of scandalous scene hehe so hopefully that is in my future ~ 

hope you enjoyed the read ♡ 

[pillow-princess-69]

*Staring into space dissociating*

Give me 14 of em right n- *faints*

Scene

Jesus. H. Christ. I think you reached a state between heaven and orgasmic heaven and I’m somewhere there. Wow. 69 minutes of standing ovation for you.

I hope you do explore the possibility of Titus streaming with her like they make the viewers believe she was kidnapped (she’s restraint with a gag and crying and screaming for help) but then they hear her say dad so they’re confused and Titus is eating it up and tells her to let it all out and eventually calls her daughter and yh.

Tag me if you do or don’t your work has been eye opening I need to read everything.

[opulentpeony]

antisocial - stepfather!titus x stepdaughter!reader

word count: 6.0k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, extremely dubious consent, fem!reader, fauxcest (you call him “dad” and he calls you “kid”/”kiddo”), age gap, streamer!reader (you're a recluse who streams online), brat taming, roughhousing (you literally slap him oop-), unprotected sex, cnc/rape roleplay, fear play, squirting, forced orgasms, bdsm, sex toys (including a sex machine, woah!), knotting (with a dildo), breeding kink (mentions of “giving you a sibling” bc im a freak!), anal sex, humiliation/degradation kink, he films you (and posts it online!), size difference, he's just trying to make you feel better after he murdered your mom (in his own unique type of way…) summary: your dad wants you to do more than just wallow away in your room all day playing video games. but you just sit behind your little screen, talking to your “chat” instead of going outside.  titus is the only person you actually interact with, even though all he does is get on your nerves…and in your pants… 

a/n: wait what is this? oh it's another fauxcest? wow did not see that one coming! 

I just had this horrid itch to call titus “dad” so uh sorry for what you are about to be subjected to…bc this is pretty much all porn, no plot, go crazy go stupid brrrrr 

hope it's a sick read ♡

Titus Danforth never wanted kids. But when he had to shoot his wife in the face on their wedding night, he got stuck with you.

Technically, he has no obligation to you. It was an arranged marriage. You were a kid she had back when she was twenty and you're currently the age she was when she had you. 

An adult, so Titus doesn't need to take care of you. 

But he feels like he should because he did kill your mom in front of you. 

It was unavoidable. 

The moment your mom pulled the Hide and Seek card, Titus had to put a bullet through her head. 

For the family. 

In a way, you should be grateful to him. 

If he hadn't done that, you'd be dead too since you became family the moment your mom said “I do” at the altar. 

However, you're ungrateful. You don't care that you live a life of luxury. 

You'd rather hole up in your streaming room, playing video games, having a one-sided conversation with random strangers on the internet that you call “chat”. 

Titus can't stand it. He comes home to you talking nonsense to these people online. It's the only time you willingly speak.

The moment you take off your headphones, you're completely mute. You barely speak a few words to him.

You only speak to him is when he touches you, which is why he has to. It's not his fault you choose to act like this!

“Ready to go to bed, kid?” He watches the way his words make your chest rise and fall quicker. 

Is it excitement or fear? Probably a mix of both. 

“Not tonight, dad.” You whisper, so quiet that Titus almost doesn't have to pretend not to hear it. 

“Did you say something?” He walks up to you in your room, liking how you immediately back up with every step he takes towards you. “Why are you running from me?” 

“I'm not…” You definitely are. 

“Come on, kid. We don't have all night. I have a flight to catch in the morning.” He puts his hand out. “Let's go.” 

You mumble nervously, “I-I don't want to tonight.” 

“That's what you always say.” Titus closes the distance between the two of you, pushing you up against the wall. “Unless you want to do it here? We can turn back on your stream and let your chat watch your dad eat you out.” 

You furiously shake your head in response. You cannot let him do that. It would ruin you if people saw Titus Danforth, one of the wealthiest men on the planet, your stepfather, with his head between your legs. 

Because they'd see how easily he can make you cum…

He knows your body too well now. 

You never should've let him touch you that first time. 

But you were weak. Depressed about your mom. And he said he could make you feel better. 

And he did, by making you cum so hard that you've been chasing that pleasure ever since. 

Now, even when you want to refuse, Titus won't let you.

How can he, when he has grown so used to being buried in his kid's tight pussy? 

“Please, not tonight.” It's a bad night. 

You're ovulating. 

And Titus never wears a condom…

“What are you afraid of?” He asks, his hands pressing up against the wall at either side of your head. He leans in, every word so hot on your lips, “let your dad make you cum like always.” 

“You're not my dad!” You shove him off of you as hard as you can before you sprint away, running for your bedroom. 

You barely get past your door before Titus tackles you to the ground, your back smacking against the hardwood floors, knocking the wind out of you. He climbs on top of you and grabs your wrists so you can't hit him. He holds them above your head, smiling when you wriggle in his grip. 

“Stop being a brat. It's irritating.” Titus lowers his voice, hovering over you so close that you can feel him whisper against your lips, “though, you've always liked it better when you're pretending to hate it.” 

Your breath catches in your throat when his lips land on yours. You hate it when he kisses you because it's sloppy and overbearing. He tastes like a freshly smoked cigar and well aged bourbon…the flavor more intoxicating than the kiss itself. 

The weight of him on top of you keeps you pinned down to the ground. Why does he have to be so much bigger than you, keeping you held down without any effort? 

You can't avoid his tongue sliding into your mouth, forcefully taking up space. You're getting dizzy from not being able to breathe properly. 

It doesn't help that Titus is grinding his hips against you like an animal in heat. 

Tears stream down your face when you get close to cumming from this. You shouldn't but his hard cock keeps rubbing against you so fiercely that it doesn't matter that there's layers of fabric between the two of you. 

It's like he's fucking you through your clothes… 

And it makes you wish he was actually fucking you. 

Titus smirks when he feels your resistance wane. You aren't struggling anymore. You lean into his kiss more, which helps you breathe easier. You moan against his lips when he rolls his hips just right. 

That's when he lets go of your wrists. 

So that you can start fighting him like you always do. 

You shove at his chest, trying to push him off of you. When that doesn't work, you grab a hold of his hair and yank his face off of yours, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth when his tongue finally releases yours from its grip. 

“Get off of me!” You shout at him before scrambling out from underneath him, trying to get to your feet.

Only for him to drop you right back to the ground. 

“You're such a little brat.” He shakes his head at you, then he clutches it, still reeling from the pain of you yanking his hair. “Do you know how hard it is to have a head of hair this nice at my age, naturally?”

“I don't care!” You slap him across the face. “Leave me alone!”

His jaw clicks. You know he hates being slapped.

That's why you did it. 

You're gunning for a punishment.

Titus lets out an incredibly menacing laugh in response. “You've really done it now, kid. Trying to piss me off.” 

“I'm trying to get you to stop raping me!” You scream back at him before raising your hand to slap him again but he snatches your wrist before you can. “Let me go!”

“You think I'm raping you?” That draws another laugh from him, goosebumps forming on your skin in response. “We both know that isn't true. I have the footage to prove it.” 

You freeze at that. Titus loves how scared you look when he mentions the footage. 

“No, don't.” You can tell by the look in his eyes what he wants to do to you. “Please don't. I'll be good. I promise. Just don't—”

He grabs you by your throat, tugging you up flush against him. He stares down at you then says, his tone more frightening than usual, “you're accusing your dad of raping his daughter. I need to prove my innocence.” 

You furiously shake your head. “No, no, don't do this, dad.” 

“Oh, so I am your dad? Didn't you just tell me I wasn't?” He taunts you, loving the tears that are pooling at the corners of your eyes. 

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. You are my dad. Please don't—”

“I am your dad, which means I need to teach my kid a lesson she won't forget since you didn't learn from the last time you called me a rapist.” He gets up, dragging you along with him by the throat. 

Titus doesn't throw you onto your bed. You claw at his arm as he drags you across the penthouse apartment instead. 

You know where he's taking you.

“No, please, no!” Your words barely come out because he's gripping your throat so hard. 

There's a door that's painted blood red in the apartment. The only door that's red. It can only be locked and unlocked by Titus. 

Which means you're fucked when he opens the door and tosses you inside. 

“Dad, please.” You didn't think he'd be this mad…

Titus rarely takes you in here. Normally he just takes things out of it, like the sex toys off the shelf or a leash or paddle. 

But if he brings you into the play room, it means you're staying there for a while…

“You should've thought about your actions before you did them, kiddo.” He shakes his head at you.

You sprint to the door, tugging on it, knowing that you can't open it but trying anyway. 

You have to try! 

While you attempt to escape your fate, Titus sets everything up. He scans the wall for which dildo he'll use today and settles for one that has a knot. He knows how you get when it pops in and out of you. 

He places it on the sex machine and debates how he should have you set up. 

Should he have it fucking you from behind? From below? Missionary? 

He glances over at you, then snaps, pointing at his feet. “Come here.” 

You don't listen. You never do. 

Titus sighs. From below then, since you want to be so stubborn. 

Your arms are sore from tugging at the door that you can't even fight back when Titus yanks you off from the handle by your hair. You shriek and kick at him as he rips off your clothes until you're completely naked. 

Then he drags you over and tosses you onto the leather seat. You scramble, trying to get out of it but he restrains your hands immediately, then your ankles, spreading your legs open wide enough that your pussy is exposed from below, given the cut out of the seat. It's specially made for this exact purpose. To render you immobile...

You glance down at the toy on the machine that's perfectly lined up to thrust into you.

“Oh god, Titus—”

“Don't fucking call me by my name.” It looks like you really want to get punished tonight. 

“Dad, please don't do this.” You can't let him. Last time he left you here for hours and you haven't been the same since. 

You've grown more and more depraved every time he does this to you… 

“You could've had my cock.” He lets out a sigh. “I would've went down on you, made you cum on my mouth and then fucked you real good until we were sleepy. But you just had to be a brat tonight. This is your fault, kid.” 

“No, no!” You brace yourself when Titus thrusts two fingers inside of you, checking to see how ready you are to take the dildo. 

You're dripping wet, your slick practically coating his hand already. He curls his fingers, digging into your pussy to find exactly where he needs to thrust to get you even wetter. 

“I don't want to cum.” You cry out as your orgasm builds. “Please stop!”

“It's better if you've cum once.” Titus grabs your thigh with his free hand for leverage before he starts ruthlessly fucking you with his fingers. You're tensing up, clamping down on his fingers, “that's it, kiddo, cum for your dad. You can do it.” 

You shake your head, not wanting to. But your body betrays you, like it always does. 

Titus draws out a violent orgasm that has your whole body convulsing, the tension unraveling at your core. His fingers don't stop moving until you've squirted all over the toy below you, coating it in your release, getting it nice and ready for you to take.

Once you've cum enough, he pulls his fingers out of you and then proceeds to wipe your slick down the length of your chest, causing shivers to rack your body. 

“I think you're ready.” Titus grabs the leather belt and secures it tightly around your waist, so you can't squirm too much. 

“Don't leave me here again.” You beg him. “Please. I-I have to stream tomorrow. I promise them I would.”

“I could always stream this for your followers.” Titus points to the camera that's facing you. “Besides, why are you so nervous? Don't you remember how much you enjoyed yourself last time? Why don't I jog your memory!”

He sets up the tablet off to the side, so you can easily view the video from the last time he did this. You were on your stomach then, the dildo driving into you from behind. 

You were bound, gagged and blindfolded. You stare at the video playing, then your eyes shift down to the view count. 

It already has a million views. Titus blurred your face and you never said his name so it isn't compromising anything to post it. 

Though, is it really a stretch to believe Titus Danforth makes forced orgasm porn videos in his free time? Maybe the stretch comes from the fact that he makes them of his stepdaughter. 

It's the perfect humiliation tool because you seem to go rigid every time you realize how many people have watched you cum over and over again online. You nearly cum at the thought of how many people have watched your video to help themselves cum. 

“I wonder if any of your followers have figured out it's you getting railed by a dildo against your will.” Titus chuckles that dark chuckle of his that sends chills down your spine. “Maybe I shouldn't blur your face in the next video. We can let the whole world know who's begging for her dad to let her cum.” 

“Please, I'll be good.” You plead with him. “I'm sorry I was bad. I'm really, really sorry, dad.” 

Are you actually sorry? Titus is unsure about that but…he decides he'll push you. 

“Tell me you love me and I won't leave you here for a whole day.” Titus looks you right in the eyes when he says that. 

“Y-You were going to leave me here all day?”

“I will if you don't say it.” He's not bluffing. He has something to do in the morning so he won't be back until the evening, so you would be stuck in here all day. 

“I love you.” You tell him right away. “I love you so much, dad. I promise I won't do anything bad anymore.” 

“Mmm.” He grabs your face, tugging you to look up towards him. “I don't believe you, kiddo.” 

“I do. I love you so much.” You lean in, kissing him, which startles Titus. 

You never kiss him first. 

He's not going to fool himself into believing this is real. It's definitely a ploy. 

But then you lay your forehead against his and whisper softly, “I'll always love you, Titus.” 

And now, he doesn't care if you're bluffing. 

Because to him, it's real. He's going to make sure it's real. 

“You're going to sit here and if you don't resist and you let yourself cum your brains out, I'll fuck you after. Understood?” He gauges your reaction. 

“I understand, dad.” You nod then give him a kiss on the cheek. “I know you're doing this to make me feel good.” 

Oh, you are testing him so much with this sweet act. Another bratty side of yours, pushing him to his very limits. 

“I'm such a good dad, aren't I?” His hand slides down to rub your clit. “How about I help you cum the first few times?” 

You gulp because he's never done that before. Usually he just turns the machine on and lets it pound into you until you see stars. 

But today, he's going to spoil you rotten. 

That'll keep the little brat at bay. 

“Let's make sure you're all set up.” Titus pulls the remote for the machine out of his pocket and turns it on. 

It slowly lifts the dildo upwards until he hits the button to stop it right before your entrance. He lines it up and you can feel the silicone tip of the toy pressing into you. Then, he pushes the button again and it slowly slides into you, drawing a gasp from your lips. 

Titus keeps his fingertips on your clit, rubbing methodical little circles as he control the toy that's inside of you. It does agonizingly slow, shallow strokes and you're already begging to cum. 

“I want to cum, please.” You promised Titus you wouldn't resist so you're being honest with your needs now. “Please, I need it deeper.”

“If it goes any deeper, you'll have to take the knot. I don't think you're ready yet.” Though, Titus is ready to see your tight little pussy swallow up that knot. 

It's one of his favorite sights. That, and when you cum all over it once it pops out of you. 

“I'm ready.” You want it so badly, to feel that full, to be filled that deep. 

“If you say so.” Titus hits the button and the toy goes deeper inside of you. 

You choke on your breath when you feel the knot pushing past your entrance, prying you open, demanding to be let in. Your eyes roll back into your head when it finally pops inside of you, your pussy swallowing it up. You've taken the toy all the way to the base now and Titus pauses the strokes just so he can watch the way you squirm from being so full. 

Then, he doesn't give you a second to prepare for it to suddenly begin pounding into you. You're screaming, gasping, moaning as the knot pops in and out of you furiously, causing your whole body to shake violently. 

“Dad, dad please, slow down, slow it down!” You can't move. You're stuck in place as the toy rams inside of you over and over again at a pace you've never felt before. 

“That's it, kiddo.” Titus smacks your clit as the knot sinks into you and you cum so hard, your mind goes fuzzy, your orgasm ripping through you when the knot pops back out. “Keep cumming for your dad.” 

Titus steps away to go back over to the shelf of toys. He pulls out a butt plug and a wand and brings it over to you. 

You shake your head, pleading, “don't, I won't be able to handle it, I won't—”

You bite down on your lip when you feel the wand press against your clit, the vibrations numbing your mind with pleasure. Titus slows the strokes of the toy inside your pussy, making you fully aware of the abuse on your clit. 

That distracts you from the feeling of cold lube on your ass. He pushes the plug slowly past your tight ring until it hilts. 

Then, he whispers in your ear, “I'm fucking that ass later.” 

You really start wriggling at that. “No, you can't, you can't!”

You don't even want to recall the last time he did. You're still trying to live with the fact that you came so hard with his cock buried in your ass. You can't possibly experience that again. 

It'll ruin you completely. 

You'll never be able to escape your dad… 

“But first, I'm cumming in my daughter's tight pussy.” He adjusts the machine until the toy is no longer inside of you and he pulls it aside so he has the space to stand in front of you, your legs already perfectly spread to take his cock. “I've always wanted to fuck you completely restrained like this. Means you can't fight me while I'm pumping a baby into you.” 

That has you tugging desperately on your restraints. “Dad, please, it's a bad day, I'll get pregnant if you cum inside of me.” 

“Don't threaten me with a good time, kiddo.” He smirks at you, unzipping his pants so he can show you his incredibly hard cock. “You'll make me want to cum inside of you more than once. Maybe I will. I wouldn't mind giving you a sibling.” 

Titus rams the entire length of his cock inside of you in a single stroke and you can't even hide your orgasm because you squirt all over him the moment he hilts, drawing a degrading laugh from his lips. 

“My daughter really likes the idea of me putting a sibling inside of her, doesn't she?” He rolls his hips, driving the tip of his cock against your womb, grinding at the entrance of it, making you whimper. “It sounds like you do. Admit it.” 

You shake your head, much to his annoyance. Still acting like a brat it seems. 

Titus grabs the wand and presses it back against your clit, making you fully aware of the plug in your ass and the vibrations bullying your clit. All while your dad is deep inside of you, thrusting nice and slow against that spot by your womb that has you panting. 

You mumble to yourself, cursing under your breath, “fuck, fuck, my dad is going to make me cum on his cock, oh fuck—”

Titus clamps his free hand over your mouth then, telling you sternly, “shut the fuck up and cum already.” 

You do. It's impossible not to. You cum so hard that you're moaning into his palm, your hips grinding into him as best you can despite being restrained, your body no longer denying itself of Titus. 

He rewards you by fucking you faster, pounding into you rougher, increasing the vibration against your clit, sending you over the edge of stimulation. 

Titus grins at how dazed you look, cumming on his cock so easily now. “There we go. I was wondering how long it would take for my kiddo to finally give up. Doesn't it feel so much better to let your dad fuck you?”

You nod then press a gentle kiss against his palm. 

Again, the first time you've ever done anything like that. 

Titus lifts his hand off of your mouth and cups your face instead.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Is he reading your signals right?

He definitely is because you nod. “Please, dad. I want to kiss you when I cum.”

Oh fuck, Titus is going to have to fuck you up now. 

His lips are on yours right away, his tongue fighting with yours for space in your mouth. His kisses, like always, are so overbearing but you moan against his lips, loving every second of it. 

“Please untie me so I can hold my dad.” You beg, wanting to touch him. 

And Titus doesn't know why he listens. 

He normally isn't so easily convinced but you're looking at him with so much affection in your eyes that he can't help but listen, undoing your restraints. 

You grab him by his shirt immediately, pulling him back to kiss you. Your legs wrap around his waist, tugging you close to him as you grind yourself against him, driving his cock deeper inside of you. 

You're so lost in the pleasure that you don't care how needy you seem. 

You just want your dad to fuck you silly. 

“Fuck me harder.” You tell him, your hands slipping into his lovely silver curls. “Please, dad.” 

He tosses the wand aside so he can brace both of his hands on the seat behind you, using it as leverage to pound into you furiously, making you cry out as you squirt all over his cock from the intensity of your orgasm suddenly ripping through you. 

You clench around him so tightly, milking his cock so perfectly, that he has to cum too, pumping every ounce of his release so deep inside of you that you can feel the heat of it in your lower belly. 

You're both breathless, which is why Titus is stunned to feel you cup his face and bring him towards you as you kiss him so gently, with so much love. He leans into it, kissing you back with that same amount of love. 

He's as dazed as you are when your lips finally part. And your words make him even more insane than he already is. 

“Do you love me?” You ask him, wanting to know. 

“Of course I love you. You're my daughter.” 

“That's not what I mean…” You cling onto him a bit tighter, your face flushing with heat. “I want to know if you actually love me or not.” 

He blinks at you, not knowing what kind of game you're playing now. 

The same game he was playing earlier when he asked you the same thing. 

Because he wanted to see what you'd say. 

And now you want to see the same. 

So Titus answers, “I'd love you more if you weren't such a brat.” 

You pout at him, looking sad. “So you don't love me?” 

He groans, not liking that you're upset. “Yes, I love you.”

“Forever?” You're pushing it now, to the very edge. 

Titus shoves the two of you off the edge. “Until the day the devil takes us.” 

You smile at that. “Good.” 

You lean your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around him, hugging him. Again, something you've never done before.

Which makes Titus suspicious.

“What the fuck do you want?” He pulls you off of him, glaring at you. 

You frown at him. “What do you mean?” 

“Don't play fucking coy with me.” He's not stupid. You're being too adorable. 

There has to be an ulterior motive. 

“Am I not allowed to hug my dad after he fucked my brains out?” You bat your eyelashes at him, purposefully acting cutesy. 

Titus growls at you. “You're being a brat again. Don't test me.”

You giggle, poking him in the chest. “This is way more fun than fighting you.” 

You yelp when he grabs you by your hair and drags you behind him out of the play room without any warning. 

You're promptly tossed onto his bed. 

“On your knees, ass up.” He snaps at you as he undresses. “Listen to your dad or I'm going to spank you until you bleed.”

You swallow at that. You definitely don't want him to do that. You have to stream tomorrow, which means sitting the whole time!

So, you submit, getting on your knees. Titus climbs into bed behind you. You feel his presence looming over you and you love the thrill of it. Of knowing he's going to make you cum again.

Titus dips his fingers into your pussy, drawing out some of your slick and his cum so he can smear it all over his already hard again cock, getting it nice and wet. Then, he grabs the base of the plug in your ass. 

“Deep breath.” He instructs and you listen, inhaling. “Now breathe out.”

On your exhale, Titus pulls the plug out of you with a pop that has your whole body shaking. He stills your movements when he presses the tip of his cock against the tight ring of your ass. 

“Same thing, kiddo.” He gives your back a light smack, since he said he wouldn't slap your ass. “Deep breaths.” 

You focus on your breathing as Titus slips more and more of his huge cock inside of you. You grip onto the sheets below you so much that they almost shred. 

“Easy now.” He rubs your back, cooing at you. “You can do it. My daughter is so good at taking her dad's cock. Say it.” 

“I'm so good at taking my dad's cock.” You repeat before screaming into your pillow when he hilts. “You're so big…it feels so crazy…”

“It'll feel even crazier when you cum from me fucking your tight little ass.” He grabs your hips hard, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh. “Are you ready for me, kiddo?” 

“What if I cum too hard?” You're still scared from last time. 

“You can make as big of a mess as you want.” Titus likes the idea of you being nervous about what you're about to leave behind for the help to clean up. 

“Go slow.” You know asking won't convince Titus of all people but you do it anyway, adding, “please, dad.”

“Okay, just because you ask so nicely.” He has to reinforce good behavior!

You whimper into the pillow when Titus starts his slow strokes, thrusting just an inch of his cock back and forth, letting you get used to him prying your ass open. Your whole body is quivering with every thrust, your orgasm building in your core, your stomach tensing up so much. 

He grinds against you, trying to figure out where to press his cock that has you crying out his name. “Titus!”

“Mmm, that must be the spot then.” He angles himself until every stroke of his cock teases the right spot in your ass that has you cumming beneath him, making you dry heave when the orgasm crashes through you all of a sudden. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck…” You can't believe how good that felt. “My dad made me cum from just my ass…” 

“And I'm going to make you do it again.” He smacks your lower back again, making you shiver all over. “Come here.” 

Titus hauls you up until you're seated on his lap with your back against his chest, his cock burying deeper into your ass. His hands drift up to cup your breasts, tugging at your perky nipples, drawing out the cutest whine from your lips from the sudden stimulation.

“Do you think I can make you cum from just this?” He pinches your nipples between his calloused fingers, watching your reactions to gauge how he needs to touch you to get you kicking your feet. “Feeling too much, kiddo?”

“Can I touch my clit?” You're aching to feel something there. “Please, dad.” 

Titus chuckles into the nape of your neck, kissing right there. “Sure, but only because you asked so nicely. You're being very good right now. Keep it up.” 

You eagerly play with your clit while he plays with your breasts and you arch your back into him, looking up at him. 

“Kiss me, please.” You want to feel his lips on yours when you cum. 

“You're going to be the death of me.” He can't deal with how cute you're being. 

Titus leans down to kiss you, loving the way you moan unapologetically now as you cum on his lap. 

“Please finger my pussy.” You don't care how desperate you sound. You beg in between kisses. “Please, please, please.” 

Titus doesn't answer. He just slides his hand down the length of your body until his hand is holding onto yours. 

“Keep rubbing your clit, kiddo.” Titus slips past your hand to thrust three of his fingers inside of you before suppressing your gasp with his lips. 

You're grinding yourself on his lap now, on your fingers, on his fingers, on his cock in your ass, needing more and more because you want to cum again. 

He's glad he came once already or it would be much more difficult to hold back. He's never had you so horny before. It's incredible to see you give in like this. 

“I love my daughter so much.” He breathes out, nibbling at your bottom lip lightly. 

“I love you too, dad.” You press a kiss against his lips then ask, “will you please make me cum?” 

“Gladly.” He curls his fingers inside of you, pushing up against where his cock is pressing into your ass and you fucking burst, squirting all over his hand immediately. He keeps thrusting his fingers right there, driving you further and further off the edge onto an insane orgasm. “Good girl, that's it, keep cumming until you feel your dad's cum in your ass.” 

The moment he spills his release deep inside of your ass, Titus pops his fingers out of you so he can furiously rub your clit, swiping back and forth so quickly over your wet pussy that you drench his hand uncontrollably, the sounds so erotic and unbelievable with how sloppy they are. 

“Oh fuck, I can't stop—” You're dripping tears from your eyes from how hard you're cumming still, your mind going numb from the pleasure. 

Titus licks up your tears, humming softly to himself when he finally slows his movements and lifts his hand off your overstimulated pussy. “What a mess you've made, kiddo.”

“I'm sorry.” You curl up into him. “I can clean it up.” 

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Don't bother, the help will deal with it in the morning. We'll sleep in your room tonight.” 

“Okay.” You snuggle up against him. “I'd like that.” 

Titus grabs your face, making you look at him, “what the fuck is up with this sweet act, hmm?” 

“What do you mean?” You blink at him, feigning confusion. 

He lifts you off of his cock slowly then throws you down on the bed, climbing on top of you so he can glare down at you. 

“You're suddenly being nice to me and you want me not to find that odd?” 

“What if I just wanna spoil my dad a little?” You open your arms. “I want a hug, dad.” 

Titus grumbles. “You're so fucking annoying.”

You giggle as he comes down to scoops you into his arms, hugging you. You let him lift you back up and carry you to his bathroom, bringing you into the shower with him. 

You give him a lovely peck on the lips when you both finish washing up and he drags you into the tub with him so he can spend more time with you like this. Titus is enjoying this more loving side of you.

He wishes it was permanent.

“Are you going to act like this from now on or is this a one time thing?” Titus lays his chin on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling your back closer to his chest, wanting to hold you close. Giving away a bit too much of how he feels about you.

“Depends how mean you are.” You lay your head back against him, snuggling your cheek against his, feeling his light stubble tickle you. “If you keep spoiling me, maybe I'll be a good girl from now on.” 

Titus nips at the skin of your neck. “Only good girls get spoiled. You have to be good first.” 

“Hmmm.” You shrug. “I'll think about it.” 

He groans. “Now I know this is the real you.” 

You smile at him. “You love the real me. You like getting to punish me.”

“I do.” He does, a lot. “I didn't realize I raised such a naughty kid.” 

“You didn't raise me at all.” You remind him that he's not actually your father. He's barely your stepfather. 

“Glad I didn't. I wouldn't be able to fuck you if I did.” 

“I bet you still would've.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” He grumbles because he is fucked up in the head so…

But it would have to be you. 

He only loves you.

His sweet, lovely daughter. 

Who is finally talking to her dad openly. 

To the point where you're letting your stream meet him. 

Just briefly, because you asked Titus to bring you food on his way home from whatever he had to do.

You look at your chat, giggling. “Chat, that's my dad. Don't be weird!”

“What are they saying about me?” Titus peers at the monitor you have that's tilted vertically so you can read the incoming chat.

They're all…talking about how hot he is. He furrows his brows at this. 

Then, he sees someone comment: if he was my dad, I'd fuck him. 

Little do they know, you're doing exactly that…

a/n: I had so much fun writing the play room. titus, in my mind, is a sex toy connoisseur who ofc has a play room! he can afford it! its where he rails his stepdaughter, duh! 

this was a nice set up so that I could eventually write them fucking on stream oop! ive been craving writing that kind of scandalous scene hehe so hopefully that is in my future ~ 

hope you enjoyed the read ♡ 

[littledes1re]

Yall interested in some more Jack and Joel??🫣😏😼

[littledes1re]

Yall interested in some more Jack and Joel??🫣😏😼

[pillow-princess-69]

Haven’t been this interested in anything since I found out porn can be written😊 I hope that encapsulates my raw deep burning hunger for this!!!

[mcrdvcks]

bed chem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes cut to Dex. “Stop talking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You type again, more frantic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No footsteps yet.

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

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

Matt’s footsteps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex’s grin widens. “Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two are disgusting,” Dex mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex’s smile sharpens. “We?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex’s mouth quirks. “So romantic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex’s brows lift. “Bossy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That the souvenir?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops.

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

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

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

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

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

“Was he here?” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

dex poindexter: @ultimatewolverine @nightmerzer @hexedangelx @avidreader73

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.

[pillow-princess-69]

Girl part 2 is looking like a threat rn.

All I’m saying is god bless your hands and your mind bc I’ve never. I mean never read something like this before. I mean I literally felt like this was happening to me as I was reading.

Tag me in part 2 PLEASE but I’m not sure if I will survive that.

This should genuinely be printed and sold in shops wow.

[mcrdvcks]

bed chem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes cut to Dex. “Stop talking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You type again, more frantic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No footsteps yet.

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

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

Matt’s footsteps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex’s grin widens. “Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand moves between your bodies and you push two fingers into Dex’s mouth, because you need leverage and because the idea hits you like a spark. Dex’s lips part instantly, tongue sliding over your fingers with a hungry, spiteful eagerness. He sucks like he’s trying to prove a point, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on yours as if daring you to flinch.

You pull your fingers out shining with spit and use it to stroke Dex, slow and cruel, palm sliding down his shaft, thumb smearing over the head. Dex’s head falls back into the pillow with a broken sound, eyes rolling, hands tightening on your hips like he’s trying not to buck.

“Fuck,” Dex breathes. “You’re—you’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yeah,” you manage, voice shaking, because Matt’s cock keeps hitting that spot inside you and you can’t think straight. “Shut up.”

Dex’s gaze snaps back to you, bright and pissed and turned on. He drags you down by the hips just enough to steal your mouth, grabbing your jaw with one hand and forcing a messy tongue kiss that tastes like heat and spit and something too sharp to be sweet. You whimper into it, and the sound gets swallowed between you.

Behind you, Matt’s breath catches like the sight and the sound hits him somewhere deep. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you from behind, hand still around Dex’s throat, using the hold to keep Dex right where he wants him while you fall apart on top of him.

“Eyes on me,” Dex mutters against your mouth, possessive and mean.

Matt’s mouth brushes your ear again, and his voice is quieter, steadier, like a blade. “Say my name.”

Your body clenches hard, and the next moan that spills out is Matt’s name again, muffled into Dex’s mouth. Dex shudders like it hurts, like it makes him want to bite, and he kisses you harder anyway. Matt’s thrusts turn relentless, hips snapping in tighter rhythm, and you feel his control thinning. His hand at Dex’s throat tightens, then loosens, then tightens again like he’s gripping the last thread of restraint.

You stroke Dex faster now, spit making it slick, your fist sliding up and down his cock while your cunt takes Matt from behind. Dex’s breath turns ragged, hips twitching under you, and his hands clamp down like he’s trying not to shove you down and take what he wants.

“Jesus—” Dex gasps. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Not yet,” Matt says, and it isn’t loud, but it lands like a command anyway. “Hold it.”

Dex’s eyes flash, furious, and he trembles through it. “Go to hell.”

Matt’s answer is a hard thrust that makes you cry out and clench around him so tight his breath breaks. You feel his cock pulse, feel his whole body go rigid behind you, and then Matt groans low against your back as he comes again, deep and hot, holding you still with both hands while he rides it out. One hand stays on your hip, the other keeps Dex pinned by the throat, and the control in it makes your whole body melt even while you shake.

Matt doesn’t collapse afterward. He stays pressed to you, chest to your back, breathing hard, lips at your shoulder like he needs to keep contact. His grip loosens slowly, like he’s easing himself back from the edge by inches.

“That’s it,” Matt murmurs, voice rough, thumb stroking your hip again. “Breathe. Stay with me.”

Dex is staring up at you like he wants to kill someone and kiss you at the same time, cock twitching in your hand, frustration and need making his jaw clench. He swallows, then drags his thumb across your lower belly like he’s claiming a piece of you he doesn’t have the right to claim.

“You two are disgusting,” Dex mutters.

Dex doesn’t wait for Matt to answer, because Dex isn’t actually asking. He’s already moving, already reaching, already turning that restless, hungry energy into action like he can’t stand sitting in the aftermath for even one more second.

He hooks an arm under your thigh and drags you off him with a sharp pull, flipping you onto your back in one quick motion that knocks the air out of you. The mattress dips hard, sheets bunching under your shoulders, and your head ends up near the edge of the bed, slightly hanging off. Dex climbs over you immediately, sweat shining on his throat, eyes wild and focused like you just became his target.

“You think you’re done?” Dex mutters, and his hands clamp down on your thighs, spreading you open like he owns the right to. “You’re not done. I’m not done.”

Matt is close enough that you can feel him shift, and you can hear his breathing change, sharper, more controlled. He doesn’t grab Dex off you, but his hand lands on your ankle for a second, thumb pressing into your skin like a quiet check-in. It’s Matt’s way of asking without interrupting, and you answer the same way, flexing your foot gently against his touch because you’re too wrecked to form a full sentence without it turning into a moan.

Dex lines himself up and pushes back into you with a rough thrust that makes your whole body jolt. Your cunt takes him easily because you’re soaked and overstimulated, and the obscene slick sound that comes with it makes Dex’s mouth twist like he’s pleased and pissed at the same time.

“Fuck,” you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders because you need something to hold while he starts moving. Dex doesn’t build slowly, he drives into you like he’s determined to make you forget how Matt felt, like he’s trying to pound the comparison out of your body with brute force.

Matt moves to your head, not away, not sulking, just repositioning like he’s doing damage control the way he always does. He sits beside you on the bed and cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, then your lower lip. His voice is low and steady, close enough to be private even with Dex right there.

“Breathe,” Matt murmurs. “You’re okay. You tell me if you need anything.”

Dex hears it and gets worse on purpose. He leans down and kisses you mid-thrust, mouth hot and messy, swallowing the sounds you can’t keep back. His tongue pushes in like he’s trying to claim your mouth the same way he’s claiming your cunt, and you whine into it because the pace is brutal and the heat in your blood makes it feel too good.

When Dex pulls back for air, he keeps one hand on your jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make you look at him. “Look at me,” Dex demands, voice rough. “Say it. Say my name.”

Your eyes flutter, unfocused, and you try to glare at him because he’s being an asshole, but your body betrays you immediately. Dex thrusts deep again, hitting a spot that makes your thighs shake, and the sound that breaks out of you is helpless. “Dex,” you gasp, and his grin turns sharp and satisfied like he just scored a hit.

“Again,” he says, and he thrusts harder, making the bed creak, making your breath break. “Come on. Louder. I want him to hear it.”

Matt’s hand slides down to your shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle like he’s keeping you grounded. He doesn’t argue with Dex, he just stays there, close, letting you hold onto him, letting you decide what comes out of your mouth.

Dex keeps driving into you, rhythm turning relentless, and you grab Matt’s wrist with shaking fingers because you need something solid. Matt’s palm flips and catches your hand, squeezing once, and you feel your stomach flip because even with Dex fucking you like he’s trying to win, Matt’s touch still feels like home.

Dex’s eyes flick to Matt’s hand holding yours, and something mean flashes across his face. He leans down again, kissing you hard, swallowing your moans, then breaks the kiss just to speak right at your mouth. “You like me?” Dex spits, like it’s an insult. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me.”

“Fuck, yes,” you choke out, because you’re too hot to lie and too far gone to be polite. Dex’s thrusts stutter for half a beat like the answer hit him hard, then he snaps back into a faster pace that makes you see stars.

Matt shifts slightly, moving closer to your head, and you turn into him automatically. His mouth brushes your forehead, then the corner of your lips, and you can tell he’s holding his restraint by force, breathing too hard for someone who’s “fine.”

“You can hold onto me,” Matt murmurs, voice rougher now. “Do what you need.”

Dex hears that too, and it makes him furious. He grabs your thigh and hikes it higher over his hip, angling you so he can go deeper, harder. The change punches a sharp moan out of you, and Dex makes a satisfied sound like he’s collecting it. “There,” Dex says, grinning. “There you go. That’s what I want. That’s mine.”

Matt’s thumb slides along your cheek again, and his voice stays calm even if the tension in it is obvious. “Don’t,” he warns quietly, like he’s reminding Dex he’s allowed to be here but not allowed to claim.

Dex doesn’t care, he leans down and kisses you again, filthy and hungry, and the way he thrusts turns almost frantic. He’s chasing something now, not just relief, but proof, and he wants it so badly it’s making him reckless.

Your hand slips down between your bodies, reaching for Dex’s wrist like you’re trying to steady him, and he catches it, pins it above your head with one hand while the other stays on your jaw. You’re spread wide, legs shaking around his hips, pussy clenching and fluttering around him like you’re teetering on the edge of another orgasm you can’t control.

“Say it,” Dex demands again, breath ragged. “Say my name. Please me. Come on.”

“Dex,” you moan, and then it turns into a breathless string of it because he won’t stop hitting that spot. “Dex—fuck—Dex—please—”

Dex’s eyes blow wide, and his mouth twists like he hates how good it feels to hear you beg. He thrusts harder, faster, the slick sound turning obscene, and you feel his control shredding.

Matt’s hand tightens around yours at your side, a steady squeeze that keeps you from floating away completely. He doesn’t interrupt, but his mouth brushes your temple, and his voice is low enough that only you can catch it. “I’m here,” Matt murmurs. “Stay with me.”

Dex’s breath turns jagged, and he makes a harsh sound like a laugh that got twisted into a groan. “Yeah, yeah,” he grits out, then thrusts deep and holds it there, shaking. “Fuck—”

Dex comes hard, angry and shaking, cock pulsing inside you in thick, hot spurts that make your body clench around him. He squeezes your jaw, then releases it like he just realized he was holding too tight, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder with a rough exhale that sounds like he wants to scream and refuses to give anyone the satisfaction.

He stays there for a second, still buried, breathing like he’s furious at his own body. Then he lets out a low, bitter laugh under his breath, the kind that doesn’t sound happy at all. “God,” Dex mutters, voice shaking. “That felt… so fucking good.”

Matt doesn’t let the silence after Dex’s last laugh turn into another round of posturing. He’s breathing hard, his palm still warm against your skin, and you can feel the difference now that the worst of the chemical spike isn’t clawing at your throat anymore. The heat is still there, still sticky under your ribs, but it isn’t as sharp as it was ten minutes ago, and that almost makes it worse because you can think again just enough to realize how fucking wrung out you are.

Dex shifts off you with a rough exhale, rolling onto his side like he’s trying to hide how shaky he feels. He looks at you like he wants to say something clever, something mean, something that puts him back on top of the moment, but the words don’t come as easily now. He settles for a tight smile and a hand on your thigh, thumb pressing into your skin like he’s reminding you he’s still here.

Matt’s voice cuts in, low and steady. “We’re close.”

Dex scoffs, but it’s weak. “Close to what, the end of your little domestic nightmare?”

“Close to it wearing off,” Matt says, and he shifts closer by sound and feel, his hand finding your hip like it always does. His fingers spread, grounding, and his thumb starts that slow circle that’s become the rhythm of the whole night. “You’re not shaking as much. Your breathing’s different.”

You swallow and nod even though he can’t see it, then force the words out because that’s how you’ve stayed sane through all of this. “It’s not gone,” you say, voice raw. “It’s still there. It’s just… not screaming.”

Matt hums once, like he agrees. Dex drags the back of his hand across his mouth, eyes flicking between you and Matt like he’s trying to decide if he hates the idea of it ending more than he hates the fact that Matt’s right about it.

“We finish it,” Matt says, simple as that.

Dex’s smile sharpens. “We?”

Matt turns his head slightly toward him, and even without eye contact it’s obvious who’s in control. “You’ve been in my apartment for hours,” Matt says, tone flat. “You can handle ten more minutes without trying to start a fight.”

Dex opens his mouth and then closes it again, jaw working like he’s biting down on the urge to run it. His gaze drops to you, then to Matt’s hand on you, then back up to your face like he’s looking for the crack he can wedge himself into.

You breathe in, slow, then say it before Dex can poison the moment. “If it’s fading, I want the last part to… end. Like, actually end.”

Matt’s hand slides from your hip up your side, his palm flattening over your stomach for a second like he’s checking you’re steady, then he kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and grounding. “Alright,” Matt says, and his voice drops into that calm command that makes your body settle even while it’s on fire. “Dex. On your back. Head on the pillow. Hands where I can find them.”

Dex stares at him for a beat, then smirks like he’s about to refuse on principle, but he doesn’t. He flops back onto the pillows with exaggerated ease, arms spreading out like he’s presenting himself for inspection, cock already half-hard again and twitching like the chemical is refusing to fully let go. “Bossy,” Dex mutters. “Thought you were the Catholic one.”

Matt’s answer is quiet. “Keep talking and you don’t get anything.”

Dex shuts up immediately, which would be hilarious if it wasn’t also obscene. Matt guides you by your waist, turning you carefully, helping you get your knees under you again because your legs are still shaky from everything. He doesn’t look at Dex to place you, he doesn’t need to; he uses touch the way he always does, hands firm on your hips, moving you inch by inch until you’re positioned over Dex’s face.

Dex’s eyes go bright, and his hands lift like he can’t help himself, then he freezes when Matt’s fingers press into his wrist as a reminder. Dex’s mouth opens slightly, tongue visible, and he looks up at you like he’s about to ruin you just to prove he can. “Sit,” Dex murmurs, voice rough. “C’mon.”

Matt’s hands tighten on your hips. “Slow,” he tells you, close to your ear. “You tell me if you get dizzy. You tell me if you can’t breathe.”

“I can breathe,” you manage, and you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, because the position alone makes your cunt throb. “I’m good.”

Matt helps you lower, guiding you down until you’re hovering right above Dex’s mouth, then another inch, until Dex’s lips brush your slick skin and you jerk with a gasp. Dex’s hands clamp onto your thighs immediately, holding you open, and he moans into you like he’s been denied air for hours.

“Fuck,” Dex breathes against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs tremble. “That’s—yeah. That’s it.”

He starts eating you out like he’s making a point. His tongue is flat and heavy, pressure too much and perfect, and you have to grab Matt’s forearm to keep from collapsing forward. Matt steadies you instantly, one hand on your waist, the other sliding up your back, holding you upright while Dex’s mouth works you open and greedy.

Your head ends up near Dex’s cock, and the sight of it—hard and flushed, twitching—makes your stomach flip. Dex notices, of course he notices, and his fingers squeeze your thighs like he’s trying to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Go on,” Dex says, voice muffled against your cunt. “Use your mouth.”

You lean forward and wrap your lips around him, and Dex makes a harsh sound that turns into another groan into your pussy. The combination is instantly overwhelming: Dex’s mouth on your clit, your mouth on his cock, and Matt behind you, hands steady on your hips like he’s preparing to do the last thing your body needs to finally stop buzzing.

Matt shifts behind you, and you feel him press in close, his breath hot at your shoulder. His fingers slide down your spine, then to your hips again, and he nudges you forward just enough to get the angle he wants.

“Breathe,” Matt murmurs, and he kisses your shoulder once, slow.

You moan around Dex’s cock, the sound vibrating, and Dex’s hands tighten on your thighs like he’s losing patience. Matt pushes in slowly, stretching you in a way that makes your eyes water, and the moment he’s inside you, the world narrows down to sensation again. It’s not the frantic, desperate edge from earlier; it’s heavy and deep, like you’re so sensitive that every inch feels doubled.

Dex’s tongue goes meaner the second he feels Matt moving inside you. He sucks hard at your clit like he’s trying to pull your orgasm out of you first, like he’s trying to prove he can still win something even in a setup Matt arranged.

You pull off Dex’s cock just long enough to gasp, “fuck—Dex,” then you take him again, because the heat is still there and the only way through it is more. Dex’s cock jerks in your mouth, and his groan turns into another muffled sound against your pussy as he eats you out harder.

Matt sets a pace behind you, steady and controlled. His hands stay on your hips, guiding the motion when your body tries to squirm away from the overstimulation, and every time you wobble, he corrects you with touch instead of words, keeping you upright, keeping you open, keeping you from falling apart too early.

Dex tries to talk again, of course he does, and it comes out broken between breaths. “You taste—fuck—you taste so good,” he mutters against your cunt, loud enough that Matt can hear it. “You’re gonna—yeah, you’re gonna come all over my mouth.”

Matt leans closer and his mouth brushes your ear. “Stay with me,” he says, and his voice is calm even though his thrusts get a little deeper, a little firmer. “Don’t rush it. Let it build.”

Dex’s hands slide up your thighs like he wants to drag you down harder onto his face. Matt’s grip on your hips tightens, and he pushes you down just enough that Dex’s mouth is fully buried, your pussy pressed into his face. Dex groans into you like he’s in heaven and hell at the same time, and the vibration nearly makes you lose your grip on his cock.

You gag slightly when Dex twitches hard in your mouth, and you pull back for air, spit shining on your lips. Matt’s hand slides to the back of your head immediately, not forcing, just guiding, and his voice turns low and firm. “Back on him,” Matt murmurs. “Just like that. Take what you need.”

You do it because you can’t not, because the structure is the only thing keeping you from going dizzy. You take Dex again, sucking him slow and deep, and Dex makes a strangled noise that turns into a growl into your pussy. His tongue keeps working your clit with brutal, perfect pressure, and his fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying to hold you still while his whole body wants to buck.

Matt’s thrusts deepen, steady and relentless, and the way his cock hits inside you makes your entire body tighten. You moan around Dex’s cock, the sound wet and obscene, and Dex shudders under you like that noise just tipped him closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” Dex gasps into you. “Matt—stop—she’s—”

Matt doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even acknowledge the plea with words. He simply changes the angle, lifting your hips slightly with his hands and driving into you a little harder, and the shift makes Dex choke on a groan because your pussy grinds down on his tongue in a way that feels like punishment and reward at the same time.

You can’t keep quiet anymore. The orgasm builds fast and heavy, not the sharp frantic spike from earlier, but a thick wave that keeps rising, and you’re trapped between them—Matt filling you, Dex swallowing you—until your whole body starts trembling.

“Matt,” you gasp, pulling off Dex’s cock just long enough to say it, voice broken. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” Matt says immediately, and his voice turns softer even while he keeps thrusting. “Let it happen. Breathe.”

Dex doesn’t give you time to breathe. He sucks hard at your clit like he’s trying to make you black out, and your thighs shake around his head as your orgasm hits. You come hard, cunt clenching around Matt, hips jerking downward onto Dex’s face, and the sound you make is messy and loud and completely uncontrolled.

Matt holds you through it, hands locked on your hips to keep you from collapsing. His thrusts turn shorter and tighter, chasing his own edge as your pussy clamps around him, and you feel him go rigid behind you. His breath breaks against your shoulder, and he groans low as he comes, deep and hot, holding you still while he rides it out.

Dex’s cock twitches in your hand as he hears Matt lose control, and Dex makes a furious, needy sound like he hates that it turns him on. You take him back into your mouth without thinking, sucking him through it, and Dex’s hands squeeze your thighs hard enough to leave marks.

“Don’t stop,” Dex grits out, voice shaking. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

You don’t. You keep sucking him, spit slick, rhythm steady even while your body is still shaking from your orgasm. Dex’s mouth is still on your pussy, tongue slower now but stubborn, like he refuses to give up the contact. The chemical is fading, but Dex is greedy and spiteful and desperate to get his last release before it fully lets him go.

Dex bucks once under you, hard, and Matt’s hands tighten on your hips again to keep you balanced. Dex’s cock throbs in your mouth, and he comes with a rough, broken groan that he tries to swallow, but fails. His orgasm makes him tremble under you, hands clamping down like he’s trying to hold onto something while it slips away.

For a few seconds none of you move. You’re panting, slick, shaking, and the heat in your body finally starts to ebb in a way that feels real, like the pressure is draining out instead of building again.

Matt stays behind you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your shoulder, breathing hard but slower now. His hands soften on your hips, turning from control into support.

Dex lies under you with his eyes half-lidded, still flushed, lips wet, chin shining, and he looks up at you like he wants to say something cruel just to prove he can. What comes out is a rough exhale and a bitter, shaky laugh. “Holy shit,” Dex mutters, and he sounds like he hates that he means it. “I think it’s actually… wearing off.”

Matt’s hands stay on you for a while after, not gripping anymore, just steadying, like he’s making sure you’re actually present and not drifting. He shifts carefully to get you off Dex, guiding you by the waist and shoulders so you don’t topple on shaky legs. The second your feet touch the floor your knees threaten to give, and Matt catches you like he’s done it a thousand times, one hand at the back of your neck, the other braced at your hip.

“Slow,” Matt murmurs, mouth near your temple. “Breathe for me. In and out, don’t rush it.”

“I’m breathing,” you rasp, then immediately prove you’re not by sucking in a short, shaky inhale that turns into a laugh because it’s either that or cry. Your skin feels too warm, tacky with sweat, and the air in the room feels thick even though the worst of the fever is finally fading.

Matt steers you to the edge of the bed and sits you down, then disappears for a second. You hear the faucet run, cabinets opening, the muted clink of a glass, and then he’s back with water and a cold washcloth. He presses the cloth to the back of your neck first, then your forehead, then your cheeks, gentle and methodical.

“Drink,” he says, and he guides the glass into your hands like he’s worried you’ll spill it.

You take a few sips and immediately realize how dry your throat is. “Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing again. “I feel like I ran a marathon.”

“You kind of did,” Matt says, dry but not teasing. His thumb drags over your pulse point at your wrist in a small check, then his palm settles there like he wants to feel you steady. “Any dizziness? Any nausea?”

“No,” you say, then pause because your stomach flips once as the room tilts slightly. “Okay, maybe a little dizzy.”

Matt’s hand tightens lightly on the back of your neck. “Then you sit,” he says, calm and firm. “You don’t try to be brave right now.”

Across the bed, Dex is quieter than he has been all night, which is almost unsettling. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the mattress, head tipped back, forearm over his eyes like he’s trying to hide the fact that he needs a minute. His breathing is still too fast, but it’s not frantic anymore, and the sharp edge of him looks blunted, like somebody finally turned the volume down.

He lifts his arm just enough to peer at you and Matt, and even now he can’t help himself. “You always this domesticated?” he asks, voice rough. The line is clearly meant to be snarky, but it lands thin, like he didn’t have the energy to sharpen it.

Matt doesn’t take the bait. He wipes your cheek with the cloth again, then sets it on your shoulder and keeps his hand there. “You’re leaving as soon as you can stand without falling,” he says, like he’s reading a grocery list.

Dex’s mouth quirks. “So romantic.”

“You’re still in my apartment,” Matt replies, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes the room feel smaller. “Don’t make me regret letting you walk out instead of dragging you.”

Dex’s eyes flick up toward Matt’s face, then down to Matt’s hand on your shoulder like he’s cataloging the claim again, even if he’s too wrung out to argue with it. “Relax,” he mutters. “I’m not staying for brunch.”

You take another sip of water, then set the glass down on the nightstand with a careful clink. Your muscles feel heavy, and your skin feels too sensitive in that post-overload way that makes the idea of putting on clothes feel like work. You grab the sheet and pull it over your lap because you need one normal human action to latch onto. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier now. “We’re not doing the ‘stand around and glare at each other’ thing. We need to clean. We need air. And we need to get rid of anything that might still have that chemical on it.”

Dex makes a noncommittal sound, but he pushes himself upright with a small wince, like his body is protesting. Matt’s head turns toward you immediately, attentive. “You want windows?” Matt asks.

“Yes,” you say. “All of them. Bedroom, living room. And we need trash bags. Gloves. Anything that touched your suits needs to get bagged.”

Matt nods once and stands, moving with that careful efficiency he slips into when he’s trying not to think about what just happened. You hear the bedroom window slide up, then the living room windows. Air drifts in, cool and city-dirty, and it helps. It doesn’t erase the heat in your blood, but it takes the edge off the room.

Dex gets to his feet and stretches like he’s trying to shake out the last of the chemical from his bones. He looks steadier now, but his gaze keeps drifting to you like he’s trying to memorize the situation and file it away for later. You point at him. “Bathroom. Wash your hands. Like, actually wash them.”

Dex’s brows lift. “Bossy.”

“Not negotiable,” you shoot back, and you’re proud your voice doesn’t wobble.

Dex’s smile twitches, then he actually goes, disappearing down the hall. You hear the faucet turn on and, shockingly, soap.

Matt comes back in with trash bags and a roll of paper towels. “I’ll bag the suits,” he says, and you can hear him trying to keep it neutral, trying to turn it into a task so he doesn’t have to sit in the reality of having Dex here at all.

“I’ll wipe down surfaces,” you say, already standing carefully, sheet clutched at your waist. “Coffee table, counters, doorknobs. Anything you two touched.”

Matt’s hand finds your elbow immediately, steadying you without smothering. “If you start to sway, you sit,” he says quietly.

“I will,” you promise, then add, because you know he needs to hear it, “I’m okay.”

He pauses like he’s listening to your heartbeat, then leans in and presses his forehead lightly to yours. “Okay,” he says back, softer than he’s been all night.

You move into the kitchen and find the plastic bag with the broken test tube shard where you left it. Seeing it again makes your stomach tighten, because it’s a stupid little piece of glass that caused all of this, and it feels unreal that it’s still sitting there like any other mess.

Dex comes back from the bathroom wiping his hands on a towel he definitely didn’t ask permission to use. He stops when he sees the bag on the counter, eyes narrowing slightly like his brain is finally catching up to the mission part of the night.

“That the souvenir?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, and you keep your tone flat. “And you’re not touching it.”

Dex gives you a look that says he’s annoyed you clocked him so easily. “Wasn’t going to.”

Matt’s voice comes from the hallway, calm and cold. “You were.”

Dex turns his head toward the sound with a sharp little grin. “You can’t prove that.”

Matt doesn’t move closer, doesn’t raise his voice. “Try it,” he says simply.

For a second the room feels like it’s on the edge of snapping again, not chemical this time, just old hatred and pride and the fact that Dex is Dex. You step between it before it can happen, because you’re done with men trying to make your apartment a battleground.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” you say, and you make your voice firm enough that it cuts through both of them. “Dex, you’re leaving. Not later when you feel like it—when you can walk straight, which looks like it’s basically now. You don’t take anything from this apartment. You don’t touch that bag. And you do not come back.”

Dex’s eyes flick to you, then soften into something sharper. “Aw,” he says, quiet and ugly-sweet. “You’re making rules.”

“Yes,” you say. “Because you clearly don’t know how to exist without someone making them for you.”

Dex’s jaw flexes, and you can see the irritation, the spite, the obsession all mixing behind his eyes. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something cutting, then his gaze flicks past you to Matt. “You hear that?” Dex says, voice low. “Your girl’s got a spine. I like that.”

Matt’s answer is immediate and controlled. “Leave.”

Dex takes a step backward toward the door, then pauses like he can’t help himself. “This isn’t over,” he says, and it’s not even a threat that’s trying to sound cool. It’s just a fact in his tone, like he’s already decided he gets to stay in your orbit.

You stare at him, letting your expression go flat. “It is for me.”

Dex’s smile twitches like you slapped him. He looks at you too long, then turns and walks out. He doesn’t slam the door; he lets it click shut behind him like he’s leaving on purpose instead of being thrown out.

Matt locks it immediately. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home is the first thing all night that makes your shoulders drop. Matt stands there for a second with his hand still on the lock, head bowed slightly like he’s listening for Dex’s footsteps in the hall, for the elevator, for proof he’s actually gone.

Then Matt turns and comes back to you, and the moment he reaches you he cups the back of your neck and leans his forehead to yours again, breathing like he’s finally allowing his lungs to work.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“You can apologize later,” you murmur, and you squeeze his wrist. “Right now, I want a shower and clean sheets and, ideally, a world where nobody ever breaks a glass cage full of mystery chemicals again.”

Matt lets out a strained laugh that sounds like relief more than humor. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

---

Two weeks later, the apartment feels normal again in the way it always does after something violent tries to stain it. The sheets are clean, the couch has been scrubbed, the trash bags are long gone, and you’ve managed to file the whole night into that mental drawer labeled “never talk about this unless you absolutely have to.”

Matt comes home with groceries and bruises and a tired kiss that makes you feel like your body belongs to you again. You make dinner, you argue about whether he needs more sleep, and you pretend you don’t flinch when you hear sirens outside.

On a Tuesday afternoon, you bring the mail upstairs in a messy stack, flipping through the usual junk with your thumb. Matt’s at the kitchen counter, rinsing fruit, head tilted toward you like he’s listening for the tone of your voice more than the words.

“Bills,” you mutter. “Ads. Something for you from the bar association.” You pause, because one envelope doesn’t match the rest. It’s a plain envelope with no return address, and your name printed neatly on the front like somebody took their time. “Matt,” you call, trying to keep your voice casual and failing.

“What is it?” He asks, turning off the faucet.

“There’s… a letter,” you say, and you pick it up carefully, like it might bite. “No return address.”

Matt’s footsteps are quiet, controlled, and he stops close enough that you can feel him beside you. “Don’t open it yet,” he says, and his voice goes tight in that way it does when his instincts are screaming.

You don’t, not until he’s right there, one hand hovering near your wrist like he’s ready to pull you back if something goes wrong. You slide a finger under the flap and open it slowly, trying not to tear the paper. Inside is a single card, thick and clean, like it came from a nice stationery shop.

There’s no long message; no rant, no explanation. Just a small circle drawn in black ink, and inside it, a clean bullseye.

Your stomach drops.

Matt’s hand closes around your wrist gently but firmly. “What is it?” he asks, already knowing it’s bad from your breathing.

You swallow and slide the card toward him even though he can’t see it. “It’s… a symbol,” you say, voice tight. “A bullseye.”

Matt goes very still. His jaw clenches. His thumb presses once at your pulse point, not to calm you, but like he’s grounding himself too. “Is there anything written?” he asks, voice low.

You flip the card over with shaking fingers. There’s one line in the same neat print as the envelope: Thanks for the hospitality.

You look at Matt, and his face is calm in the way it gets right before violence, right before he turns into Daredevil instead of your boyfriend.

“Was he here?” you whisper.

Matt’s hand slides from your wrist to your cheek, warm and steady. “No,” he says quietly. “He wants us to think he was.”

You stare at the stupid little card, anger and fear twisting together in your chest. “He’s not done.”

Matt’s mouth tightens, and he leans in until his forehead touches yours again, voice low enough that it feels like a promise. “Neither am I.”

extra notes: look, all i'm gonna say is, i prob will come back to this as my horny release, lol. mostly because i feel betrayed by myself and really want to write a dexmatt kiss. like could you imagine them fucking you from each end while kissing over you?????? yeah can't believe i didn't write that

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes @macbaetwo @demiebarnes

matt murdock: @ultimatewolverine @steviebbboi @crowleythesexydemon @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @hawke1917 @hexedangelx

dex poindexter: @ultimatewolverine @nightmerzer @hexedangelx @avidreader73

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.

[belleeebelleee]

Sitting on Daryl's lap

Daryl Dixon (The Walking Dead) x fem!reader

It starts as a habit.

A weird one.

But still—just a habit.

You don’t even remember the first time it happened. Just that one day the prison yard was packed, people crowding around the tables, arguing over rations and watch shifts. You were tired, your legs aching after a long run, and Daryl Dixon was sitting there, quiet as ever—

You walk straight over.

He looks up at you, squinting. “What?”

“No seats,” you say simply.

And you just… sat on his lap.

Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He froze.

Completely.

“Uh,” he starts. “…What’re you doin’?”

You get comfortable, shifting slightly, leaning back against his chest. “You’re not using it.”

“My—” he cuts himself off, clearly recalculating something. “…lap.”

“Correct.”

“Resting,” you said simply, settling in.

He didn’t move you.

Didn’t push you off.

Just sat there, stiff as a board for a solid thirty seconds before very carefully relaxing—like he’d decided this was happening whether he understood it or not.

After that?

It just… became a thing.

You’d drop into his lap at the fire.

Lean back against his chest without asking.

Sometimes you’d be mid-conversation with someone else while perched there like it was your designated seat.

People noticed.

Of course they did.

You ignored them.

So did he.

Mostly.

(There was the occasional grumble. A muttered “Ain’t a chair” under his breath. But he never actually stopped you.)

If anything—

He adjusted.

A hand resting automatically at your hip so you didn’t slip.

His legs shifting slightly to make it more comfortable.

Like he just… accepted it.

Accepted you.

By the time Alexandria happens, people notice.

They definitely notice.

“You know,” Glenn says one afternoon, watching you casually drop onto Daryl’s lap mid-conversation, “most people would call that a relationship.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Most people are wrong.”

Daryl snorts quietly behind you, like he agrees.

And that’s the thing—

Neither of you ever define it.

It just… is.

Which is why it throws you so completely when you see him with her.

Her name is—honestly, you don’t care enough to remember it.

She’s one of the Alexandria women. Soft-spoken, neat, always hovering just a little too close to Daryl whenever he’s back from a run.

You notice it before you mean to.

The way she lingers.

The way she smiles at him.

The way he doesn’t immediately walk away.

And yeah—he’s not exactly encouraging it.

But he’s not shutting it down either.

That’s what gets to you.

Daryl—who usually avoids conversations like this—is actually… staying.

Listening.

Your stomach twists.

Weird.

Unpleasant.

You don’t like it.

“…Oh,” you murmur under your breath.

Maybe that’s it.

Maybe that’s what he wants.

Someone normal.

Someone who doesn’t treat him like a piece of furniture and sit on him whenever they feel like it.

You huff quietly, crossing your arms.

“Good for him,” you mutter, even though it doesn’t feel good at all.

So you stop.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

You just… stop sitting on his lap.

Stop leaning into him.

Stop taking up that space like it’s yours.

Daryl notices.

Of course he does.

He notices everything about you.

The first time you choose a spot across the fire instead of next to him, his eyes linger.

The second time, his shoulders tense.

By the third—

He’s staring.

You pretend not to see it.

“Somethin’ wrong with you?” he mutters one night, catching you as you try to pass by him without stopping.

You shrug, casual. “Nope.”

“You ain’t been—” he gestures vaguely, like he doesn’t have the words for it.

“Been what?”

He frowns. “Y’know.”

You tilt your head innocently. “I really don’t.”

His jaw tightens.

“…Forget it.”

You almost do.

Almost convince yourself it doesn’t matter.

Until the day it finally snaps.

You’re in the middle of the street when it happens.

A few people gathered around, talking, trading, trying to build something normal out of what’s left.

You’re half-listening.

Until you see her again.

Standing close to Daryl.

Too close.

Laughing softly at something he said—something you didn’t even hear.

And he’s—

He’s not laughing.

But he’s not walking away either.

Something in your chest twists.

Fine, you think.

Fine.

You turn, ready to leave, to give them space, to pretend this doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it does—

“Hey.”

His eyes are on you.

Tracking.

Waiting.

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

And that’s all it takes.

“C’mere,” he calls.

You blink.

“…What?”

He jerks his chin toward himself.

“C’mere.”

The woman looks between you both, confused.

You glance at her.

Then back at him.

“…You’re busy.”

“Ain’t,” he says immediately.

She opens her mouth like she might argue that.

Daryl doesn’t even look at her.

“C’mere,” he repeats.

There’s something in his voice this time.

Not a request.

Not quite a command.

Just… certain.

Your feet move before your brain catches up.

You walk over slowly, aware of the woman watching, of the shift in the air.

“Daryl—” you start.

And then—

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough.

Just firm.

And pulls.

It’s so sudden you don’t even process it at first.

Until you realize where you are.

How close.

His arm locked firmly around your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Not casual.

Not absent-minded.

Deliberate.

Right there.

In front of her.

Like it’s nothing.

The woman goes quiet.

You can feel it without even looking.

Feel the shift in the air.

The message.

Your breath catches.

“…Daryl.”

His gaze flicks down to you for half a second.

Softens.

His hand tightens slightly at your side.

A silent stay.

Like you belong there.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now.

You stare at him.

“Hi,” you manage.

There’s a beat.

Then you remember—

Oh.

Right.

You glance at the woman.

She’s staring.

Openly.

A little stunned.

A little… put off.

“Oh,” you say, suddenly feeling awkward. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“You didn’t nothin’,” Daryl cuts in.

You blink.

The woman clears her throat.

“I, uh… didn’t realize you two were—”

“We ain’t,” Daryl says.

Your stomach drops.

Of course.

You knew that.

Still—

His arm tightens slightly around you.

“But she’s mine,” he adds.

Your brain short-circuits.

“…What?”

He doesn’t look at you.

Still watching the woman.

Steady. Unapologetic.

“She sits here,” he continues, like he’s explaining something obvious. “She stays close. That’s just how it is.”

Silence.

The woman shifts awkwardly.

“Right,” she says after a second. “I—I should go.”

“Yeah,” Daryl replies easily.

She doesn’t need telling twice.

You watch her leave.

Then slowly turn back to him.

You swallow. “…So.”

He looks at you again.

Really looks this time.

“Thought you didn’t wanna sit here no more.”

There’s something rough in his voice.

Something quieter underneath.

You frown slightly. “I didn’t think you—” you stop yourself.

Didn’t think you wanted me to.

His eyes narrow. “Didn’t think I what?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You huff a small laugh, shaking your head again. “You had options.”

“Options?” he repeats, like the word offends him.

You gesture vaguely in the direction the woman left. “Her, for one.”

Daryl goes very still.

Up close like this, you can see it—

The faint tension.

The way he’s bracing, just a little.

Then—

“Don’t want her.”

The words come out immediate. Firm.

Like there was never a question.

Your breath catches.

“…You don’t?”

He stares at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

“Been sittin’ on my lap for months,” he mutters. “Thought that meant somethin’.”

Your heart stutters.

“It did,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t know if it meant the same thing to you.”

His expression shifts.

Softens in a way that feels almost dangerous.

“Only ever meant one thing to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“…Daryl.”

He exhales, like he’s already said too much.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Don’t like it,” he mutters. “You thinkin’ I—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Ain’t her.”

Your breath catches.

“Oh.”

Silence settles between you.

You shift slightly in his lap, suddenly very aware of how close you are.

“How long?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs one shoulder.

“While.”

You huff a soft laugh.

“Great. And you didn’t think to mention that?”

He looks almost offended.

“Thought it was obvious.”

You stare at him.

“…Daryl.”

“What?” he mutters.

“I sit on your lap.”

“Yeah.”

“That does not automatically equal ‘I’m yours.’”

He frowns.

“…Should.”

You laugh—actually laugh, a little breathless.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He huffs, but there’s something softer in his expression now.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“…You don’t gotta stop.”

You blink.

“Stop what?”

He gestures vaguely—between you, your position, all of it.

“This.”

Your heart does something stupid again.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you admit.

That tension in him eases.

Just a little.

“Good.”

You study him for a second longer.

Then smile—slow, a little teasing, a little something more.

“…So this is mine now?” you ask, shifting slightly in his lap.

He snorts.

“Always was.”

Your smile softens.

“Good,” you murmur, settling more comfortably against him. “Because I wasn’t planning on giving up my seat permanently.”

Daryl huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Pain in the ass.”

“Your pain in the ass.”

He pauses.

Then nods once, like that settles it.

“…Yeah.”

[pillow-princess-69]

67

The wind is strong. Ahem anyways I love fics where WE are jealous of the attention Darly receives like YESS MY MAN IS FINE. drool from a distance pls.

[jacaeryslover]

BAD DESIRE: a benjamin poindexter fanfic.

.✦ ݁˖ pairing: benjamin poindexter x fem!reader.

.✦ ݁˖ warnings: this is so self indulgent, i wrote it because im OBSESSED with dex AND the pitt so... yeah. stalker!dex, also suicidal!reader is kinda into it (in future chapters).

.✦ ݁˖ summary: you're a doctor who lost too much, and fate decides to bring you and a certain suicide prevention center worker in need of a north star—together.

.✦ ݁˖ THIS IS A CROSSOVER FIC | DAREDEVIL X THE PITT

Your fingertips drifted over the numbers in your phone, every time you pressed a number, the guilt settled in your stomach like a scorpion about to crawl its way to the surface.

You dialed the numbers. You called the line. So why were you so afraid they would answer you?

You could see the whole city from the hospitals rooftop. This particular night was an absolute nightmare, yes, you were at a constant state of loss and never actually grieving, but tonight? Tonight you lost a little boy. And those were always the toughest cases.

A voice echoed in your ears "Suicide prevention this is Dex, who am I speaking with?" the man behind the line said in an almost too well practiced voice.

"Hi" you muttered under your breath, your voice barely a whisper. You told him your name, answering his question.

"Hello, how can I help you today?" Your name felt sweet in his mouth, like a tasting of something he was missing—of something he needed. A North Star to make him good.

"Are you planning on taking your own life right now?"

Seconds passed, you didn't know what to answer, no one had asked you this question before, you didn't even allowed yourself to think of it.

"I just– I don't think so, I just needed someone to talk to, someone who could listen."

"Hey Kid, what're you doing up here?"

He could hear a new voice in the backgroung—a mans voice. Then, just as quickly as the call came, it ended.

He needed to keep thinking of your name over and over again, as a kind of silent devotion. He got a taste of what life can be, of what he can become—someone good.

He had your name, he had the sound of your voice, and that was all he needed to find you.

2ND PART

also, sorry if the timeline is wrong, i haven't watched that dd season in lifetimessss, also i got enhypen tickets so im naming this fic after them!!!

[pillow-princess-69]

GIRL I SAW YOUR POST GETTING RECOMMENDED UNDER A JUICY EDIT ON TIKTOK LET ME SHOW YOUUUUU

TikTok - Make Your Day

I HOPE THE LINK WORKS THIS FITS YOUR STORYYY SO WELL

[jacaeryslover]

BAD DESIRE: a benjamin poindexter fanfic.

.✦ ݁˖ pairing: benjamin poindexter x fem!reader.

.✦ ݁˖ warnings: this is so self indulgent, i wrote it because im OBSESSED with dex AND the pitt so... yeah. stalker!dex, also suicidal!reader is kinda into it (in future chapters).

.✦ ݁˖ summary: you're a doctor who lost too much, and fate decides to bring you and a certain suicide prevention center worker in need of a north star—together.

.✦ ݁˖ THIS IS A CROSSOVER FIC | DAREDEVIL X THE PITT

Your fingertips drifted over the numbers in your phone, every time you pressed a number, the guilt settled in your stomach like a scorpion about to crawl its way to the surface.

You dialed the numbers. You called the line. So why were you so afraid they would answer you?

You could see the whole city from the hospitals rooftop. This particular night was an absolute nightmare, yes, you were at a constant state of loss and never actually grieving, but tonight? Tonight you lost a little boy. And those were always the toughest cases.

A voice echoed in your ears "Suicide prevention this is Dex, who am I speaking with?" the man behind the line said in an almost too well practiced voice.

"Hi" you muttered under your breath, your voice barely a whisper. You told him your name, answering his question.

"Hello, how can I help you today?" Your name felt sweet in his mouth, like a tasting of something he was missing—of something he needed. A North Star to make him good.

"Are you planning on taking your own life right now?"

Seconds passed, you didn't know what to answer, no one had asked you this question before, you didn't even allowed yourself to think of it.

"I just– I don't think so, I just needed someone to talk to, someone who could listen."

"Hey Kid, what're you doing up here?"

He could hear a new voice in the backgroung—a mans voice. Then, just as quickly as the call came, it ended.

He needed to keep thinking of your name over and over again, as a kind of silent devotion. He got a taste of what life can be, of what he can become—someone good.

He had your name, he had the sound of your voice, and that was all he needed to find you.

2ND PART

also, sorry if the timeline is wrong, i haven't watched that dd season in lifetimessss, also i got enhypen tickets so im naming this fic after them!!!

[buckybabieboy]

So I've read several smut fics about Bucky's first time after 70+ years but never a combination of these:

- touch starved Bucky, him begging the reader to touch him where he needs it the most

- him being iper sensitive, just a simple touch makes him whimper

- cumming a lot, reader can't even manage to suck him or stroke him properly

- still being hard after cumming several times

- he's just a moaning mess who needs attention, his metal hand isn't enough anymore

- his thrusts getting harder and deeper while he loses himself in the feeling, not even able to form a sentence

...could you please write something like this? If the f!reader and Bucky are friends, friends with benefits, in a relationship, how it starts, how it ends... it's up to you.

Wow. Here goes nothin’ BAHAHA.

Starved.

⚠️TW: NSFW, sub!touch-starved!bucky, dom!fem!reader, blowjob(m!receiving,) p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, slight overstimulation, cockwarming, Bucky being a touch starved and needy little thing, much more lol just read it

☁️Summary: You make Bucky cum for the first time(s) in over 70+ years. Your touch starved little baby.

📝A/N: Thx for this request babie. I tried my very hardest to include everything in here! P.S: I’ve been a very busy person lately, which meant no time for writing. I’m so very sorry! You guys sending in requests really motivates me though. <3 I even used some of your exact words if you look closely, anon ;)

You and Bucky had a relationship that was indescribable. He was honest and open around you, which was something that nobody else could ever say. Wherever you were, so was he, and you didn’t have a problem with that. 

During the time you’ve spent getting to know Bucky, you’ve come to 2 conclusions; James Buchanan Barnes was a broken and damaged man, but that will never mean he’s any less worthy of love. You also noticed a certain desperation in him. The slightest touch would make him go rigid.

You can recall multiple occasions where you’d grab his hand, kiss his head, or simply pull him in for a hug and he’d be all flustered and glossy-eyed. He’d beg you to do those things again. To touch him literally anywhere. It didn’t matter where because to him, any sensation was a good sensation, just as long as it came from you.

Which led you to your second conclusion; Bucky was longing for touch. He was a touch starved, delicate, little thing that just needed to be taken care of. And you had no problem being the one to fulfill his needs. 

As of right now, Bucky has made himself comfortable in your arms, eyelids shut and mouth agape as he indulges in your soft, delicate touch. He’s on your lap and facing you, so you notice even the slightest twitches of his beautifully flushed face. Your fingertips slowly scratch at his scalp, and you feel him fall limp in your arms, as if he’d given himself up to you.

“l- I love that, y/n. please don’t stop...” Bucky mumbles. 

“when you touch me.. f-feels like m’ floating...” Bucky continues to babble and whimper from your simple movements. He’s literally shaking in your lap, which makes your mind wander into filthy places. You’re still awed about how the simplest touches from you make him go mad.

“yeah? feels good?” You ask quietly in response, and he nods his head yes. You feel subtle, but noticeable movements against the skin of your right thigh. His metal fingers were lightly tapping your thigh, as if he needed something to hold on to, to ground him here on earth so that his now ‘normal’ headspace wouldn’t become a fuzzy and floaty one.

“my sweet boy..” you whisper to him, brushing his hair away from his face and behind his ear. He gives you a weary and desperate look in response, and you give him a soft kiss on the nose as an attempt to calm him down. You began to feel something on your thigh again, but it wasn’t his metal fingers. You look down and see Bucky grinding against your thigh, whimpering and hyperventilating while doing so.

“f-fuck, I c-can’t! need more…” Bucky whimpers, hot tears falling from his baby blue eyes. He was so frustrated that he could never do it for himself, it was humiliating for him. You know he’s tried to cum by himself, but his metal hand just wasn’t enough. Poor little baby just couldn’t get himself there, and he needed you to do it. You wipe his tears with your thumb and begin to shush him. He was stiff in his pants, and the fact that he was wearing his comfy gray sweats didn’t make it any less obvious.

“shh… you’re okay James. What is it that you need, hm?”

Your voice was soft and delicate to his ears, which was something that Bucky appreciated. He was feeling so many things right now, it was all so overstimulating for him, but you’re sweet, sultry voice reminded him that he was okay.

“please do something. anything! it hurts, y/n… make it stop, please…”He whimpered, avoiding your eyes. His cock was leaked and stained his sweats.

 His whimpers have gotten even more high pitched as he’s become more desperate for you. You palm him through his sweats which makes him jolt in your lap, practically screaming at the sensation. You haven’t even touched him yet and he’s already so spent.

“get up, baby. gonna take care of you now.” You whisper to him. He gets off of you and sits on the edge of your shared bed as you get down on your knees in front of him. You take off his shirt and undo the drawstring to his sweats, taking them off along with his boxers. You stare at his body in awe. He was so beautiful, so ethereal. All his scars and bruises were so perfect in your eyes. Even that metal arm of his, the one that he would be insecure about from time to time. Your eyes trail down to his aching cock, loads of precum having spilled out from before.

You get up to kiss him on his adorably pink lips before coming back down to leave a trail of kisses down both his trembling thighs.

“y/n, please! Please touch my cock, I need you there!” Bucky yelps at the feeling of your soft, plush lips kissing his legs. He’s so sensitive and whiny, just needing you to touch him where he needs it most. You hum in response and move up to his twitching cock. You plant a kiss on his tip, causing him to let out a gasp and buck his hips up towards you. You notice how stimulated and sensitive his cock is, which wasn’t very surprising. His cock must be aching from being hard and not releasing for so long.

“you’re so hard, sweet boy...let me know if it’s too much, okay?” You say before taking his red tip into your mouth, sucking on it softly. You make sure to make your movements slow at first, not wanting to overwhelm him. The moment your soft, moist lips wrap around him, you hear him stifle a pathetic whimper. When you’re halfway down his shaft, you begin play with his balls with one of your hands.

“keep goin… please don’t stop!” Bucky cries, both his hands gripping the sheets. You finally take his whole cock in your wet mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you go. Bucky had no idea such ecstasy existed; the feeling of your wet tounge on his sensitive cock was almost driving him mad. You could feel his poor cock pulsating in your mouth, which motivated you to continue your movements. You reach down into your shorts and rub yourself through your soaked panties. You didn’t even notice how wet Bucky’s pathetic sobs and whimpers made you.

“f-fuck, y/n that's so good! feels so, so good! gonna make me c-cum!” Bucky continues to babble and cry, the poor little baby couldn’t even manage to speak one complete sentence. He was literally finding it hard to breathe because of the way you were making him feel. This would be the first time in over 70 years since he’s last had an orgasm, so he could feel every little thing. Every flick of your tounge, the vibrations of your moans, the way your fingers fondled with his balls. 

Bucky’s chest rises and falls as he pants heavily, shaking and trembling as he cums in your mouth, his cum painting the back of your throat. He didn’t even notice how much he was cumming until he felt the cold air hit his sensitive cock after you let it out of your mouth. Replacing your mouth with your hand, you start to pump him. Loads of cum continue to spurt out of his cock in long white strings, coating your hand and his spasming thighs. 

“y/n...can’t stop..” Bucky whimpers wearily as he thrusts his hips rapidly into your fist.  

“awh, can’t stop cumming, sweet boy?” you coo at him, continuing to pump his spasming cock, milking him for all he’s got. His cock and your hand were now painted white with his cum. Once you’ve pumped out the last of his creamy warm liquid, you sit next to him on the bed so you could check on him. He immediately falls into your arms, whimpering and babbling like a little baby. 

“need more..wan-wanna be inside you...please? please let me be inside you, i need it!” Bucky cried. Your sweet baby boy was sobbing, visibly frustrated because he still wasn’t satisfied, and you didn’t expect him to be after only one orgasm.

“shh, of course you can, baby. you can have anything you want.” you assure him, understanding how overwhelming this all must be for him. You take his hands in yours and kiss them, and an adorably pathetic whine escapes from him.

His precious eyes glistened, tears falling from them. He was so desperate for you; he’d probably take anything you gave him at this point.  You take off your clothes before scooting back on the bed, laying down and spreading your legs for him. You smile at how Bucky just stares at you, eyes wide at the sight of your wet, glistening pussy.  

“you can touch me, y’know” Bucky's precious turquoise eyes narrow at your words, as if he wasn't certain this was real, as if none of this was, and he was merely dreaming of this euphoria he was experiencing right now. Before you knew it, he’s scrambling to get above you as he thanks you over and over again.

 His flesh fingers glide over your silky skin, traveling from your cheek, down to your neck, before hesitating over your boobs. His cheeks have become flushed, and you giggle softly at how adorable he is. You take his hand in yours and place them on your tender breast, and you watch at how his once flustered and shy expression became a hungry and erotic one.  You give him a soft kiss on his plush lips before gently grabbing his aching cock and aligning it with your entrance.

“m’ ready whenever you are, baby” you coo. Bucky nods his head in response, and slowly enters you. He gasps at the sensation and remains motionless inside of you for some time as he tries to get used to the intense and overwhelming sensation of your warmth.

 “too much f’you?”  You ask him, more than willing to call it quits if he wanted to. Your main focus was to keep him comfortable. You only receive a breathy “nuh uh” in response, and before you knew it, Bucky was pounding into you relentlessly. “Bucky!” You moan blissfully, throwing your head back against your pillow, and wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even closer.

“f-fuck y/n, s-so warm! feels so good!” Bucky slurs as he continues to jackhammer into you, the feeling of your wet pussy tightening around his cock sending him into overdrive. He buries his head into your neck, whimpering and whining for you. 

You bring your hands to his hair, tangling your fingers in his soft brown locks, which is something that Bucky couldn’t get enough of. You were practically screaming at the way he thrusted in and out of you rapidly. Each time he’d thrust back into you, he’d hit that spot inside you that sends you right over the edge.

“Bucky, you’re doing so well, making me feel so good!” you praise him. He rutted into you even harder at your praise. The sounds you were both making were those of a pornographic film, one you would definitely watch.

 Bucky was a pathetic, babbling mess for you, tears streaming down his face from how good you feel.

“m-my cock... s-so deep inside you...!” Your sweet boy was so pussy drunk; he couldn’t form a complete sentence. His thrusts only got harder and deeper as he loses himself in your feeling. He sobbed, the thought of filling you with every last drop of his cum making his balls tighten. 

“fuckfuckfuck, so close! can I please cum in you? can i? want to cum in you, y/n! I need it!” Bucky pleaded as he continued railing into you balls deep like a savage animal. 

“Go on, sweet baby. cum in me, fill me up.” You say between heavy pants. Your back arches, your hips meeting his as you chase your own orgasm. Bucky’s mind went blank as he released his load into you, his cock pulsating extremely fast in your pussy, which in turn makes you cum right after him. He never stopped his thrusts into your now sensitive and fucked out pussy.

“James, too much okay? m’ sensitive..’’ you mumble shakily, trying to recover from that intense orgasm you just had. 

 “please, y/n.. one more, just feels so good..”

 You nod your head, giving him permission to cum a second time. You tried to pay no mind to how overstimulated you are as Bucky begins to fuck you into the bed, chasing his orgasm for the third time today. He gripped your hips and angled you so he could get deeper inside you. 

You scrunch your face in discomfort at the almost unbearable sensations you were feeling, but the pain quickly subsided into an undeniable pleasure. Your legs begin to tremble around Bucky’s waist, and you bite your lip to stifle a whimper.

Bucky leaned down to bury his face in your neck again, and you felt hot tears fall onto your skin. He wanted to scream out-- his third orgasm was only seconds away, but he couldn’t manage any words. Only broken and pathetic whimpers came from him, as he railed in and out of you, over and over again, neither of you caring how overstimulated you were. An intense shiver runs down your spine and through your body. You almost couldn’t take it anymore, the feeling of his swollen cock hitting your g-spot making you lose all control,

“fuck Bucky, gonna make me cum again!” You wail. You can feel that he’s close too, his cock twitching madly inside your velvety walls. Bucky lets out the most broken and pathetic cry as he bites your shoulder, making you wince slightly.

“y/n..feels so good, feels so fucking good..” Bucky cries softly in between thrusts. “f-fuck! m’ gonna cum inside you again!”

“go ahead, baby. m’ right behind you..” You whisper as you stare at his beautifully fucked out face, nearing your orgasm as well. His thrusts become sloppier and more desperate as he cries out for you.

 You watch Bucky’s eyes roll back as his warm cum fills you up. You follow after him, pussy fluttering around his pulsating shaft. Your liquid drips out your pussy and onto the bed. He thrusts in you balls deep a few more times before falling limp on top of you, cock still buried inside you. 

You and Bucky were both too exhausted to move as you lay there panting heavily. Your fingers massage his sweaty scalp, and his breathing begins to even out slowly.

“that was so.. you made me feel so-” Bucky tries to speak, but only manages to make a few words come out. You kiss his head softly, and he sighs contently as you continue to play with his hair. 

“you did so well, Jamie...” You praise him before looking at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside you.

“come on, Buck. It’s getting late. let’s clean up, okay?” 

Bucky shakes his head no at your words as he buries his face deeper into your neck. 

“don’t wanna pull out just yet. you feel so warm..” Bucky mumbles, pulling the covers over the both of you. He was already exhausted from cumming all those times today, and the feeling of your fingers playing with his hair ever so softly made him even more sleepy. Just this once you would make the exception of sleeping on sheets this dirty. If it were anyone else you would have refused immediately. 

“okay love, we’ll stay here for a while then.” you coo at him, shifting slightly and relaxing in the position you were in. Bucky lets out the cutest little yawn, and a few moments after, begins to softly snore. You stay there, watching your little baby looking the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him.

[pillow-princess-69]

THE FIRST EVER FIC I LIKED BTW OMG

[buckybabieboy]

So I've read several smut fics about Bucky's first time after 70+ years but never a combination of these:

- touch starved Bucky, him begging the reader to touch him where he needs it the most

- him being iper sensitive, just a simple touch makes him whimper

- cumming a lot, reader can't even manage to suck him or stroke him properly

- still being hard after cumming several times

- he's just a moaning mess who needs attention, his metal hand isn't enough anymore

- his thrusts getting harder and deeper while he loses himself in the feeling, not even able to form a sentence

...could you please write something like this? If the f!reader and Bucky are friends, friends with benefits, in a relationship, how it starts, how it ends... it's up to you.

Wow. Here goes nothin’ BAHAHA.

Starved.

⚠️TW: NSFW, sub!touch-starved!bucky, dom!fem!reader, blowjob(m!receiving,) p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, slight overstimulation, cockwarming, Bucky being a touch starved and needy little thing, much more lol just read it

☁️Summary: You make Bucky cum for the first time(s) in over 70+ years. Your touch starved little baby.

📝A/N: Thx for this request babie. I tried my very hardest to include everything in here! P.S: I’ve been a very busy person lately, which meant no time for writing. I’m so very sorry! You guys sending in requests really motivates me though. <3 I even used some of your exact words if you look closely, anon ;)

You and Bucky had a relationship that was indescribable. He was honest and open around you, which was something that nobody else could ever say. Wherever you were, so was he, and you didn’t have a problem with that. 

During the time you’ve spent getting to know Bucky, you’ve come to 2 conclusions; James Buchanan Barnes was a broken and damaged man, but that will never mean he’s any less worthy of love. You also noticed a certain desperation in him. The slightest touch would make him go rigid.

You can recall multiple occasions where you’d grab his hand, kiss his head, or simply pull him in for a hug and he’d be all flustered and glossy-eyed. He’d beg you to do those things again. To touch him literally anywhere. It didn’t matter where because to him, any sensation was a good sensation, just as long as it came from you.

Which led you to your second conclusion; Bucky was longing for touch. He was a touch starved, delicate, little thing that just needed to be taken care of. And you had no problem being the one to fulfill his needs. 

As of right now, Bucky has made himself comfortable in your arms, eyelids shut and mouth agape as he indulges in your soft, delicate touch. He’s on your lap and facing you, so you notice even the slightest twitches of his beautifully flushed face. Your fingertips slowly scratch at his scalp, and you feel him fall limp in your arms, as if he’d given himself up to you.

“l- I love that, y/n. please don’t stop...” Bucky mumbles. 

“when you touch me.. f-feels like m’ floating...” Bucky continues to babble and whimper from your simple movements. He’s literally shaking in your lap, which makes your mind wander into filthy places. You’re still awed about how the simplest touches from you make him go mad.

“yeah? feels good?” You ask quietly in response, and he nods his head yes. You feel subtle, but noticeable movements against the skin of your right thigh. His metal fingers were lightly tapping your thigh, as if he needed something to hold on to, to ground him here on earth so that his now ‘normal’ headspace wouldn’t become a fuzzy and floaty one.

“my sweet boy..” you whisper to him, brushing his hair away from his face and behind his ear. He gives you a weary and desperate look in response, and you give him a soft kiss on the nose as an attempt to calm him down. You began to feel something on your thigh again, but it wasn’t his metal fingers. You look down and see Bucky grinding against your thigh, whimpering and hyperventilating while doing so.

“f-fuck, I c-can’t! need more…” Bucky whimpers, hot tears falling from his baby blue eyes. He was so frustrated that he could never do it for himself, it was humiliating for him. You know he’s tried to cum by himself, but his metal hand just wasn’t enough. Poor little baby just couldn’t get himself there, and he needed you to do it. You wipe his tears with your thumb and begin to shush him. He was stiff in his pants, and the fact that he was wearing his comfy gray sweats didn’t make it any less obvious.

“shh… you’re okay James. What is it that you need, hm?”

Your voice was soft and delicate to his ears, which was something that Bucky appreciated. He was feeling so many things right now, it was all so overstimulating for him, but you’re sweet, sultry voice reminded him that he was okay.

“please do something. anything! it hurts, y/n… make it stop, please…”He whimpered, avoiding your eyes. His cock was leaked and stained his sweats.

 His whimpers have gotten even more high pitched as he’s become more desperate for you. You palm him through his sweats which makes him jolt in your lap, practically screaming at the sensation. You haven’t even touched him yet and he’s already so spent.

“get up, baby. gonna take care of you now.” You whisper to him. He gets off of you and sits on the edge of your shared bed as you get down on your knees in front of him. You take off his shirt and undo the drawstring to his sweats, taking them off along with his boxers. You stare at his body in awe. He was so beautiful, so ethereal. All his scars and bruises were so perfect in your eyes. Even that metal arm of his, the one that he would be insecure about from time to time. Your eyes trail down to his aching cock, loads of precum having spilled out from before.

You get up to kiss him on his adorably pink lips before coming back down to leave a trail of kisses down both his trembling thighs.

“y/n, please! Please touch my cock, I need you there!” Bucky yelps at the feeling of your soft, plush lips kissing his legs. He’s so sensitive and whiny, just needing you to touch him where he needs it most. You hum in response and move up to his twitching cock. You plant a kiss on his tip, causing him to let out a gasp and buck his hips up towards you. You notice how stimulated and sensitive his cock is, which wasn’t very surprising. His cock must be aching from being hard and not releasing for so long.

“you’re so hard, sweet boy...let me know if it’s too much, okay?” You say before taking his red tip into your mouth, sucking on it softly. You make sure to make your movements slow at first, not wanting to overwhelm him. The moment your soft, moist lips wrap around him, you hear him stifle a pathetic whimper. When you’re halfway down his shaft, you begin play with his balls with one of your hands.

“keep goin… please don’t stop!” Bucky cries, both his hands gripping the sheets. You finally take his whole cock in your wet mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you go. Bucky had no idea such ecstasy existed; the feeling of your wet tounge on his sensitive cock was almost driving him mad. You could feel his poor cock pulsating in your mouth, which motivated you to continue your movements. You reach down into your shorts and rub yourself through your soaked panties. You didn’t even notice how wet Bucky’s pathetic sobs and whimpers made you.

“f-fuck, y/n that's so good! feels so, so good! gonna make me c-cum!” Bucky continues to babble and cry, the poor little baby couldn’t even manage to speak one complete sentence. He was literally finding it hard to breathe because of the way you were making him feel. This would be the first time in over 70 years since he’s last had an orgasm, so he could feel every little thing. Every flick of your tounge, the vibrations of your moans, the way your fingers fondled with his balls. 

Bucky’s chest rises and falls as he pants heavily, shaking and trembling as he cums in your mouth, his cum painting the back of your throat. He didn’t even notice how much he was cumming until he felt the cold air hit his sensitive cock after you let it out of your mouth. Replacing your mouth with your hand, you start to pump him. Loads of cum continue to spurt out of his cock in long white strings, coating your hand and his spasming thighs. 

“y/n...can’t stop..” Bucky whimpers wearily as he thrusts his hips rapidly into your fist.  

“awh, can’t stop cumming, sweet boy?” you coo at him, continuing to pump his spasming cock, milking him for all he’s got. His cock and your hand were now painted white with his cum. Once you’ve pumped out the last of his creamy warm liquid, you sit next to him on the bed so you could check on him. He immediately falls into your arms, whimpering and babbling like a little baby. 

“need more..wan-wanna be inside you...please? please let me be inside you, i need it!” Bucky cried. Your sweet baby boy was sobbing, visibly frustrated because he still wasn’t satisfied, and you didn’t expect him to be after only one orgasm.

“shh, of course you can, baby. you can have anything you want.” you assure him, understanding how overwhelming this all must be for him. You take his hands in yours and kiss them, and an adorably pathetic whine escapes from him.

His precious eyes glistened, tears falling from them. He was so desperate for you; he’d probably take anything you gave him at this point.  You take off your clothes before scooting back on the bed, laying down and spreading your legs for him. You smile at how Bucky just stares at you, eyes wide at the sight of your wet, glistening pussy.  

“you can touch me, y’know” Bucky's precious turquoise eyes narrow at your words, as if he wasn't certain this was real, as if none of this was, and he was merely dreaming of this euphoria he was experiencing right now. Before you knew it, he’s scrambling to get above you as he thanks you over and over again.

 His flesh fingers glide over your silky skin, traveling from your cheek, down to your neck, before hesitating over your boobs. His cheeks have become flushed, and you giggle softly at how adorable he is. You take his hand in yours and place them on your tender breast, and you watch at how his once flustered and shy expression became a hungry and erotic one.  You give him a soft kiss on his plush lips before gently grabbing his aching cock and aligning it with your entrance.

“m’ ready whenever you are, baby” you coo. Bucky nods his head in response, and slowly enters you. He gasps at the sensation and remains motionless inside of you for some time as he tries to get used to the intense and overwhelming sensation of your warmth.

 “too much f’you?”  You ask him, more than willing to call it quits if he wanted to. Your main focus was to keep him comfortable. You only receive a breathy “nuh uh” in response, and before you knew it, Bucky was pounding into you relentlessly. “Bucky!” You moan blissfully, throwing your head back against your pillow, and wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even closer.

“f-fuck y/n, s-so warm! feels so good!” Bucky slurs as he continues to jackhammer into you, the feeling of your wet pussy tightening around his cock sending him into overdrive. He buries his head into your neck, whimpering and whining for you. 

You bring your hands to his hair, tangling your fingers in his soft brown locks, which is something that Bucky couldn’t get enough of. You were practically screaming at the way he thrusted in and out of you rapidly. Each time he’d thrust back into you, he’d hit that spot inside you that sends you right over the edge.

“Bucky, you’re doing so well, making me feel so good!” you praise him. He rutted into you even harder at your praise. The sounds you were both making were those of a pornographic film, one you would definitely watch.

 Bucky was a pathetic, babbling mess for you, tears streaming down his face from how good you feel.

“m-my cock... s-so deep inside you...!” Your sweet boy was so pussy drunk; he couldn’t form a complete sentence. His thrusts only got harder and deeper as he loses himself in your feeling. He sobbed, the thought of filling you with every last drop of his cum making his balls tighten. 

“fuckfuckfuck, so close! can I please cum in you? can i? want to cum in you, y/n! I need it!” Bucky pleaded as he continued railing into you balls deep like a savage animal. 

“Go on, sweet baby. cum in me, fill me up.” You say between heavy pants. Your back arches, your hips meeting his as you chase your own orgasm. Bucky’s mind went blank as he released his load into you, his cock pulsating extremely fast in your pussy, which in turn makes you cum right after him. He never stopped his thrusts into your now sensitive and fucked out pussy.

“James, too much okay? m’ sensitive..’’ you mumble shakily, trying to recover from that intense orgasm you just had. 

 “please, y/n.. one more, just feels so good..”

 You nod your head, giving him permission to cum a second time. You tried to pay no mind to how overstimulated you are as Bucky begins to fuck you into the bed, chasing his orgasm for the third time today. He gripped your hips and angled you so he could get deeper inside you. 

You scrunch your face in discomfort at the almost unbearable sensations you were feeling, but the pain quickly subsided into an undeniable pleasure. Your legs begin to tremble around Bucky’s waist, and you bite your lip to stifle a whimper.

Bucky leaned down to bury his face in your neck again, and you felt hot tears fall onto your skin. He wanted to scream out-- his third orgasm was only seconds away, but he couldn’t manage any words. Only broken and pathetic whimpers came from him, as he railed in and out of you, over and over again, neither of you caring how overstimulated you were. An intense shiver runs down your spine and through your body. You almost couldn’t take it anymore, the feeling of his swollen cock hitting your g-spot making you lose all control,

“fuck Bucky, gonna make me cum again!” You wail. You can feel that he’s close too, his cock twitching madly inside your velvety walls. Bucky lets out the most broken and pathetic cry as he bites your shoulder, making you wince slightly.

“y/n..feels so good, feels so fucking good..” Bucky cries softly in between thrusts. “f-fuck! m’ gonna cum inside you again!”

“go ahead, baby. m’ right behind you..” You whisper as you stare at his beautifully fucked out face, nearing your orgasm as well. His thrusts become sloppier and more desperate as he cries out for you.

 You watch Bucky’s eyes roll back as his warm cum fills you up. You follow after him, pussy fluttering around his pulsating shaft. Your liquid drips out your pussy and onto the bed. He thrusts in you balls deep a few more times before falling limp on top of you, cock still buried inside you. 

You and Bucky were both too exhausted to move as you lay there panting heavily. Your fingers massage his sweaty scalp, and his breathing begins to even out slowly.

“that was so.. you made me feel so-” Bucky tries to speak, but only manages to make a few words come out. You kiss his head softly, and he sighs contently as you continue to play with his hair. 

“you did so well, Jamie...” You praise him before looking at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside you.

“come on, Buck. It’s getting late. let’s clean up, okay?” 

Bucky shakes his head no at your words as he buries his face deeper into your neck. 

“don’t wanna pull out just yet. you feel so warm..” Bucky mumbles, pulling the covers over the both of you. He was already exhausted from cumming all those times today, and the feeling of your fingers playing with his hair ever so softly made him even more sleepy. Just this once you would make the exception of sleeping on sheets this dirty. If it were anyone else you would have refused immediately. 

“okay love, we’ll stay here for a while then.” you coo at him, shifting slightly and relaxing in the position you were in. Bucky lets out the cutest little yawn, and a few moments after, begins to softly snore. You stay there, watching your little baby looking the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him.

[thechaoticcherub]

Does your husband know your obsession with Pedro Pascal?

LMAO YES OF COURSE

he reads my writing. We’ve had sex while i’m wearing my pedro pascal tshirt.

Like there is nothing this man doesnt know

[pillow-princess-69]

LITERAL FUCKING GOALS.

[thykingdoncome]

untouched, xo

summary: you need help getting one of J's asshole friends to stop hitting on you.

|| pope cody x reader || angst, heavy making out, touchstarved!pope, jealous!pope, fake dating trope, pope is v socially awkward (leave my baby alone!!), age gap, non canon timeline, no specific season but earlyish, mentions of drugs and alcohol consumption, character study || a/n: based on diet pepsi by addison rae - potential smutty p2? wc: 3k

Pope wasn't sure if he hated the summer or loved it.

He hung out awkwardly in a chair by the pool, cold beer sweating in his hand under the glare of the early summer sun. San Diego had a habit of being hot nearly all year round, but there was something about the end of spring that had everyone and their mother calling the Codys for a party. Bikinis, drugs, old friends of his brothers he barely talked to. All in the name of summer. By noon the backyard already smelled like chlorine, sunscreen, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat from the burgers Deran was flipping on the grill. Music blared from the speakers mounted under the patio awning so loud it vibrated the large floor to ceiling windows of the house.

With J taking college classes too, there had been more people around. Pope always figured his nephew was more the loner type, same as him, even if girls seemed to flock to the kid anyway. But college had done something to J—it seemed to draw him out of his shell a little. He had more friends around the house, more nights out, more people filling Smurf’s backyard until Pope barely recognized half of them anymore.

That's how they'd met you, too.

You—just a friend of J's, you'd clarified more than once to Pope—who looked so fucking cute in that little red bikini you had on. He could just see the red ties of the bottoms poking from cutoff shorts with the frays brushing your thighs every time you moved. A can of Diet Pepsi sat in your hand with one of those little pink straws poking out the top so you wouldn’t ruin your lipstick. Pope always made sure they stayed stocked in the garage fridge, even if he didn’t spend as much time at Smurf’s house anymore. But when he knew the guys were throwing something, when he knew J would be here, he somehow always found his way back over. Because if J was here, there was a good chance you’d be trailing in behind him sooner or later.

But he often wondered what you and J truly were, no matter how many times you said he was a friend. Why were the two of you tied at the hip so god damn much? It made Pope's knuckles blanch when he thought of all the time his nephew got to spend with you.

Now you were standing across the yard with your head tipped back laughing at something J said while Nicky stood beside you smoking a shared joint, the end burning bright orange each time she inhaled. Smoke curled through the air around all of you, mixing with the sharp chemical smell of pool chlorine baking under the heat. Pope watched J lean down closer to hear whatever you were saying over the music and felt his jaw tighten hard enough to ache.

"Hey—"

He looked over to see Craig handing him a fresh beer. Pope hadn’t even realized the one in his hand was empty already, his knuckles white around the neck of the bottle.

He merely grunted, taking it from his brother.

"You look like you need something harder than a beer, but I know you better."

Pope's lip twitched, hardly stealing a glance at him.

Craig let out a low whistle. “What’s got your panties in a twist today, huh?”

Pope finally looked over at him then. Craig had his sunglasses shoved up into his hair, dark locks tucked behind his ears, blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and amusement.

"Go away." Pope said simply.

"Oh, now I really wanna know." Craig grinned as he sat down beside him.

Pope clicked his tongue against his teeth and twisted the cap off the beer, taking a long drink of the cold amber liquid while his eyes drifted back toward you again. By then the back gate was opening, and he watched your entire demeanor change.

First, it was your smile that slipped. Then your eyes flicked toward the guys coming through the gate, then over to Nicky beside you, and you murmured something to her, but Pope was too far away and it was so fucking loud out here to hear anything. His attention sharpened immediately anyway, ears pricking up like a mutt waiting for a command.

The guys spilling into the backyard were long and lean in only that college-kid kind of way. Floppy hair, muscle tees loose over wiry arms, sunburnt shoulders, a thirty pack of Bud Light swinging between them. Pope knew the type without ever stepping foot on a campus himself.

"Oh, shit." Craig muttered when he followed Pope's hardened gaze.

One of the guys had walked right up behind you, tossing an arm over your shoulders familiarly, and yet Pope saw your whole body go still under it. He couldn’t see your expression from here, only the way your head turned slightly toward Nicky. Across from you, J stood with his beer hanging loose in his hand, watching quietly, his face flattening out into that cold look he’d gotten better at lately. The Cody look.

"Easy, man. She's fine." he heard his little brother say beside him.

Pope felt like he was vibrating as he watched, ready to jump at any sign of this asshole giving you a hard time. He knew you could handle yourself too, but there was something about this guys confidence, how he thought he could come into his house and prey on his girl.

Pope stopped himself there. Not his girl. Not his house, really, either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with the taste of iron.

Then you slipped neatly out from under the guy’s arm, moving away from the group while lifting your drink toward the questioning looks they threw after you. Gotta get a refill. you called over your shoulder, as you walked away quickly.

But the second your back turned to them, your expression dropped. Plain annoyance sat across your face clear as day. Your shoulders folded inward a little while you crossed through the yard, weaving between people with your drink clutched against your stomach, making yourself smaller.

A little bit later, when you came back out into the yard with a new cold drink in hand, Craig was talking about some job he'd found—some mattress warehouse with a safe stacked with cash. Pope was only half listening. His attention snagged the second you stepped through the sliding glass door barefoot, little beads of condensation sliding down the side of your soda can onto your fingers.

You paused halfway across the patio, clearly intending to head back toward J, but the view of all those guys still talking around him seemed to make you pause. Your fingers tapped the side of the aluminum can in your hand, and then—to his surprise and horror—your head swiveled, and you were looking at him.

At Pope.

And now you were walking towards him. His heart lept in his chest.

Craig noticed immediately, straightening up in his lounge chair with that easy grin he wore around pretty girls.

"Hey—" Craig started, but you weren't even looking at him.

“Do me a favor?” you asked Pope quietly. He didn't even register the question—the answer would always be yes for you. He was nodding before he knew what you needed.

Your gaze flicked over your shoulder at the sound of footsteps coming across the concrete.

It all happened very quickly, and yet—he remembered it as if it was slow motion.

You bent toward him, fingers slipping around his wrist first, then into his hand—cold and wet to the touch from your soda—and his callouses scraped against your soft skin. You lifted his hand carefully, guiding his arm out of the way so you could turn yourself between and sit down onto his lap. The soft wash of your shorts brushed against the black denim of his jeans, your weight settling over his left thigh, and Pope stopped breathing for a second.

You—you were touching him. Sitting in his lap. In front of everyone.

His hand stayed where you’d moved it, hovering awkwardly over your hip, fingers flexing in midair, his brain choking on what to do next. He could smell your green apple shampoo when you leaned back into him, could feel the heat of your legs through his jeans.

Was this a joke? Had you planned to make fun of him? To show all your little friends how much of a freak he was?

"Just go with it," you whispered into his ear, your hand coming up behind his neck, manicured fingers delicately cupping his skin. Despite the heat, his flesh rose up in goosebumps. You were balancing your soda awkwardly in the other hand while reaching back for his still-hovering arm, guiding it around your waist yourself. Your fingers pressed gently against the back of his hand until he held you properly, as if soothing him.

Most of his palm landed against the rough denim of your shorts, but his fingertips brushed frayed fabric and warm skin underneath. The bare top of your thigh. He wouldn't let himself look at you properly— the skimpy red bikini top showing more skin than he could handle so close to him, bare shoulders shining with the glow of sunscreen and your chest dabbled with sweat. He swallowed thickly.

Your head turned towards the guys who were walking over, and the one in the middle—Asshole who put his arm around you—had stopped completely. His shoulders were tight, his glare ice cold.

But Pope was meaner. He knew how to do this, at least—how to play the guard dog, the meanest, eldest Cody brother. It was a role he slipped into easily, like second nature. The two of them stared at each other for a long minute.

Then J appeared beside the kid, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and saying something about putting their beer in the fridge. The group drifted away slowly after that, disappearing through the sliding door.

You let out a long sigh, your shoulders lightening as your fingers unlatched from Pope's neck. He missed the touch almost immediately.

"Thanks," you said.

Pope looked up at you. You were smiling gently down at him, casual as anything, but he soon realized that you weren't making any moves to get up. Your arm was still around his back, his still on the top of your thigh, but neither of you seemed eager to move away.

He just nodded stiffly. "Sure."

Your smile widened as the two of you studied each other. He watched you lift your soda, bringing the pink straw to your mouth. Pope did his god damn best not to let his eyes flit over your lips as you took a long sip.

He heard a huff of breath beside him suddenly.

"Well, that guy seemed like a dick."

You startled a little, turning your head like you’d forgotten Craig was still sitting there at all.

"Oh, hey Craig, I'm sorry—" you said, and you moved to finally get up, but Pope held on fast. He wouldn't let his baby brother take this from him.

When you looked back at Pope, your brows pulled together faintly in question. Something curious flickered there for a moment, but then your expression softened, like you understood anyway. You leaned down, lips to his ear, "Let me just switch sides, that okay?"

Pope's lips tightened. He suddenly became painfully aware of every awkward thing about himself. The way his hand probably sat too stiff against your waist. The fact that your breath sent a tingle down his spine, making his jeans suddenly feel too tight. And the fact he hadn’t said anything smooth this entire time. Anybody else would've known how to play this—smile, flirt a little, maybe make you laugh. But no, you were the charming one. The one who knew how to flirt, how to handle him.

So, he let go.

You kept your promise, only switching to his other thigh, letting his brother get an eye full of you now. You did the same thing again—bringing your hand around so you could take his, pulling it against yourself without even a moment of hesitation while you looked at the tallest Cody.

“Sick party,” you told Craig, lifting your drink in distant cheers. “How are you?”

Craig smiled back, all shiny teeth and charm as he held his beer up in salute, "I'm doin' good. What's up with your little friend?"

You rolled your eyes, "The guy has been trying to get me to go out with him for weeks." you sipped your drink again, eyes flickering over into the glass windows of the house, watching Asshole and his cronies from afar, "Except his version of taking me out is fucking me in the back his mom's BMW."

Pope was in the middle of taking a sip of beer when you said it, nearly choking.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he demanded. It was probably the most words he’d strung together to you all day. Hell, maybe all month.

But suddenly his head was making up different scenarios, none of them involving you in the back of Asshole's car, instead, he was wondering what the kid's head would sound like bouncing off the concrete when Pope's fist met it.

Your brows jumped a little at his reaction, but you only shrugged, unbothered. “He’s a dickhead. I’ve been trying to tell him I have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t believe me.”

"Do you?" Craig asked.

Pope thought maybe his little brother wasn’t completely useless after all.

He saw you shake your head in his periphery, and his heart, the traitorous thing, began to pound in his chest a little.

“No,” you admitted softly. “And I don’t think our little performance convinced him much either.”

Your gaze drifted back toward the sliding doors just as the group started filing outside again. Pope felt your body tense slightly on his thigh before you muttered a quiet, Oh, fuck my life under your breath. The asshole slowed when he passed, taking another long look at where you sat in Pope’s lap.

And Pope stared right back at him, lip curling.

Once they had gone towards the other side of the pool, he heard his brother say lightly: “I bet if you made out in front of him, they'd buy it.”

"Shut your mouth." Pope snapped, his hard glare turning on his brother.

But you barely seemed to hear either of them. You kept looking over your shoulder toward the yard, eyes skimming from Asshole to J and Nicky talking nearby, chewing lightly at your lip while you thought about something.

When you turned back to Pope and his brother, you had a funny look on your face.

Pope frowned slightly. “What's wrong?”

You hesitated, studying his face. You had lost that easy confidence from a moment before, fingers playing with your straw as you looked at him.

"Would that… ? No, no nevermind." you said, shaking your head. You cut yourself off by lifting your drink to your mouth again, shifting a little on his thigh in the process. The movement dragged your hip against him, making him painfully aware of just how much he was affected by your closeness.

Beside him, Craig made a strangled noise trying not to laugh. When Pope looked over, his brother was practically vibrating in his chair, eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead while he grinned like a complete asshole.

"Get outta here, go—" Pope barked.

Craig finally lost the fight against his grin. He held both hands up in mock surrender while getting up from the lounge chair and walked away, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Sorry,” Pope murmured once his brother was out of earshot.

He took another swallow of beer and leaned down to set the bottle carefully beside the chair, his movements slower now, more aware of you sitting there against him than anything else.

You shrugged, "It was…a good idea."

Pope's brows pulled together when he looked at you. God, you were so fucking close. The feel of your warm, soft skin against him, the smell of your apple shampoo mixing with sunscreen and the syrupy fake-sweet scent of the Diet Pepsi in your hand. He still couldn't believe you were sitting on his lap. Touching him. Pulling his arm around you as if it natural, like there wasn’t anything strange or dangerous about him to hesitate over.

And now you were looking at him with that look, something behind your eyes he couldn’t immediately sort out, and the fact he couldn’t sort it out made his stomach knot. As uncomfortable as he made people feel sometimes, Pope could still catch onto things. Patterns. He was always used to the way people acted, knew if they were lying because they started acting differently around him. But you never did that with him, and you never looked nervous around him like this before.

A thought occurred to him, one that made his stomach hurt even worse. Maybe you saw him for what he was—scary, mean; Smurf's dog made to heel and bark and bite when she commanded it. He became horribly aware of himself under your searching gaze—how tightly his hand was holding your thigh, how he could still just feel the top edge of your skin, your shoulder bumping into his chest when you'd shift.

And maybe you'd just realized whose lap you were in.

"Andrew…" you murmured, "Are you okay?"

He nodded.

You set your drink down in a hurry, cold aluminum knocking lightly against the concrete beside the chair before both your hands came up to his neck, fingers spreading against his skin as you tipped his face upward toward yours. Your touch was cold, wet from the soda.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."

You were touching him again. Both hands on his neck. Your face was so close to his. Noses nearly bumping. He could make out every clump of mascara around your eyes, your smudged lipstick. It made him nearly nauseous with want. Your eyes—they were worried. Why were you so worried to be around him now?

"I shouldn't have asked—or even—I don't know, Craig said it and for some reason I thought maybe—"

The gears in his brain finally started catching up after spinning uselessly for the last few minutes, thoughts grinding slowly into place one after another while he stared at your mouth moving so close to his.

What Craig had said… What had his brother said?

I bet if you made out in front of him, they’d buy it.

“You…” he managed finally, his mouth dry as cotton, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Want to…?”

You licked your lips nervously, and the movement nearly derailed his thoughts again immediately.

"Not if it makes you uncomfortable. I just…” You sighed and glanced over your shoulder toward the yard. Your hair brushed lightly across his nose before you looked back at him again.

“I’m gonna lie to you and tell you it’s only to make this guy get off my back, okay?”

“What’s the truth?” he asked quietly, somehow finding enough nerve to force the words out.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip. “I just need you to tell me if it’s okay to do this—”

You leaned closer.

Pope’s hand moved before he could think better of it, wrapping carefully around your wrist to stop you there. So soft—the delicate bones of your joint in his rough hand.

"Y-yes but—what's the truth?" he echoed. He had to know. He had to.

You were hardly listening now, your attention splitting somewhere between him and the movement in the yard behind him, and Pope’s brain kept trying to grab onto something solid, some version of this that made sense, because he had to be out of his fucking mind to think maybe you meant what he desperately wanted you to mean. Maybe you actually—

But then your eyes flicked over his shoulder again, and Pope’s gaze followed yours automatically, catching the group of guys heading back across the patio towards you with J in tow, and suddenly your fingers tightened against Pope's face.

And then you turned into him, and kissed him.

You tasted like aspartame.

That syrupy sweet taste from the soda, like the waxy, cherry lipstick that you kept in your pocket. The smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen filled his nose while your lips pressed hard against his with a little gasp that went straight down his belly and into his dick. You didn’t kiss him shyly either. Pope could tell immediately you were trying to make a point, trying to push this far enough that anybody watching would understand exactly what they were seeing.

When he felt your tongue trace the seam of his lips, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if this was some ruse to get Asshole off your back, he didn't care if you didn't actually like him, because fuck your tongue felt so good against his mouth. He was opening for you, tasting you back, and he could've sworn—under the noise of the music blaring, of the pool water splashing and people talking over one another—he heard a small, little helpless moan from your throat when he finally kissed you back properly.

His hands tightened around you immediately, both arms circling your waist to drag you closer against him until there was hardly any room left between you—your shoulder pressed tightly into his chest, a little awkward with the way you sat sideways across his thigh, but he didn't give a shit.

It felt endless and too short all at once, your tongues sliding together smoothly while you held his face so tenderly it made his throat tighten, and then little by little that tenderness started disappearing into want and hunger. Your fingers pushed into his hair harder now, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, making his breath stutter against your mouth.

“Holy shit.”

The voice cut through the air beside you like a gunshot beside him. The party seemed to rush back in all around at once—the sounds of people shouting scores for dives off the pool house, music blasting, the sliding door opening and closing.

And then you were pulling back, lips unlatching from his. To Pope’s immediate disappointment it was Deran standing there frozen beside the cooler with a beer halfway out of the ice.

He licked his lips automatically even as he glared at his brother, catching the lingering taste of you on his mouth, and when he looked up at you again your lips were swollen and shiny.

You glanced toward the group of guys across the yard, then Deran with a quick, oh-- hi, Deran, before looking back at Pope. Your hands were still around his neck, and you were leaning in again. But this time, your lips went to his ear.

“The truth is, Andy...” you murmured softly.

Pope felt another shiver move through him at the feel of your breath against his neck, and his grip tightened on your little denim shorts as you said, “…I've wanted to do that for a long time.”

And then, as if you'd merely said thanks, pope, bye! you were pulling away from him, brushing your thumb across his top lip, wiping away whatever lipstick you'd left him with, and you were standing from his lap and walking off through the yard like you hadn’t just detonated his entire fucking nervous system in front of half the party.

Deran let out a low laugh beside him before grabbing a pool towel from the chair nearby and tossing it at Pope’s chest.

“You’re gonna wanna sit there for a minute,” he said. “Wait out that, uh… problem.”

Pope glared at his brother over the towel clutched in his lap.

why am I literally so nervous and would you like a part two yes or no

[pillow-princess-69]

I would love a part 2. I’d also love him to appear in my room. Idk whatever you want.

[thykingdoncome]

untouched, xo

summary: you need help getting one of J's asshole friends to stop hitting on you.

|| pope cody x reader || angst, heavy making out, touchstarved!pope, jealous!pope, fake dating trope, pope is v socially awkward (leave my baby alone!!), age gap, non canon timeline, no specific season but earlyish, mentions of drugs and alcohol consumption, character study || a/n: based on diet pepsi by addison rae - potential smutty p2? wc: 3k

Pope wasn't sure if he hated the summer or loved it.

He hung out awkwardly in a chair by the pool, cold beer sweating in his hand under the glare of the early summer sun. San Diego had a habit of being hot nearly all year round, but there was something about the end of spring that had everyone and their mother calling the Codys for a party. Bikinis, drugs, old friends of his brothers he barely talked to. All in the name of summer. By noon the backyard already smelled like chlorine, sunscreen, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat from the burgers Deran was flipping on the grill. Music blared from the speakers mounted under the patio awning so loud it vibrated the large floor to ceiling windows of the house.

With J taking college classes too, there had been more people around. Pope always figured his nephew was more the loner type, same as him, even if girls seemed to flock to the kid anyway. But college had done something to J—it seemed to draw him out of his shell a little. He had more friends around the house, more nights out, more people filling Smurf’s backyard until Pope barely recognized half of them anymore.

That's how they'd met you, too.

You—just a friend of J's, you'd clarified more than once to Pope—who looked so fucking cute in that little red bikini you had on. He could just see the red ties of the bottoms poking from cutoff shorts with the frays brushing your thighs every time you moved. A can of Diet Pepsi sat in your hand with one of those little pink straws poking out the top so you wouldn’t ruin your lipstick. Pope always made sure they stayed stocked in the garage fridge, even if he didn’t spend as much time at Smurf’s house anymore. But when he knew the guys were throwing something, when he knew J would be here, he somehow always found his way back over. Because if J was here, there was a good chance you’d be trailing in behind him sooner or later.

But he often wondered what you and J truly were, no matter how many times you said he was a friend. Why were the two of you tied at the hip so god damn much? It made Pope's knuckles blanch when he thought of all the time his nephew got to spend with you.

Now you were standing across the yard with your head tipped back laughing at something J said while Nicky stood beside you smoking a shared joint, the end burning bright orange each time she inhaled. Smoke curled through the air around all of you, mixing with the sharp chemical smell of pool chlorine baking under the heat. Pope watched J lean down closer to hear whatever you were saying over the music and felt his jaw tighten hard enough to ache.

"Hey—"

He looked over to see Craig handing him a fresh beer. Pope hadn’t even realized the one in his hand was empty already, his knuckles white around the neck of the bottle.

He merely grunted, taking it from his brother.

"You look like you need something harder than a beer, but I know you better."

Pope's lip twitched, hardly stealing a glance at him.

Craig let out a low whistle. “What’s got your panties in a twist today, huh?”

Pope finally looked over at him then. Craig had his sunglasses shoved up into his hair, dark locks tucked behind his ears, blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and amusement.

"Go away." Pope said simply.

"Oh, now I really wanna know." Craig grinned as he sat down beside him.

Pope clicked his tongue against his teeth and twisted the cap off the beer, taking a long drink of the cold amber liquid while his eyes drifted back toward you again. By then the back gate was opening, and he watched your entire demeanor change.

First, it was your smile that slipped. Then your eyes flicked toward the guys coming through the gate, then over to Nicky beside you, and you murmured something to her, but Pope was too far away and it was so fucking loud out here to hear anything. His attention sharpened immediately anyway, ears pricking up like a mutt waiting for a command.

The guys spilling into the backyard were long and lean in only that college-kid kind of way. Floppy hair, muscle tees loose over wiry arms, sunburnt shoulders, a thirty pack of Bud Light swinging between them. Pope knew the type without ever stepping foot on a campus himself.

"Oh, shit." Craig muttered when he followed Pope's hardened gaze.

One of the guys had walked right up behind you, tossing an arm over your shoulders familiarly, and yet Pope saw your whole body go still under it. He couldn’t see your expression from here, only the way your head turned slightly toward Nicky. Across from you, J stood with his beer hanging loose in his hand, watching quietly, his face flattening out into that cold look he’d gotten better at lately. The Cody look.

"Easy, man. She's fine." he heard his little brother say beside him.

Pope felt like he was vibrating as he watched, ready to jump at any sign of this asshole giving you a hard time. He knew you could handle yourself too, but there was something about this guys confidence, how he thought he could come into his house and prey on his girl.

Pope stopped himself there. Not his girl. Not his house, really, either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with the taste of iron.

Then you slipped neatly out from under the guy’s arm, moving away from the group while lifting your drink toward the questioning looks they threw after you. Gotta get a refill. you called over your shoulder, as you walked away quickly.

But the second your back turned to them, your expression dropped. Plain annoyance sat across your face clear as day. Your shoulders folded inward a little while you crossed through the yard, weaving between people with your drink clutched against your stomach, making yourself smaller.

A little bit later, when you came back out into the yard with a new cold drink in hand, Craig was talking about some job he'd found—some mattress warehouse with a safe stacked with cash. Pope was only half listening. His attention snagged the second you stepped through the sliding glass door barefoot, little beads of condensation sliding down the side of your soda can onto your fingers.

You paused halfway across the patio, clearly intending to head back toward J, but the view of all those guys still talking around him seemed to make you pause. Your fingers tapped the side of the aluminum can in your hand, and then—to his surprise and horror—your head swiveled, and you were looking at him.

At Pope.

And now you were walking towards him. His heart lept in his chest.

Craig noticed immediately, straightening up in his lounge chair with that easy grin he wore around pretty girls.

"Hey—" Craig started, but you weren't even looking at him.

“Do me a favor?” you asked Pope quietly. He didn't even register the question—the answer would always be yes for you. He was nodding before he knew what you needed.

Your gaze flicked over your shoulder at the sound of footsteps coming across the concrete.

It all happened very quickly, and yet—he remembered it as if it was slow motion.

You bent toward him, fingers slipping around his wrist first, then into his hand—cold and wet to the touch from your soda—and his callouses scraped against your soft skin. You lifted his hand carefully, guiding his arm out of the way so you could turn yourself between and sit down onto his lap. The soft wash of your shorts brushed against the black denim of his jeans, your weight settling over his left thigh, and Pope stopped breathing for a second.

You—you were touching him. Sitting in his lap. In front of everyone.

His hand stayed where you’d moved it, hovering awkwardly over your hip, fingers flexing in midair, his brain choking on what to do next. He could smell your green apple shampoo when you leaned back into him, could feel the heat of your legs through his jeans.

Was this a joke? Had you planned to make fun of him? To show all your little friends how much of a freak he was?

"Just go with it," you whispered into his ear, your hand coming up behind his neck, manicured fingers delicately cupping his skin. Despite the heat, his flesh rose up in goosebumps. You were balancing your soda awkwardly in the other hand while reaching back for his still-hovering arm, guiding it around your waist yourself. Your fingers pressed gently against the back of his hand until he held you properly, as if soothing him.

Most of his palm landed against the rough denim of your shorts, but his fingertips brushed frayed fabric and warm skin underneath. The bare top of your thigh. He wouldn't let himself look at you properly— the skimpy red bikini top showing more skin than he could handle so close to him, bare shoulders shining with the glow of sunscreen and your chest dabbled with sweat. He swallowed thickly.

Your head turned towards the guys who were walking over, and the one in the middle—Asshole who put his arm around you—had stopped completely. His shoulders were tight, his glare ice cold.

But Pope was meaner. He knew how to do this, at least—how to play the guard dog, the meanest, eldest Cody brother. It was a role he slipped into easily, like second nature. The two of them stared at each other for a long minute.

Then J appeared beside the kid, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and saying something about putting their beer in the fridge. The group drifted away slowly after that, disappearing through the sliding door.

You let out a long sigh, your shoulders lightening as your fingers unlatched from Pope's neck. He missed the touch almost immediately.

"Thanks," you said.

Pope looked up at you. You were smiling gently down at him, casual as anything, but he soon realized that you weren't making any moves to get up. Your arm was still around his back, his still on the top of your thigh, but neither of you seemed eager to move away.

He just nodded stiffly. "Sure."

Your smile widened as the two of you studied each other. He watched you lift your soda, bringing the pink straw to your mouth. Pope did his god damn best not to let his eyes flit over your lips as you took a long sip.

He heard a huff of breath beside him suddenly.

"Well, that guy seemed like a dick."

You startled a little, turning your head like you’d forgotten Craig was still sitting there at all.

"Oh, hey Craig, I'm sorry—" you said, and you moved to finally get up, but Pope held on fast. He wouldn't let his baby brother take this from him.

When you looked back at Pope, your brows pulled together faintly in question. Something curious flickered there for a moment, but then your expression softened, like you understood anyway. You leaned down, lips to his ear, "Let me just switch sides, that okay?"

Pope's lips tightened. He suddenly became painfully aware of every awkward thing about himself. The way his hand probably sat too stiff against your waist. The fact that your breath sent a tingle down his spine, making his jeans suddenly feel too tight. And the fact he hadn’t said anything smooth this entire time. Anybody else would've known how to play this—smile, flirt a little, maybe make you laugh. But no, you were the charming one. The one who knew how to flirt, how to handle him.

So, he let go.

You kept your promise, only switching to his other thigh, letting his brother get an eye full of you now. You did the same thing again—bringing your hand around so you could take his, pulling it against yourself without even a moment of hesitation while you looked at the tallest Cody.

“Sick party,” you told Craig, lifting your drink in distant cheers. “How are you?”

Craig smiled back, all shiny teeth and charm as he held his beer up in salute, "I'm doin' good. What's up with your little friend?"

You rolled your eyes, "The guy has been trying to get me to go out with him for weeks." you sipped your drink again, eyes flickering over into the glass windows of the house, watching Asshole and his cronies from afar, "Except his version of taking me out is fucking me in the back his mom's BMW."

Pope was in the middle of taking a sip of beer when you said it, nearly choking.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he demanded. It was probably the most words he’d strung together to you all day. Hell, maybe all month.

But suddenly his head was making up different scenarios, none of them involving you in the back of Asshole's car, instead, he was wondering what the kid's head would sound like bouncing off the concrete when Pope's fist met it.

Your brows jumped a little at his reaction, but you only shrugged, unbothered. “He’s a dickhead. I’ve been trying to tell him I have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t believe me.”

"Do you?" Craig asked.

Pope thought maybe his little brother wasn’t completely useless after all.

He saw you shake your head in his periphery, and his heart, the traitorous thing, began to pound in his chest a little.

“No,” you admitted softly. “And I don’t think our little performance convinced him much either.”

Your gaze drifted back toward the sliding doors just as the group started filing outside again. Pope felt your body tense slightly on his thigh before you muttered a quiet, Oh, fuck my life under your breath. The asshole slowed when he passed, taking another long look at where you sat in Pope’s lap.

And Pope stared right back at him, lip curling.

Once they had gone towards the other side of the pool, he heard his brother say lightly: “I bet if you made out in front of him, they'd buy it.”

"Shut your mouth." Pope snapped, his hard glare turning on his brother.

But you barely seemed to hear either of them. You kept looking over your shoulder toward the yard, eyes skimming from Asshole to J and Nicky talking nearby, chewing lightly at your lip while you thought about something.

When you turned back to Pope and his brother, you had a funny look on your face.

Pope frowned slightly. “What's wrong?”

You hesitated, studying his face. You had lost that easy confidence from a moment before, fingers playing with your straw as you looked at him.

"Would that… ? No, no nevermind." you said, shaking your head. You cut yourself off by lifting your drink to your mouth again, shifting a little on his thigh in the process. The movement dragged your hip against him, making him painfully aware of just how much he was affected by your closeness.

Beside him, Craig made a strangled noise trying not to laugh. When Pope looked over, his brother was practically vibrating in his chair, eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead while he grinned like a complete asshole.

"Get outta here, go—" Pope barked.

Craig finally lost the fight against his grin. He held both hands up in mock surrender while getting up from the lounge chair and walked away, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Sorry,” Pope murmured once his brother was out of earshot.

He took another swallow of beer and leaned down to set the bottle carefully beside the chair, his movements slower now, more aware of you sitting there against him than anything else.

You shrugged, "It was…a good idea."

Pope's brows pulled together when he looked at you. God, you were so fucking close. The feel of your warm, soft skin against him, the smell of your apple shampoo mixing with sunscreen and the syrupy fake-sweet scent of the Diet Pepsi in your hand. He still couldn't believe you were sitting on his lap. Touching him. Pulling his arm around you as if it natural, like there wasn’t anything strange or dangerous about him to hesitate over.

And now you were looking at him with that look, something behind your eyes he couldn’t immediately sort out, and the fact he couldn’t sort it out made his stomach knot. As uncomfortable as he made people feel sometimes, Pope could still catch onto things. Patterns. He was always used to the way people acted, knew if they were lying because they started acting differently around him. But you never did that with him, and you never looked nervous around him like this before.

A thought occurred to him, one that made his stomach hurt even worse. Maybe you saw him for what he was—scary, mean; Smurf's dog made to heel and bark and bite when she commanded it. He became horribly aware of himself under your searching gaze—how tightly his hand was holding your thigh, how he could still just feel the top edge of your skin, your shoulder bumping into his chest when you'd shift.

And maybe you'd just realized whose lap you were in.

"Andrew…" you murmured, "Are you okay?"

He nodded.

You set your drink down in a hurry, cold aluminum knocking lightly against the concrete beside the chair before both your hands came up to his neck, fingers spreading against his skin as you tipped his face upward toward yours. Your touch was cold, wet from the soda.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."

You were touching him again. Both hands on his neck. Your face was so close to his. Noses nearly bumping. He could make out every clump of mascara around your eyes, your smudged lipstick. It made him nearly nauseous with want. Your eyes—they were worried. Why were you so worried to be around him now?

"I shouldn't have asked—or even—I don't know, Craig said it and for some reason I thought maybe—"

The gears in his brain finally started catching up after spinning uselessly for the last few minutes, thoughts grinding slowly into place one after another while he stared at your mouth moving so close to his.

What Craig had said… What had his brother said?

I bet if you made out in front of him, they’d buy it.

“You…” he managed finally, his mouth dry as cotton, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Want to…?”

You licked your lips nervously, and the movement nearly derailed his thoughts again immediately.

"Not if it makes you uncomfortable. I just…” You sighed and glanced over your shoulder toward the yard. Your hair brushed lightly across his nose before you looked back at him again.

“I’m gonna lie to you and tell you it’s only to make this guy get off my back, okay?”

“What’s the truth?” he asked quietly, somehow finding enough nerve to force the words out.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip. “I just need you to tell me if it’s okay to do this—”

You leaned closer.

Pope’s hand moved before he could think better of it, wrapping carefully around your wrist to stop you there. So soft—the delicate bones of your joint in his rough hand.

"Y-yes but—what's the truth?" he echoed. He had to know. He had to.

You were hardly listening now, your attention splitting somewhere between him and the movement in the yard behind him, and Pope’s brain kept trying to grab onto something solid, some version of this that made sense, because he had to be out of his fucking mind to think maybe you meant what he desperately wanted you to mean. Maybe you actually—

But then your eyes flicked over his shoulder again, and Pope’s gaze followed yours automatically, catching the group of guys heading back across the patio towards you with J in tow, and suddenly your fingers tightened against Pope's face.

And then you turned into him, and kissed him.

You tasted like aspartame.

That syrupy sweet taste from the soda, like the waxy, cherry lipstick that you kept in your pocket. The smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen filled his nose while your lips pressed hard against his with a little gasp that went straight down his belly and into his dick. You didn’t kiss him shyly either. Pope could tell immediately you were trying to make a point, trying to push this far enough that anybody watching would understand exactly what they were seeing.

When he felt your tongue trace the seam of his lips, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if this was some ruse to get Asshole off your back, he didn't care if you didn't actually like him, because fuck your tongue felt so good against his mouth. He was opening for you, tasting you back, and he could've sworn—under the noise of the music blaring, of the pool water splashing and people talking over one another—he heard a small, little helpless moan from your throat when he finally kissed you back properly.

His hands tightened around you immediately, both arms circling your waist to drag you closer against him until there was hardly any room left between you—your shoulder pressed tightly into his chest, a little awkward with the way you sat sideways across his thigh, but he didn't give a shit.

It felt endless and too short all at once, your tongues sliding together smoothly while you held his face so tenderly it made his throat tighten, and then little by little that tenderness started disappearing into want and hunger. Your fingers pushed into his hair harder now, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, making his breath stutter against your mouth.

“Holy shit.”

The voice cut through the air beside you like a gunshot beside him. The party seemed to rush back in all around at once—the sounds of people shouting scores for dives off the pool house, music blasting, the sliding door opening and closing.

And then you were pulling back, lips unlatching from his. To Pope’s immediate disappointment it was Deran standing there frozen beside the cooler with a beer halfway out of the ice.

He licked his lips automatically even as he glared at his brother, catching the lingering taste of you on his mouth, and when he looked up at you again your lips were swollen and shiny.

You glanced toward the group of guys across the yard, then Deran with a quick, oh-- hi, Deran, before looking back at Pope. Your hands were still around his neck, and you were leaning in again. But this time, your lips went to his ear.

“The truth is, Andy...” you murmured softly.

Pope felt another shiver move through him at the feel of your breath against his neck, and his grip tightened on your little denim shorts as you said, “…I've wanted to do that for a long time.”

And then, as if you'd merely said thanks, pope, bye! you were pulling away from him, brushing your thumb across his top lip, wiping away whatever lipstick you'd left him with, and you were standing from his lap and walking off through the yard like you hadn’t just detonated his entire fucking nervous system in front of half the party.

Deran let out a low laugh beside him before grabbing a pool towel from the chair nearby and tossing it at Pope’s chest.

“You’re gonna wanna sit there for a minute,” he said. “Wait out that, uh… problem.”

Pope glared at his brother over the towel clutched in his lap.

why am I literally so nervous and would you like a part two yes or no