✦summary: dean is strictly off limits, for so, so many reasons. It's a shame neither of you seem to care.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), dbf!Dean, angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, feral smut (blowjobs, teasing, dean's dirty talk, brat taming, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, face-fucking, Dean being a panty thief, finger sucking, jerking off, pussy slapping, lap sex, edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.3k✦
✦author's note: request from @circletreeme ! dean dbf for the girlies <3✦
Neither of you lasted as long as you should have.
It was something that never should’ve happened at all. He should know better, and you shouldn’t have pushed to see if he did. But Dean told you it was never going to happen, and then ten minutes later had you pinned against the wall with his knee pushed between your legs.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters in your ear, littering kisses up and down your throat. “Gonna cum on my thigh, aren’t you. That fuckin’ easy?”
You whimper, and pull at his hair. There’s a pressure, building in your lower stomach and demanding and impossible to ignore. Your eyes flutter, and you press your cheek in the side of Dean’s head. His beard is tickling and scraping over sensitive skin, his lips hot and wet. You’re barely more than a puddle in his arms.
“Deeean-“ You whine out, and he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight.
“That’s right, baby. Call my name, tell the whole house who’s got you in their lap-“
A door slams downstairs, and you shove Dean away just as fast as he rips himself back.
You’re both panting and flushed. You can see his arousal through his jeans, and your fingers are shaking too much to get a proper grip on your unbuttoned blouse.
Your father calls your name, the stairs creaking, and you shove Dean again.
He gives you an incredulous look, mouthing what are you doing?
Closet. You mouth back, pushing him again. The man is built like a fucking tree, it’s like trying to move boulder underwater. Get- “Get in the fucking closet-“
He moves, right before the door opens.
Your father smiles at you, glancing around the room. “You doin’ alright, kiddo?”
“Yep. How was work?” You bounce on your toes, shooting tiny looks to the closet.
He has no reason to check anything. It all looks perfectly innocent. There’s no clothing scattered across the floor or stench of sex in the air. Dean hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and the sweater that he’d ripped from your body is allowed to be on the bed, because it’s your room.
And it’s not like you’ve been known to do this kind of thing.
Sleep with older men.
Sleep with anyone.
You’re pretty sure if your father had to gamble on it, he’d put down money that you were going to die alone. Which isn’t entirely unfair. You speak to men like they’re dogs—because they are—and the last time someone asked you on a date, you spent the whole time staring them with an unimpressed expression and your arms over your chest.
It’s not that you’re rude. You just refuse to lower yourself just to please someone who can’t even do their laundry without Mommy’s help. And most college boys don’t even know their food groups. There’s protein, and green stuff, and candy. That’s it. It makes you want to bash your head into a wall.
But that’s how Dean got you.
Stupid, handsome Dean and his big hands and don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of it. Dean and the way he picked you up like you weighed ten pounds not to show of how much he can bench, but because you’d been standing in his way teasing him, and he’d needed to move you.
He’d placed you onto the counter of the kitchen with such care, and a stern, amused look. You’d gaped at him, heat flooding your cheek and all the blood in your body confused about if it should be curling in your fists and swinging, or pooling between your legs to help you hump him like an animal in heat.
“Not so mouthy now, are you.” Dean had drawled, and that’s when you’d known.
You were a goner. He had you in the palm of his calloused hands.
It worked, because you had him wrapped around your finger.
But neither of you were supposed to be close enough to even touch.
Dean’s your father’s best friend. They met in some old man club for people who like saws and drills or whatever. Maybe it was just a workshop. Or he fixed your dad’s car, and the dumbass fell just in love with him as you were.
Dean’s great. Dean and I got coffee. Dean showed me this new Thunderbird, think I’m gonna buy it. You can drive it, when you get home, maybe we’ll put the deed in your name. I’ll ask Dean if he thinks that’s a good idea. Dean thinks it’s a great idea.
Most of your Senior year had been spent getting calls and texts from your dad about how perfect and amazing Dean was. If he knew that the man was in your closet fighting a boner right now, he might end up more jealous than angry.
It still doesn’t feel like an experiment you want the results of. Some things are better left to the imagination.
“Work was good.” Your father shrugs. “You eaten dinner?”
“Um- No.” You need to stop looking at the closet. It’s suspicious. “I was actually going to go out, and- Eat there.”
“Do that tomorrow.” He waves a hand. “Dean’s coming over tonight, we’re gonna fire up my new grill, see how she cooks.”
“I know, I just- I wanted like Chinese or something.”
“Then get Chinese and eat with us-“ Your father pauses, and you swallow. “How’d you know Dean was comin’ over?”
Shit. You can almost feel him glaring at you through the closet. You’re supposed to be the smart one, sweetheart.
It’s his fault. You can still feel where he’d been teasing your sides, and it’s making your brain all stupid and fuzzy.
You know because Dean showed up early and cornered you in the living room. Because you’d done the stupid dance where you both pretend you’re not going to cave. You’d asked why he was here. He said he didn’t need a reason. You said he did, it wasn’t his house. He’d teased that he was always welcome. You’d rolled your eyes, and asked if he was sure about that. He’d leaned over you and murmured that you sure as shit seemed happy to see him. You’d just glared, because if you spoke you would’ve started to drool. He’d muttered that, for the record, he’d been invited for the drill. But that he was really here because he needed to see you.
Then he’d shoved his hand under your shirt and kissed you stupid.
You can’t tell your dad that part.
“You told me.” You say lamely.
You can almost hear Dean’s groan.
“Oh. Huh.” Your dad shrugs it off. Why wouldn’t he. “Alright. You gonna stay?”
It’s a horrible idea. If you stay, you’re going to spend the whole time grumpy because you’d been so close, and now Dean was feet away and unable to touch you.
“Sure.”
Fuck.
Your dad takes the victory. In his eyes, you’re sure he thinks it’s a miracle that his daughter wants to hang out with him and his friends instead of going out and doing young people things. You think he forgets, sometimes, that you’ve never been all that good at young people things.
And you’re certainly not going to burst his bubble by reminding him of that. Or the fact that of course you want to hang out with his friend. Sex on Legs Winchester. Even if you didn’t have something halfway started with him, you’d stick around just to ogle the eye candy.
“Am I just a sack of meat to you, princess?” Dean mutters when you tell him as much.
You bite back your smile, and shrug. “Maybe. You gonna do something about it?”
He fixes you with an almost awestruck stare, before chuckling and shaking his head.
“You’re trying to get me killed.”
“No, I’m not-“
“Yeah, you are. I pop a boner now, your old man is gonna rip my head off.”
“So don’t pop a boner, dumbass-“
Your words fall off in a tiny squeak, as Dean grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a deep, long kiss.
It’s far from the first time you kissed. That had been a night only a week after you’d moved back home—a long, torturous week of staring at massive biceps and imagine them wrapped around your neck, or beating yourself up in the sheets as you got off to the idea of Dean and his stupid, cocky smirk—when he’d been staying over so his house could get gassed for bugs or something. You’d smiled at him too sweetly. All his touches had lingered too long. You’d gone downstairs to get some water, and ended up on top of him on the couch.
You still haven’t slept together. Every time you get close, fucking something has to happen, and you stop.
But you’ve kissed so much you think your lips are molded to shape his.
You immediately turn to slack putty, in Dean’s arms. Kissing him back with frantic passion, leaning over his chest and moaning openly into his mouth. Your fingers find their way to his belt, then lower. Dean tips your head back further to deepen this kiss, and you paw at his bugle with a tiny whimper.
He hums, squeezing the back of your neck. “Behave.”
“Don’t want to.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
“I know.” Dean pulls back, kissing one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You need some motivation, baby?”
You nod, fixing him with your best, doe-eyed stare. It’s the one that always makes him cave, even when he says he knows he shouldn’t.
But you both know you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be doing any of this. There’s a long list of reason that starts with your father’s best friend and ends with massive age gap that could be followed to prevent all of this. But you both seem to get a little blind, when you look at each other. Suddenly you can’t read and Dean—a man who’s all self-control and smooth, cool collection—stumbles over his feet like a highschooler.
He says that’s how he knew this was worth it. That you do things to him that no one else ever has. You blush and giggle and press your face into the crook of his neck, and for a little while you both forget the whole world. Sometimes you whisper that he does things to you as well. You’ve never wanted to wrap around someone like this and never let go.
And that overrides all logic and reason. It doesn’t matter what kind of rules there are. You want to break all of them, just to be closer to him for a few moments longer.
“You play nice tonight.” Dean whispers in your ear, tracing lazily up and down your spine. “Then I’ll help you sneak out. Back to my place.”
“Your place?” You sound a lot more pathetic than you want to be. You really don’t know how to help it.
“Mhm. And you know what’s at my place that ain’t here?”
You shake your head, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. It scrunches up, and his eyes shine with adoration. You’re never going to get sick of him looking at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Peace and quiet.” He mutters. “Just you, me, and nothing else.”
Your eyes widen, as you realize what he means. “Oh- Okay.”
“Okay?”
There’s a hint of worry in his voice. Like he needs to be sure you really mean it, even when you’re slack and folded into his arms, digging your nails into his biceps like you’re trying to leave a mark.
You nod frantically, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay.” He mutters, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You smile at him, and his throat bobs. “Behave.”
“I always behave.” You tease, and Dean snorts.
“Yeah. Alright.”
“I do. I’m very well trained.”
He chuckles, kissing you light and soft. You push up on your toes, trying to chase a little more, and Dean lets you. He always lets you.
“Don’t think you’re the one on the leash, sweetheart.” He mutters against your lips, and you giggle.
“Dogs train their owners sometimes. With feeding habits and walk schedules.”
“Hm.” He leans back, a smile twitching on his lips. “Is this feedin’, or walkin’?”
And this is your favorite expression on his handsome face. The one where you can tell that he’s really trying to be annoyed with you, but can’t stop himself from enjoying your company. From looking at you like he wants to just lock the door and pin you to the bed until you’re giggling and beaming all the time. You’d be all for that plan, if your father wasn’t probably waiting downstairs, wondering why Dean’s running late-
Shit. Right. Your father.
“Actually.” You kiss over his beard, curling your fingers in the collar of his shirt. “I think it’s fetch.”
Dean snorts, and ducks down to kiss you again. You push him lightly back, and he stumbles like he’s been shot.
“Out the window.” You say sternly, pointing at the roof.
Dean groans, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, one more-“
“No.”
“But-“
“Behave.” You mock, and he scowls.
“Son of a bitch.” He grumbles under his breath. He’s making a face like a toddler who just got his favorite toy truck confiscated for bad behavior. It’s rather adorable. “Gonna be the death of me, woman. Can’t believe I’m so in love with a fuckin’ brat.”
“Aw, you love me?”
You say it like it doesn’t still make your heart skip to hear it. Dean sighs like he let slip some grand secret, instead of something that he’s told you countless times in dark corners and in booths of bars.
He looks at the window. He’s back to pouting again.
“It’s gonna hurt my knees.” He whines, and you laugh, closing the space between you once more.
“Tough shit, Winchester. Should’ve tried to keep it in your pants.”
“But you make it so hard-“
“I know.”
That earns you a glare, and you giggle again.
You’re both so very bad at this. Dean should already be downstairs. You shouldn’t be goading him into saying longer, but you can’t help it at all. This is your favorite kind of teasing. The one where you end up folded under him with his pretty lips wrapped around your nipples and thick fingers stuffing up your pussy and toying with your clit until you’re whining his name.
Dean’s looking at you like that’s exactly what he wants to do with you. You’re smiling at him like you’re begging for it, and neither of you ever back down from the challenge.
Then your father calls your name from downstairs. And it’s like a bucket of ice water is poured over both your heads.
“Dean’s runnin’ late!” He shouts. “You should go get your Chinese now!”
You sigh, and Dean grimaces. The urgency doesn’t stop him from grabbing your face between his hands, and kissing you one last time.
“Tonight.” He mumbles like an oath. “Just you and me.”
You hum. “Only if I behave, right?”
“Sure. Only if you behave.”
And he says it like that because you both know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter how you behave. You could sit on his lap or rub your foot on his crotch under the table, and he’s still going to open the door when you sneak over. If anything, the question is just how big a price do you want to pay tonight. How far are you willing to push him, how greatly do you want him to snap once you’re alone.
You think you want him to lose it. He’s always extra pretty when he looks like he’s about to cry from frustration, and he’s never hotter than when there’s that dangerous gleam in his eyes that reminds you he could toss you around like a sack of potatoes.
God, it sounds nice though. Being Dean’s sack of potatoes.
He sneaks out the window, and flips you off after you laugh at him for groaning the whole time. He has to sneak down the block to get his car, and you won’t be here when he arrives. You have to go get your Chinese.
But after that, all bets are off.
Dean is worse at this than you are. The sneaking around.
You get stupid and nervous when your dad is around and Dean is hiding. You told me wasn’t your best moment, but it also wasn’t that far from your worst. And you know your dad. You know that he’s not really going to question most things he tells you, because even your more obvious excuses aren’t that suspicious.
But Dean’s a fucking dumbass.
He’s your dumbass. Your old, grumpy idiot who’s some kind of genius with a wrench and a circuit board and an engine, but who stares at the crossword puzzles you do and mutters that all those letters look fake. He could find his way home if you dropped him in the middle of the woods—you call him your pigeon, and he doesn’t think that’s half as funny as you do—but he also thinks that Michaelangelo is the Ninja Turtle and needs your help writing emails. One time you asked him when he’d last gone to the doctor, and he said some time in ’07. You’d smacked him upside the head and dragged him by the nape of his neck.
Later that week, he’d been grumbling to your dad about how the doc was making him cut back on steak. His cholesterol had been through the roof. He’d protested and bitched, but you’d grabbed his jaw and snapped that if he died, you were going to leave him.
So now he’s down to only two burgers a week, and you’re very proud of him.
Which is what he’d told your dad.
Not the you part—he wasn’t that stupid—but the doctor part. And how he’d been bargained down to two burgers in exchange for other things.
Blowjobs. You might not have fucked yet, but you’d done most everything else, and you’d talked him down from a three burger a week deal with the promise of blowjobs.
Which he’d told your dad.
Because he’s an idiot.
“You’re datin’ someone?” Your dad had said in surprise, and Dean had frozen.
On the couch, you’d rolled your eyes. God, he was so lucky you loved him to death.
“I- I- Uh-“
“Why didn’t you tell me? You coulda brought her over, I wanna meet the lady who finally got you to settle.” Your dad had snorted, his voice dropping so that you probably weren’t supposed to hear it. “Hell, if she gives good enough head for you to drop burgers, I gotta meet her.”
You’d felt sick. When you’d glanced over your shoulder, Dean had looked sick.
His eyes had flitted to yours in panic. You’d given him a tight, prompting look, and his throat had bobbed.
“She, uh- She’s real busy-“
“I got time.”
“Right. Good.” Dean had looked trapped. This was the only time you saw him really stumble over his words. When it came to you.
It would be sweet, if he wasn’t a few wrong words from getting shot in the head.
“She, uh- She’s just- You know- Women-“
“Where’s she work.” Your dad had asked casually.
Dean had gone pallid. “The… Place.”
“Place?”
“Bookshop.”
“Oh.” Your father had called your name, and Dean had looked seconds from passing out. “You know any ladies at the bookshop Dean’s age?”
You’d hummed, pretending to examine your nails. “Um… Maybe Matilda.”
Matilda is the lovely old woman who you share all your shifts with. She has five cats, two grandchildren she loves more than her dolt of a son, and knows that you and Dean are dating because she caught you making out in the nonfiction section a month ago.
Dean had glared at you, and you’d just smiled back. The fuck was I supposed to say? You’d tell him later. There’s only four of us, and two are high schoolers.
He’d gotten out of the bookshop jam by saying that she worked at a different place. Your father had bought the lie, but never dropped it. He never drops any of Dean’s slip ups.
Because every time you’ve almost been caught, it’s been Dean’s fault. There was the time your bra got found in the Impala, and when Dean’s brother knew about you before you were formally introduced, and when you’d been on a date and your dad had walked into the bar. You’d shoved Dean under the table, and the fucking dumbass had decided to kiss your thighs the whole time he was down there. You’d kill him if you didn’t love him. But you also think he’d kill himself if he ever really pissed you off.
But now your dad thinks Dean’s sneaking around with some lady from out of town, and you go to bars by yourself when you said you were going out with friends. And he’s a nice, nosy man, so he hasn’t let go of either fact at all.
“How’s your girl, Winchester?” He asks Dean over dinner, and Dean grunts.
“Good. Pissin’ me off, but good.”
You stick your tongue out at him behind your dad’s back. He’s just grumpy about the couch thing.
Your dad had gone to check on the grill, and you’d put your feet in Dean’s lap. He’d grabbed your ankles and hissed for you to behave. You’d smiled at him and moved them, before immediately crawling over him. You’d had a hand resting right against his crotch, and another grabbing at his chest. You’d kissed his cheeks and neck while he just grabbed your waist for balance.
“’M so wet, De.” You’d whispered, sucking a kiss right under his jaw. “Need you so bad.”
He’d made a strangled, almost pained sound. His cock had twitched under your hand, and you’d pressed down harder.
Dean’s fingers had flexed on your waist. You’d dropped your weight onto his thigh, grinding down and moaning against his skin.
You think, if your dad hadn’t come back the next second, he would’ve flipped you over and ripped off your skirt. But you’d heard the door open, and pulled easily away. Dean hadn’t been able to stand up for five minutes. You’d giggled and run your fingers through this hair, before following your dad out on to the porch.
So he’s a little mad at you.
You hope he stays mad at you. He always kisses you like an animal, when he’s a little pissed. Then he presses your face between your breasts and mumbles about how it’s not fair that he can’t stay mad at you, and it’s a better feeling than any high in the world.
Your goal for the night might be driving him so up the wall that when he finally fucks you, he rearranges your guts in his name.
It’s not going to be that difficult to do.
“What’d she do to piss you off?” Your dad asks, and Dean makes a face.
“Nothin’. Just- She gets mouthy.” He’s still glaring at you. You pretend not to see it. “And she likes to push my fuckin’ buttons.”
“You’re fun to rile up, buddy.” Your dad shrugs, totally oblivious to you and Dean eye fucking across the room. “Just take a deep breath and tell her she’s making you mad.”
Dean snorts. “Trust me. I think she knows.”
You beam at him and flutter your lashes. His eyes narrow, his grip on the counter going white knuckled.
He is fun to rile up. You hope he never works on that.
“You know who I saw at the store today?” You dad asks you, and you hum, poking at your chow mein.
“Who?”
“Gordon.”
“Oh, shit.” You look up. “How’s he doing?”
“Alright. Think he’s livin’ at home too. Surprised you didn’t know.”
“Well, we don’t talk that much anymore-“
“He asked about you.” Your dad shrugs casually. Too casually.
You know where this is going.
“Gave me his new number, to pass onto you. Said he missed you, all four years-“
“Dad.” You sigh, giving him a flat look.
He raises his hands. “I’m not sayin’ anything-“
“Yes, you are.”
“Well- Nothin’ that we gotta read into, but you two were always so close-“
“Dad-“
“Who the fuck is Gordon.” Dean grunts, and you flush.
He looks pissed. And not you just flashed him and he’s got a boner at the table pissed.
Really pissed. Like he wants to bite someone’s head off, but hasn’t figured out who yet.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“He’s- He’s just my childhood friend-“
“Childhood best friend.” Your dad corrects, and you’re going to fucking kill him and then yourself. “They were little bandits together, we all thought they’d end up datin’, but I guess they both got sidetracked.”
“We didn’t get sidetracked.” You mutter, staring at your plate.
You can feel Dean’s gaze burning into you. It’s almost impossible to look him in the eyes.
“We just- It was never like that-“
“Didn’t he take you to prom?”
“As friends-“
“You didn’t come home ‘till the morning-“
Something cracks, and you and your dad both fall silent.
Dean’s broken his mug. With his hands. One hand.
Oh, God.
You’re worried that if you stand up, there’s going to be a slick stain on your chair.
“You alright, buddy?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Dean stares at you, nostrils flaring. “You gonna call the boy?”
Boy. Not man, boy. And he says it so mockingly, it makes you feel buzzy and faint.
“No.” You try to sound normal, but you’re sure it comes out pathetic and dazed. “I- Um- We never-“ You glance nervously at your dad, and clear your throat. “Gordon actually ditched me for Anna, on prom night. That was- It was why we stopped talking.”
“Oh.” Your dad makes a sour face. “Well, I always knew he was gonna be bad news eventually. You deserve better, kiddo, and if I see him again I’ll give him a piece of my mind- I’m sure Dean will too.”
And you have to agree with that.
Dean looks like he’s about to go and smash Gordon’s head against the curb. Your dad keeps rambling about Gordon and kids not knowing what they want and how both he and Dean will make sure you never settle for less than you deserve. Dean keeps staring at you, and you’re sure that part is true as well.
Dean’s not going to let you settle for anything less than what you deserve at all. If he can help it, he’s never going to allow you to settle, period.
You really hope he knows, that it’s him and nothing else. Never anything else. Whatever confusing feelings you had eventually developed for Gordon had vanished when you were a teenager. You’d barely had a college boyfriend—more like a few loose options you’d kicked to the curb once you decided they’d lead to pallid and sickly futures—and no one in your life has ever made you care about a relationship the way Dean does.
And you really worry sometimes, that he doesn’t understand that. You try to remind him, but the age gap hangs over your heads like a sword of Damocles. He’s said before that there has to be better boys for you. Boys your age.
You don’t want a boy your age. You want a man.
You want Dean.
And from the look of him, you’re not sure he’d be able to stomach you with anyone else.
“I’m not going to call Gordon.”
Dean looks up from the sink. You’d followed him into the bathroom while your dad cleaned the grill, desperate to make sure he understood. You like him a little grumpy and mocking. It makes everything in your chest feel wrong, when he really seems upset.
“Alright.” Is all he mutters, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.
“Dean-“
“What?”
He gives you a challenging look. You swallow, and lean back against the door.
“I love you.”
The first time you’d said it had been all romantic and dumb in the rain. It had fumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he’d kissed you until your legs gave out. Even now, months later, it has the safe effect. Dean’s shoulders slump, and his eyes soften. Everything in him softens. Just for you.
“I love you too, princess-“
“No.” You whisper, pressing your lips in a tight line. “I really love you.”
Dean frowns. “Yeah, I know-“
“Dean.” You push off the door, your eyes locked onto his. “I love you.”
No one else, is what you tell him with your eyes. Just you. Always just you.
Dean blinks, his gaze raking over your body, then darting to the door. He rasps your name, because he knows you too well. He knows that glint in your eyes, he knows the sweet smile playing on your lips. He tells you all the time, that it almost gives him a heart attack. You close the distance in small, cautious steps. Dean clears his throat, looking almost desperate for you to take mercy.
You won’t. You need him to understand.
“Sweetheart, you can’t-“
“Yes I can.” You sink to your knees, and Dean grabs a fistful of your hair.
Your drag your hands over his thighs, and his swallows hard, a vein in his brow ticking as he tries to keep still.
“Come on.” He rasps. “This ain’t behaving.”
You shrug, slowly undoing his belt buckle. “Oops.”
Dean’s chest heaves, and a small groan rumbles in his chest as you kiss his crotch. You watch him under hooded lashes, pulling down his pants and taking his underwear with them.
He’s already hard. Thick in your hand and weeping from his slit, the angry red of his cock demanding your attention, even as he tries to talk you out of it.
“Baby, you- You don’t gotta-“
“But I want to.” You murmur, slowly pumping his cock with a light grip.
Dean grunts, bucking into your hand. His head is tossed back, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming out in pants. You stop stroking him, and he immediately looks back down.
“What’re you-“
“Can I?” You press your cheek into his thigh, letting your warm breath fan over his balls. “Please?”
You pout, just to be sure he knows. Dean never likes making you do this. He always whines on and on about how it should be about you, not him. He says he gets off just fine tasting you and making you cum on his fingers. You’re still trying to make him understand that just the thought of him fucking your face like a toy ruins your underwear.
You’ll be sure to show him after.
Dean stares down at you, gripping the bathroom sink and petting the top of your head. He lets out a ragged breath, closes his eyes, then drags them back open. You think he might be checking that you’re still there.
You’re about to suck his soul out of his cock. He’s not going to get rid of you that easy.
“You sure?” He mutters, and you nod eagerly.
“Please.”
A feral sound rumbles from his throat. His dick twitches, and he gives the tiniest nod.
“Is that-“
“Go for it.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Show me what you’ve got, baby.”
You give him a flat look. He knows damn well, what you’ve got. And you can see him smirking, opening his mouth to say something cocky and smug about you biting off more than you can chew.
You don’t give him the chance, before you’re wrapping your mouth around his head and swirling your tongue.
Dean groans, his blunt nails scraping against your head as his whole body tenses. You hum around him and repeat the motion, again, and then one more time for good measure.
“Jesus-“ He chokes out your name. “Warn a guy- I- Wasn’t fuckin’ ready-“
You smile, pushing further down. You suck lightly, taking his base into your hand and pumping it in time with your mouth. Dean makes a sinful, deep noise that comes straight from your dreams. He croaks out your name, bowing his head and tugging on your hair as his cock pulses in your mouth.
“Baby- Fuck-“
You take your free hand and grab his balls, slowly massaging them as your mouth picks up the pace. Dean’s looking down at you like you fell from Heaven, right onto your knees for him, and him alone.
“You’re a fuckin’ brat, you know that? Just- Lookin’ at me and- Shiiit-“
He’s losing composer. It’s what you live for. The way his eyes roll back and he starts to shallowly thrust between your lips, letting drool slip down your chin and pre-cum leak over your tongue.
“Mouth was made for me.” He grits out, his teeth bared and voice tight. “Pretty little slut, know you love this shit. You’re wet, aren’t you. Drippin’ all over the floor for me.”
You moan in agreement, and Dean slams his hips forward. His cock bruises the back of your throat and you have to relax your jaw to stop yourself from gagging. Dean tenses, his voice raw and strained.
“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
You’re not having any of that.
Dean cuts himself off with another guttural sound as you push yourself forward. Your nose brushes his abdomen, your jaw unhinged to take all of him, and it’s still not enough. You stick out your tongue, flicking the underside of his cock as you squeeze his balls.
“Son of a bitch- You-“
You suck, letting your throat squeeze around the head of him. He makes another, feral sound, and tugs at your hair.
“Baby, shit- You’re so fuckin’ warm, and- You gotta get off or-“
He almost whimpers as you pull back, sliding off his cock with a pop and stroking it as you leave an open-mouth kiss on the swollen head. Dean’s fingers flex, and you know he wants to shove you back down.
You give him a soft smile, kissing down his shaft, then over his balls. You suck there for a second, still jerking his cock in your free hand, and he finally snaps. Pulling you back by your hair and giving you a wrecked, hopeless look. He’s trying to use his listen to me voice, but he seems to know it’s a lost cause. You’ve got him exactly where you want him.
He says your name like a prayer, and you open your mouth. Stick out you tongue, fixing him with a challenging glare.
Dean swallows. “You sure- Fuck-“
You flick your tongue over his head, squeezing the base of his dick tight.
Dean shakes his head, looking up like he’s praying.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters, and you know you’ve won.
You keen as Dean’s grip on your hair tightens. He shoves you right down his cock, pushing against the back of your throat before yanking you back. You moan around him, your eyes watering from the overwhelming taste and force. You’re barely more than a cocksleeve for his pleasure, and that’s exactly what you wanted.
Dean barely able to think outside of where he’s fucking your mouth, making broken and worshipful sounds, calling your name with every thrust.
“Fuck, baby- Takin’ it so good, love you like this, choking on my cock. Look so pretty for me, wish I could take a picture- Fuuuckkkk-“
He tosses his head back, still watching his cock pump between your lips. He gets transfixed and babbles, coming apart above you as you just keep smiling and taking it.
“Pretty girl,” he grits out. “My pretty fuckin’ slut, sucking dick like a damn vacuum- Crying for me, baby girl, you need this cock that bad-“
You mewl in agreement, dizzy from the praise. You do need his cock that bad. If the thoughts weren’t being fucked from your head, you whimper that no one fucks your mouth like he does. No one makes you feel so holy and used all at the same time. You’re so wet you feel it every time you shift, so wet you’re worried he’s going to be able to smell it. But you love this. The taste and weight of him, and how no one gets it but you.
It’s almost pornographic, the way he’s taking your mouth. Your lips shine with spit and pre-cum, tears pour down your cheeks as his thrusts become jagged sharp, and sweat shines on Dean’s thighs as you keep working his balls. They’re getting tight and heavy in your hands. He’s about to loose it.
“Baby-“ He taps your cheek, words pushed out between moans. “Baby, I- I’m gonna-“
You sink your nails into his thigh. You’ve never failed to swallow before, and you’re not starting now.
Dean hisses out your name, but doesn’t stop. You moan around him, sucking as hard as you can to shove him over the edge.
He cums hard, shooting thick ropes of release down your throat. You unhinge your jaw, and manage to get most of it. But he always lets out so much, and a fair amount ends up smeared with your tears and dripping down his legs.
You pull slowly back, and start to lick up what you weren’t able to get on your first try. Dean hisses, sensitive from the orgasm, and strokes his hand through your hair. His gaze is fixed on where some had dripped down to your tits. You have a feeling that if you were really, truly in private, he’d shove his face into your chest and clean you up himself.
“You are-“ He lets out a broken laugh, as you smile up at him. “Something else.”
“You’ve told me.” You tease, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Too proud of it.” He grumbles. “Like you want to be over my knee later.”
You shrug, eyes sparkling. Dean’s jaw ticks.
His thumb swipes over your cheek, where a little bit of the cum is still stained.
“Open.” He mutters, and you obey.
He presses his thumb between your swollen lips, and you take it with a happy hum. Dean groans, watching you suckle his release of his finger. You flutter your lashes at him. He pulls out, smearing spit over your cheek.
“I’m goin’ in an hour.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it. It sends an excited, electric thrill between your legs. “You better follow, or I’m comin’ here and fucking you in your daddy’s house.”
You nod like a bobblehead, unable to even find the words. Dean laughs and pulls you to your feet, kissing you harshly. It’s messy and open, possessive in a way you’d never found hot before you had him.
Other boys being possessive had seemed like they thought of you as a nice little toy they threw a tantrum over having to share. With anyone, even your friends.
Dean being possessive makes you feel priceless. Treasured. He’s yours, and he doesn’t want you to forget it. You can do whatever the hell you want, just so long as you remember that he’s yours.
Your dad is calling for you again. Dean slips out of the bathroom first—he doesn’t have cum and drool to clean off his face—but not before kissing your cheek and slapping your ass.
He says you’re going to be the death of him, but he’s bouncing around like he’s ten years younger. You’re the one who needs to clutch the railing as she walks downstairs. He didn’t even fuck you and it’s hard to walk from the throb between your legs.
You’d been right. You’d completely destroyed your underwear, turning it to just a soaked scrap of lace.
And Dean might have you begging at his feet, but you don’t roll over that easy. You pulled off your panties before you left the bathroom. You keep them bundled in your fist while Dean talks to your dad for the last hour, sitting on the counter with your legs crossed. When it’s time for him to go, he wanders over to give a perfectly innocent goodnight.
His eyes are gleaming, as he drawls see you around, kid.
Kid.
He knows you hate it when he calls you kid. And suddenly, you don’t feel bad anymore.
“Night, grandpa.” You say lightly, and Dean laughs, but it’s rougher than before. You can see it in his eyes, the way he’s planning out every single way he’s going to make you pay for that.
Then you stick out your hand, and he blinks. There’s a confused, cautious shadow over his face as he takes your hand and shakes it. You cover it with your fist, and slip your panties into his grip.
Dean pulls back with a frown, looks down, and coughs so loud he staggers. You bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Your father looks up from the sink with a worried face.
“You alright, Dean?”
“Yeah, uh- Yeah.” He stares at you, working his jaw. His words are pushed through his teeth, and you can see his cock, already straining through his jeans again.
His closes his fist around your panties, and shoves them into his pockets. Your dad asks him something else, but you don’t hear it. You’re fully fixed on Dean. On the dangerous promise in his eyes.
You’re in trouble.
Good.
Dean lives more than twenty minutes away, but you make the drive in fifteen.
You’re desperate, and past denying it. You’ve got the hottest man alive waiting for you and finally about to fuck you, anyone else would be breaking traffic laws as well.
It wasn’t hard to sneak past your father, especially because you failed to sneak past him. You got downstairs and found him watching TV. You’d thought he was in bed, and the blood had drained from your face.
“Dad, uh- You’re-“
“Just watchin’ Jeopardy.” He’d said, not looking away from the screen. “You going to Dean’s?”
You’d tripped over nothing, and choked on the air.
“I- I don’t- I’m not- What-“
“Don’t insult me, kiddo.” He twists, giving you a flat look. “I ain’t blind and stupid. He had a hard on the whole night.”
“Um-“ You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you should run or just drop dead. “That’s- Maybe he was texting his girlfriend-“
“He never texts his girlfriend. He just texts you.”
You open your mouth, then close it. You’re dead. Dean’s dead. Your dad is going to kill him and you’re never even going to get to have sex, and that’s such a huge bummer because you’re just going to sit at his grave forever, and turn into a tree like some old myth, and then your dad is going have no one to talk to sports about. Everyone is losing in this scenario. It’s awful.
“Was it his fault?” You say, because it’s all you can think of. “That you realized?”
Your dad snorts. “Oh, yeah. I had suspensions-“
“Suspicions-“
“I caught you on a date.” He says your name dryly. “You said you were there alone, but his car was in the lot. He said he was datin’ a girl who worked in a bookshop. You’d been wearing his shirt to bed.”
Your mouth falls open, your cheeks burning.
“Oops.”
“Yeah. Oops.” Your dad sighs, turning back to the TV. “Realized when he let me call you on his phone. Dumbass opened the message thread for me and everything.”
Oh. Oh no.
Again, there wasn’t much outside of sex that you and Dean hadn’t done. Which, tragically, included sexting.
A lot of sexting.
Photos of you in lingerie and dick pics and voice memos and a lot of videos, and you’re going to throw up-
“You- You didn’t-“
“Saw more of Dean than I ever wanted to.” Your dad mutters, making a face like he’s also going to be sick. “Was about to punch him for sending that shit to you, but there was a voice memo with it. Listened for about ten seconds, almost got sick, realized it was at least mutual.”
You cringe. You remember that voice memo and photo, just as well as you remember your dad calling you on Dean’s phone because his was dead. You’d thought he sounded weird. You wished you hadn’t been so right.
“I’m so sorry-“
“He treat you well?”
You blink. You almost don’t understand the question.
“Of- Of course he does.”
“Hm.” Your dad frowns at the TV. “He gonna marry you?”
“Dad-“
“I’m just sayin’.” He shrugs. “If he’s puttin’ us all through this, he better hope he doesn’t break your heart. You know I was in the military.”
You almost laugh. “He was in the military-“
“I was ranked higher.”
“Dean was a marine-“
“You think I couldn’t kick his ass?”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you don’t have to, because he won’t break my heart.”
For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your father huffs, and slumps back into the couch.
“Good.” He waves a hand. “Have fun.”
You nod, then go still.
Have fun.
That’s… Approval.
Your dad knows about you and Dean, and he—begrudgingly, but that’s the best you can hope for—approves.
So that should be the first thing you tell Dean when you get through the door. That you don’t have to keep hiding. You’re rehearsing breaking the news your whole drive over, mumbling the speech under your breath when you knock on the door.
But then Dean opens it, and suddenly there’s only one important thing in the world.
Greetings are forgotten, as Dean wraps an arm around your waist and drags you into his chest. You whimper as his mouth slams over yours, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him further down.
“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since I left.” Dean groans, pulling your jacket off with scrambling hands. “Got in the car and wanted to turn around, sneak back through the window like a fuckin’ teenager- Jesus, you don’t know what you do to me-“
You surge up on your toes, throwing your arms around his shoulder and kissing him until you’re breathless and swaying.
“I- I know.” You whisper. “God, Dean, I know-“
He makes one of those deep, hungry, rumbling sounds, spinning you both around so he can kick the door close. You stumble closer, pressing him back against the wall as your pull his upper lip between your kiss. Dean grunts and crashed forward, grabbing your face between his hands and pressing back.
“Needy.” He mutters between open mouth kisses. “Needy fuckin’ girl, can’t even let me take a breath, can you?”
You tip you head back, your words breathy and high as Dean starts to kiss over your neck.
“You- You kissed me first.”
Dean hums, nipping at your throat. He’s dragging his hands down your sides, slipping one under your shirt to caress your spine while the other gropes at your ass.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Mhm.” You mumble, lost in the heat of his mouth. He’s sucking on a sensitive pulse point, letting his tongue flick over the skin, and he knows what that does to you. “De- Dean-“
“Guess I’m the one who couldn’t wait.” He says, but it’s mostly to himself. “Been dreamin’ of this for so long, sweetheart. You here.” He kisses further down, pulling down your shirt to get access to the top of your chest. “’Bout to be in my bed.” He bunches up the fabric of your shirt, and only his arm around you is keeping you upright. “’Bout to be on my cock.”
He hisses the last words before rushing back up into a starved, sloppy kiss. He rips off your shirt in the same second, before smoothly unclipping your bra. You gasp as the cold air hits your nipples, nails scratching at Dean’s neck.
“Shit- Dean-“
“I’ve got you.” He scoops you into his arms, kissing your cheek.
“Do you-“ You swallow at his flat, amused look. “Sorry.”
His lips twitch, and he doesn’t break your gaze as he walks down the hall. “You know, you always get mouthy when you’re horny.”
You scowl. “I do not-“
“You do-“
“No, I-“
Dean cranes his neck, capturing your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. You respond in a second with a light tug of his hair, eliciting another pleased, low rumble from his chest.
He pulls back, and you chase him. Getting one more, quicker kiss that he melts into within a second.
“You do.” He rasps, nipping at your nose. “You turn into a real brat.”
You glare, ready to snap something that would only prove his point. But Dean grins, and suddenly you’re being dumped down onto his bed. You yelp at the sudden movement, wiggling and holding him tight enough to strange. Dean grunts, falling forward and barely managing to brace himself over you as you both crash down to the mattress.
“Jesus-“ He mutters your name, and you shove his shoulders.
“You surprised me-“
“You almost killed me-“
“Oh, you’re fine-“
“I’m old, that coulda broken my knees-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his face, pressing up for another stumbling, frantic series of kisses. You’ve kissed Dean pretty much everywhere—on his body and geographically—but this is always your favorite place. On his pretty mouth, under him in his bed. There’s nothing around you that isn’t Dean, and it’s intoxicating. The pine and spice scent of him, the heat of his body, the fact that he just lay here by himself sometimes. Thinking of you, the same way you think of him.
Dean wraps his arms around you, pulling you up off the mattress. You hook your leg over his waist, flipping you both over so you’re straddling his lap and kissing him everywhere you can reach. You grind down onto his sweats, and he moans shamelessly, his fingers digging into your hips.
“You- You’re not wearing your fucking panties-“
“I gave them to you.” You mumble, pressing your ass down against his thickness. The fabric scrapes against your bare pussy, offering perfect friction, and you start to hump him like you’re in heat.
Dean drags his hand up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up his chest. He lets you keep working yourself down on his bulge for a few seconds longer, moaning into your mouth as you tease him.
“Dirty, dirty girl.” He scolds, the mocking tone in his voice just spurring you on.
He knows you love it. That’s why he likes it.
“Walkin’ around in just a skirt.” He dips a hand under your skirt, palming at your bare ass cheeks. “Should’ve folded you over the couch to see it. Pretty fuckin’ pussy, bet it’s already nice and wet for me.”’e
He reaches further down, and you gasp as his fingers brush your cunt. He’s right. Of course he is. Dean might know your body better than you do.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Shhh.” He splits two fingers, rubbing them over the outer lips of your pussy before pinching them together.
You whine, trying to hump up into his hand, but he splays his palm on your lower back and presses you back down.
“Behave.” He grunts. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to fuck you how I want?”
He squeezes harder, his thumb grazing over your clit. Your whole body tremors, and you press your face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“Ye- Yes.” You pant. “But- You’re not fucking me- You’re just- Oooh-“
He flicks his thumb this time, and it’s like a tiny electric shock. You don’t know how he always does this. It doesn’t matter if he’s got his hand between your legs or your pussy right on his face, he plays it like an instrument. It would make you scream if it didn’t feel so good.
“Well,” Dean muses, dragging his thumb in slow torturous circles as he starts to rub your pussy again. “I told you to behave earlier. And did you?”e
You shake your head, almost so overwhelmed from the attention on your core that you forget how to speak. “N- No.”
“That’s right. So I’m gonna fuck you,” he pulls his hand away for a second, landing a sharp slap on your ass before pushing it back. “When you remember how to be a good girl.”
You whimper, but don’t argue. This is what you’d asked for, with all the teasing.
You’d just thought he’d give it to you rough. That’s what behave usually meant. An invitation for you to test the line, if you wanted him to pin your on his mouth and make you cum under you were begging him to stop. Once it meant lying over his lap while he fingered and spanked you, and you’d cum so hard you saw stars.
But that’s not what this is.
You’re melted over Dean’s chest, and he’s being lazy and mean. He keeps playing with your pussy like it’s a cute little toy. Just brushing it and rubbing your clit with barely any pressure.
“Mo- More.” You plead. “I need more-“
You almost sob, as he pushes one finger just into your entrance before taking it away. You hug him so tight you think it must hurt, but he doesn’t even grunt.
“Look at that.” He coos in your ear, smearing a little bit of your arousal on your thigh. “You’re making a mess on me, baby. Just from a little bit of touchin’.”
“Was- Was not a little bit-“
“Wasn’t much.” Dean muses, landing a sharp slap on your swollen pussy. “But it never takes much to get my girl wet, does it.”
You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes again. You’d beg if you had the words, but right now you’re just trying to hold on.
“Everything makes you so horny.” Dean drawls, going back to rubbing his big, warm hand over your pussy. “Remember when we got ice cream? Had to fuck you in my car, ‘cause you couldn’t even wait to get to the damn house.”
“You- You were- You were wearing a really nice shirt-“
“Sure, princess. It was the shirt.”
“It was-“
Dean slaps your pussy again, and your words fall into a whine.
“You ashamed of the truth, princess?” He teases, right in your ear. “How you really wanted me to stuff you up, fuck you and fill you like the cumslut that you are?”
You keen, and you can’t stop yourself from humping his hand again. This time, Dean lets you. He knows you need it.
“That’s right, baby girl. I know you like that.” He bites your ear, and you wiggle your ass right onto his fingers, trying to force one or two inside you. “I remember how I came on your thighs. You almost got me to put it in that day. One more of those pretty pleases and I woulda caved.”
“De- Deeaan-“
“Kept those panties too. I got a whole drawer for them, just for when I miss you.” He kisses the side of your head. “And I always fuckin’ miss you.”
The tears start to flow, half from the debaucherous sweetness of Dean’s words, and half from desperation. If you don’t cum right now, you’re going to explode.
And you’re close. You’re so close. Your pussy is clenching around nothing, but you’ve gotten the tips of Dean’s fingers to press onto your clit, and the sensitive little button is going to be enough to get you over the edge. He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls it up, forcing you to meet his eyes as you work down onto his fingers. You sob in desperation, lips quivering and tits bouncing. Dean groans, pushing up to kiss you as hard as he can. And you’re so close.
Then the asshole stops.
He pulls his hand away, slaps your pussy, and stops.
You make a strangled, broken sound of defeat, and Dean just chuckles. He makes you both sit up, massaging your ass and kissing away your tears.
“Nice try.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “You think you earned bein’ able to cum?”
“Ye- Yes.” You pout hopefully, and Dean chuckles.
“Aw, sweetheart. You ain’t even mouthy anymore.”
You swallow. “I- I can be-“
“Jesus.” Dean laughs, and that pools right in you tummy, the embarrassment stoking an already raging fire.
Dean’s rubbing your sides, kissing all over your shoulders as breasts as you just try to breathe. You earned this. You really did. But god, it’s a perfect torture. He’s just kissing and touching you, in a way that would almost be innocent if you weren’t soaked wearing just a skirt and leaving a stain on his jeans.
“’M sorry.” You breathe out, wrapping your arms around Dean’s head.
He hums, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes flutter, and it’s hard to stay focused. He’s so warm, his tongue dragging in little circles. You swallow, your voice getting higher as he starts to suck.
“I- I’m sorry I teased you, De- I- Pleaseeee-“
Dean moves away, grabbing your jaw and holding it back for him to inspect. You give him your best, pleading expression and pray it breaks him.
He taps your lips with his thumb. “Open.”
You obey in a second, and Dean’s lips twitch. He leans down, and spits right into your open mouth.
He’s done this before. It practically makes you gush every time. And it doesn’t help that he’s wrapped all around you, watching you with such teasing affection as you take it so easily. You swallow, and blink up at him with a fucked out, dazed expression.
“Good girl.” He mutters, and you beam up at him. “Yeah, I know. You like bein’ a good girl.”
God, you do. And from Dean’s lips, the words feel like a rush of adrenaline.
“But you’re not gonna learn, are you?” He drawls. “Gonna keep me on my toes, running around trying to find places to fuck you that won’t get us arrested.”
“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you like me like that.”
That makes him laugh again, before he pulls you into a shockingly sweet, slow kiss.
“Damn right I do,” he mutters, before pulling back way. “Alright. Up.”
You blink at him. “Huh.”
“Stand up.” He nods to the foot of the bed. “Take off your skirt, ‘n come back.”
“But- You’re- You’re still-“
“Trust me, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the tip of your nose. “If I keep these pants on longer, Little Dean is gonna suffocate. I’ll take care of it.”
You giggle softly, and obey the command. The air feels cold, without Dean there folded over you. It’s just further motivation for you to push down your skirt and wait for his next request.
And you’ve been naked in front of Dean before. Many times, to varying degrees. But you’ve never done it like this.
Just… Bare. Wearing nothing and standing for him to see so clearly, as he pulls off his jeans and shirt then settles at the headboard. He’s taken his cock in his hand, and started to stroke it slowly. Looking you up and down with a lazy grin. Your skin prickles with anticipation, and with anyone else you’d try to wrap your arms around your stomach or shrink back and hide. And the first time you tried that, he’d pinned your hands over your head and fingered you until you squirted.
So maybe you should try it.
“Don’t even think about it.” He growls, when you move. “Wanna see you, baby.”
You swallow, shifting on your feet. “You can see me.”
“Hell yeah, I can.”
Dean’s gaze is burning into you. And it’s the most impossibly sensual thing you’ve ever see, Dean’s massive cock in his hand. The way it twitches and jumps as he touches it, as he watches you. He grunts, his hand staring to beat harder, and you press your thighs tight together.
It’s just you, that’s making him all flushed and hard. You almost start to drool again, thinking about crawling down the mattress and taking him back in your mouth. How he’d probably let you, with how he’s got lidded eyes and making low, rough grunts.
It’s a powerful, beautiful feeling.
But unfortunately, not enough to stop you from scrambling forward the moment he stretches out a hand.
Dean laughs, spinning you around so your back is tucked into his chest. His hand that hand been on his cock hitches up your leg, and the other wraps around your stomach, his fingers grazing under your breast. You tip your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and getting lost in the feeling. Dean, wrapped so fully and completely around you, keeping you nice and warm in his massive arms.
“Look at you.” He kisses along your jaw, fingers dragging over your sensitive inner thigh. “Nice and stupid for me already. Ready to be a pretty doll and take this cock.”
“Need it.” You breathe out, grabbing his forearm. “Pleeease, Dean, I’ve been waiting so long-“
You moan as he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, letting his cock slip and rub between your folds.
“I know you have.” He mutters. “Been waitin’ longer. Almost lost my mind, knowin’ how tight and warm you were but not being able to fuck you. Fuck you right, fuck you properly, fuck you ‘till you ain’t ever gonna remember another mans name.”
“Just you.” You manage to whine out, pushing your hips up to get a little more friction. “Always just you, Dean, don’t want anyone else, never wanted anyone else- Fuuuck-“
He pushes inside. It’s slow and careful, deft fingers rubbing your clit to help you relax. It’s not like much help is needed, though. He’s so big you can’t close your fingers around him, but he slips into your cunt like a glove.
“Shit-“ Dean groans in your ear, lips hot and wet on your skin. “Greedy pussy swallowing me up, baby, knew you’d take me so good, take me perfect-“
He bottoms out, pressing against a gooey spot deep inside you body. Nobody’s ever really hit it before, let along split you open so well it gets a consistent, throbbing pressure. His tip kisses your cervix, his breathing ragged in your ear, and you both need a few seconds to adjust.
You turn your head, trying to chase his mouth, and find Dean already there. He kisses you slowly, open mouthed with his tongue mapping every inch of your mouth. His arms are fully wrapped around your stomach, and you cling to them like a seatbelt. You’re lightheaded in the best possible way. Dean hums against your lips, and the sound vibrates inside of you.
You mewl, tossing your head back and clenching down. Dean hisses, and pulls you further back into his chest.
“Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“
“Sorry.” You whine out, turning your face to hide in his neck. “Just- ‘S big, Dean. So big.”
Dean chuckles. It doesn’t help.
“Big, huh?”
“Don’t milk it.” You grumble, and he laughs fully.
“I don’t think I’m the one that’s gonna be doin’ the milking, princess.”
He thrusts up, and you whimper.
“Dean-“
“That’s right.” He repeats the shallow thrust, and your moan gets loud. “Sing for me, baby, show ‘em who owns this pussy.”
“Y- You.” You stutter out. Your head is empty. You don’t think you can fit Dean’s cock and thinking at the same time. “Dean- Deeean-“
He attaches his lips to your neck again, sucking and kissing as he pushes you further down on his cock.
But he stops thrusting. He just has you… sit there.
On him. So full you can barely breathe, every nerve in your body stimulated but being offered no relief.
“What- What’re you-“
“Wanna keep you’re here for a while.” He murmurs, his kisses slowing. Becoming lazy and over attentive again, without giving you what you really need. “Just like this. My perfect fuckin’ girl, look at you.”
He taps your clit, and you try to arch up into the touch, but his hold is too strong.
“Fuck- Dean-“
“Just a little bit, baby.” He coos, rubbing your clit with the very tip of his fingers. “Just hold it for me.”
And God, you try. You sit on Dean and let him tease and touch you however he wants. He drags circles around your clit until you’re panting and whining, then moves his attention back up to your nipples. Tweaking and rolling them between his fingers, kissing over your neck and shoulders as his cock twitches inside of you with every lewd moans of his name.
“You like that?” He murmurs, and you nod.
Then he stops it, kissing the sob out of your mouth and moving onto something else.
He’s done this to you before. Had you in his arms and teased you until you couldn’t take it, then let you cum. But he’s never done it while sheathed inside of you. It heightens everything, making it impossible to think outside of his hands and lips and cock. His thick cock, not pressing against your ass, but buried in your cunt and still hitting all those sensitive places.
You’re on fire, and Dean’s just letting you build and build and build up to an explosive pressure. There are spots dancing behind your eyes, when he starts rubbing your clit in fast, brutal circles, then stops just before you can fall over the edge. You claw at his arms, wrecked beyond words, sobbing and trying to get away and get him closer.
For a second, you make the mistake of bowing your head. Your eyes flutter open, and you get a full view of Dean’s cock settled inside you. His balls pressed right against your ass, the way he almost fit everything in, but there’s still a bit of his base that didn’t make it. It’s slick with your arousal, dripping right out of your pussy as you whimper.
“De- Deaaan-“ It’s all you’ve been moaning, for who knows how long.
You’re so overstimulated, time is starting to blur. Maybe it’s been an hour, maybe only five minutes. It feels like you’ve been here forever.
“Please- Please-“ You blubber, leaning back to look at him under tear-stained lashes, the words falling from swollen lips. “I- I’ll do anything, oooooh- Fuck-“
Dean gives a shallow thrust, and your whole body spasms. He’s watching under hooded, lust blown eyes. And if the starved, animalistic look in his eyes is any clue, if he doesn’t cave for your sake, he’s going to cave for his.
“You gonna be good for me?” He rasps, and you nod frantically.
“So good- Please-“
Dean kisses you again, but this time he shifts you in his arms. His arm wraps around your neck, pinning you fully to his chest in a headlock. Your eyes roll back, a dazed smile covering your face.
His movements are relaxed and controlled, but you can see the feral glint his eyes.
You won.
“Perfect fuckin’ pussy, making a mess all over this cock.” He grunts out, bending his knees so you’re fully folded into his lap. “Could die here, baby- Fuucckkk-“
He seems to lose his own voice, the second he starts thrusting up into you. A beautiful moan rumbles in your ears, and Dean presses his nose tight against the side of your head. You whimper, holding onto him tight, mostly to try and keep grounded.
Dean’s fucking into you at a rough, snapping pace, and this is what you’d expected, but it’s better than you could’ve dream. The feeling of every vein and inch of him being pushed though your cunt. The obscene sounds of his cock slamming into you cunt, his arm around you forcing your head back onto his shoulder, giving you a full glimpse of Dean as your pussy strangles and squeezes him.
He looks destroyed, panting broken praise in your ear as his lips droop and his mouth hangs open.
You push up a little, managing to get his attention with a whimper. He gives you a curious look, then understands in a second. His lips mold over yours, and you babble some cockdrunk nonsense against his mouth. You’re fully crying again, so lost in the pleasure that you can’t even find the shame to care. Dean’s drilling up, pushing every thought in your head away into a pleasurable haze.
He pulls your knees up higher, letting him hit even deeper than before. Each stoke is deep and rough, and you’d been worked up so well that your pussy is just weeping and taking him like you’re a fuckdoll. You feel like one, in the best possible way. Stuffed up and pounded with abandon, slicking Dean’s cock so that it drives right back into your like a toy.
You moan, letting your eyes close and drowning in the impossibly good feeling. You can’t believe you waited this long. If Dean fucks like this, you might never get off his cock again.
“That’s it,” he squeezes your breast before moving those sinful fingers back down to play with your clit. “Takin’ me so perfect, baby girl, just gotta cum for me- Cum all over my dick, show me how much you love it- Come on-“
That’s really all it takes. Dean’s everywhere around you, his cock bullying into that gooey spot, and your orgasms hits you so hard you think you black out. The heat that had pooled in your stomach explodes and floods all your senses, pouring out of your pussy as your hips buck and you squirm in his grip.
Dean groans your name, and his thrusts get tighter. Faster and more brutal as he chases his own release. It prolongs your own orgasm, forcing it to drag out as you vision dances with spots.
Dean slams home, turning your head to find another, bruising kiss, and now you might be ascending. He’s cumming deep, deep into your pussy, and the sounds get better as he fucks it back into you. Everything in you is so full, you think you might be about to burst with light.
You get a soft kiss on your brow, as his grip loosens around your neck. When he finally settles and tries to pull away, you fumble to grab his wrist, fixing him with a pleading stare. You don’t ever want to be empty again.
“Gotta take care of you, baby.” Dean mutters, kissing the back of your hand. “We can do more later. When you’re talkin’.”
You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, booping your nose. You wrinkle it, and he kisses the angry pout off your lips.
“Silly girl.” He murmurs, and just like that you’re melting again. “Like I could live with myself if I didn’t fuck you again.”
You flush, and roll over to hide it in the sheets. Dean laughs, kissing the base of your spine and slapping your ass before fully standing up.
And you learn another difference between boys and men. All the douchebags you’ve slept with before rolled off of you and started smoking or talking about something unimportant.
Dean gets you water, and coaxes it down your throat. He draws a bath and carries you into it, but not before making sure you pee. He changes the sheets and gets you clean clothing and brings you a snack, smiling at you and kissing the top of your head every single time.
“You’re like a maid.” You mumble once you’re back in bed, curled into his chest.
He laughs, grinning down at you. “Only for my favorite girl.”
“I’m your favorite?”
“Don’t be a brat.” He gives you an amused look. “Don’t think you’d be able to handle another round, honey.”
You sigh dramatically, flopping fully onto his chest. You prop your chin up, watching him watch you. There’s that quiet, unending adoration again. You wish you could see it every second of every day, instead of sneaking out and-
Oh.
“Shit.” You sit up, and Dean grunts, grabbing your waist to keep you steady.
“What, what’s wrong-“
“I- Um- You can’t get mad.”
Dean says your name in a low warning, and you swallow.
“My- My dad- He, um-“
“Sweetheart-“
“He knows!” You blurt. “He’s known for a while, actually, and it’s- It’s actually your fault, you showed him that dick pic and voice memo you sent me-“
“I what-“
“You did it by accident! But you still did it, and-“
“Which one did he hear?” Dean demands, and you cringe.
“The one about- About tying me up.”
Dean goes pale. He groans, tipping his head back and grabbing onto you like he thinks someone’s going to rip you away.
“God fuckin’- I’m dead-“
“No!” You grab his face with a smile. “You’re not! He’s fine with it!”
Dean blinks. “He is?”
You nod. “He- Well, he wants to know when you’re going to marry me, but- Um-“ You laugh nervously. Dean’s older. You just had sex for the first time. He probably doesn’t want to think about that yet. “You know. He’s chill.”
“He’s chill.” Dean echoes.
“Mhm. Except for- The marriage thing.”
Dean hums. He’s relaxed again, dragging his palms in slow circles over your ass. His lips pull into that lazy, satisfied smirk. You flush just from the sight of it.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” He squeezes your waist. “Just tell him to give it a few months.”
“A- Give what-“
Dean raises his brows. Your mouth falls open.
“A few months-“
“I know what I want.” Dean shrugs. And you can see it. Him watching you so, so carefully.
And you smile.
Because you do to.
“Yeah?” You whisper, leaning down to hover your lips over his.
“Yeah.” He mutters. “That alright with you?”
You answer with a kiss, and Dean grunts, immediately rolling you over. And this sweet, slow moment feels like it’s going to last forever.
You hope—you pray—that it does.
✦End note: honestly this might be one of my favorite i hope you enjoyed it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
matt murdock x reader / daredevil x black cat!reader
summary: in your teens, you and matt were a couple. years after you broke up, you meet again, but not in the way either of you expected.
you needed a lawyer, but you were involved in the situation in a way that reminded matt how much your youthful attitude put him in a moral dilemma.
warnings: 18+. rough sex on a rooftop (yes), unprotected sex. a little bit of submissive matt (just for a few moments). mention of blood, murder, and robbery. swearing. blasphemy.
content: a plot that then leads to rough sex on the rooftop with matt.
word count: 7781
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
Before Elektra, before Daredevil, there was you.
You were unlike any girl he'd ever met. At sixteen, almost seventeen, Matt had never encountered anyone like you who could shake his world so profoundly.
He lived in the orphanage where the sisters had raised him since his father's death. There, he found refuge, a set of rules to guide his tumultuous life, a faith to look to, and a role model to try to emulate. At his young age, Matt had lived through more than many people much older than him, which was unfair because he was still a teenager, so he tried—he really tried—to maintain a routine that wouldn't cause further chaos in his life.
Meeting you made him realize that you were the jolt of adrenaline he craved. You were the first hint of what was to come with Elektra. You were the first, the one who saw beneath his facade and knew that he needed some fire to feel alive.
You exuded a carefree attitude that he secretly envied. You smelled of danger, of someone who crossed the line and slipped back into it without a second thought. From the moment you started circling each other at such a young age, Matt knew you were trouble—which was precisely why he couldn't stay away from you.
You oozed confidence, you were so bold, and you never apologized for your actions. You were the kind of girl the nuns warned against getting too close to because you were a bad influence; the kind other students whispered about, whether it was something good or bad. It was unfair how easily you attracted attention, how easily you stole everything from him.
Being with you was like sitting on the edge of a cliff; it was dangerous because you challenged all of Matt's beliefs, the entire framework he'd established to stay within the lines. He didn't want to cross boundaries; he wanted to remain grateful to the orphanage and follow God's word.
It was easy, too easy, to start dating you. It was a teenage romance, one where both seemed to be slowly testing out this new sensation of feelings that neither of them controlled. He had his first time with you, and you with him; you both surrendered to an intimacy that only the two of you understood.
You laughed a lot that afternoon when you shared the intimacy of your first time—not just his, but both of yours, at how silly you both were. When you hugged him, and all that time you remained half-dressed, Matt felt safe in a place where he had no expectations. You didn't ask for anything in return, you didn't expect him to behave a certain way, nor did you expect him to control his every word. You loved him completely, even the darkness that lay within him. Perhaps because you yourself moved effortlessly from light to darkness, like a nocturnal cat that leaps between rooftops and then returns home without a second thought.
Matt felt whole with you, whole in your arms, in your loud laughter, and in those eyes he couldn't see, but knew held a danger that stirred everything inside him. Deep down, though, beneath that persona that liked to blur boundaries, Matt knew that you, too, felt safe with him. You allowed yourself to be vulnerable with Matt, to tell him about your problems with your mother, the debts your father left behind; he knew more about you than anyone else, and he even managed to wipe away your tears when you let your guard down.
You even showed him your love for cats, like sometimes saving up money to buy food for a stray kitten. You were kind, he knew it; you only had claws for those outside your life.
Matt loved you. Despite everyone saying that teenage love was just that—just emotions mixed with hormones—he loved you. He knew you loved him too; he could see it, he could feel it with every second he spent with you.
Unfortunately, for you it always had an expiration date; you never hid that what you and he had would be ephemeral.
The flame that ignited the gunpowder was a gift you gave him.
You had arrived very happy, you went straight to look for him at lunch and you pulled him to take him to the small courtyard of the institute. You took a small, carefully wrapped package—just for him—from your pocket and placed it in his hands, then kissed his lips briefly so no nun would see. You didn't care if you two got in trouble, but sometimes you held back because you knew Matt didn't like to misbehave in front of the women who had raised him since he was a child.
Matt carefully tore open the paper, revealing a velvet case; it was easy to guess it was a glasses case.
“They are red glasses,” you had said.
Matt wasn't as skilled at reading people as he is now, but he knew the sound of your heart, the warmth your emotions radiated, and the subtle sound your facial muscles made when you smiled. You weren't like everyone else; he paid extra attention to you.
“I think red looks great on you,” you said, as he opened the case and gently ran his fingers along the rim of the glasses. “That’s why I made sure they had lenses of that color; it suits you.”
The glasses were square with rounded edges; the frame surrounding the lenses was hard, yet incredibly smooth to the touch, as if these glasses had been crafted with the utmost care for the wearer's senses.
For someone like Matt, who lived with all his senses except sight, feeling such a meticulously crafted product beneath his fingertips brought a warmth to his soul, but also a touch of guilt.
“How…?” Matt whispered, running his index finger along the smooth metal of the glasses. “This feels really expensive,” he said your name, swallowing hard. “How did you do this? You shouldn’t have done this for me, this is too much.”
You huffed, he could almost feel you rolling your eyes. “Why the hell does that matter? It’s a gift for you,” you said, downplaying it.
But Matt couldn't let the matter drop. There was a certain weight to this gift that neither of them could ignore.
You didn't have money, not enough to buy something like this. Your mother barely had enough for your lunch, if she even remembered you were supposed to eat, so a gift of this magnitude didn't make sense; there was no way you could get it… at least, not in a good way.
“How did you pay for this?” Matt pressed.
The background noise—students eating and laughing during their free time, a nun scolding someone, blackboards being cleaned, a broom caressing the floor—faded away. Everything focused on you. Everything in Matt focused on you; your heart rate increased, revealing a nervousness that wasn't usually like you.
“It doesn’t matter…” you said, crossing your arms. “You don’t like the gift? You didn’t even try them on, Matty!”
Matt said your name firmly. “Did you steal them?”
He tilted his head slightly, just enough to hear your heart race involuntarily. Right there.
“I didn’t steal the glasses,” you defended yourself, just as firmly as he did.
You weren't lying, not entirely. It was a half truth.
“And the money?” he pressed, not noticing that his hands were trembling slightly.
Matt could feel your gaze on him, the weight of your eyes analyzing his every move, searching for any part of you still willing to confront his moral compass.
Your smile wasn't something Matt had truly expected, but there you were: smiling.
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t steal the money from anyone who needed it,” you said simply, shrugging dismissively. “Trust me, that man didn’t even notice he was missing a few dollars.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Matt said, in a tone he’d never used with you before.
Without forgetting that his control had to be maintained physically, he carefully closed the case—it was still something too expensive—and closed his hands around it, inhaling and exhaling several times so as not to get even angrier.
“It doesn’t matter if you stole from someone with money, this isn’t right,” he said, finally dropping your name in a curt tone. “Especially not giving me something with dirty money.”
That made you angry. “Dirty money?” you exclaimed, this time louder, not caring if you were drawing attention. “Listen, you little saint, all money is dirty, okay? Especially money that comes from someone who has tons of it,” you spat out with a venom Matt had never seen before.
The way you said those words surprised Matt. He had some idea of your hatred for rich people, but this level of resentment wasn't something he expected, not from you.
“You’re going to return the glasses,” Matt ordered, grabbing your wrist, but you quickly broke free with a speed that surprised even him.
You never ceased to amaze him.
“Give it back?” you said, laughing. “Yeah, right,” you scoffed, with clear sarcasm. “Why can’t you accept something nice, huh? It’s for you, a gift from your girlfriend. I don’t understand what’s bothering you.”
“I’m serious,” Matt said, taking a step toward you; he wasn’t trying to intimidate you, but rather appeal to a part of you he didn’t want to see grow any larger—he would follow you, if you fell into a bottomless pit, Matt would follow you, perhaps because he was intense or because, at almost seventeen, you were the most precious thing he had: “We’ll go together, you and me. It doesn’t matter if we don’t find the person you stole from, we can… we can use this money to do something good,” he whispered to you.
He didn't care about the sudden closeness between you two, or if other students saw you and told the nuns later. He just wanted to be sure he could help you, that you could both follow the same path. Matt was afraid your behavior would escalate, or that you'd make a mistake and lose your life because of it. The idea terrified him.
But you pulled away, you pushed him back, creating a distance he never thought existed.
“Fuck off, Murdock,” you said, forcing a toughness that masked a certain pain inside you. “I did something good… for you,” you whispered. “But do whatever you want, you’re still the nuns’ little saint, I don’t care.”
Perhaps it was age, the fact that they were still dramatic teenagers, but that was the rift between them. They were never the same again, and you didn't take long to break up with him.
Months later, you disappeared. Matt searched for you, using everything he knew to exploit his senses, his schedule, even disregarding the nuns' orders to find you, but he had no luck. It was as if the earth had swallowed you whole.
Several times he went to the usual places where the cats you fed were, but there was no trace of you. Your scent of wild herbs mixed with cat fur had faded for him.
For years, in college and even after, Matt still wondered what had become of you. Perhaps, if the two of you had lasted a little longer, he might have discovered that the darkness inside him could be used for something good.
Perhaps he wouldn't have been with Elektra, but he would have been with you, and together you could have blurred the lines between moral and immoral. You would even have supported him with Daredevil; he was sure of it.
Anyway, Matt would never be sure. He never heard from you again.
Of course, that was until Foggy told him that Brett had called to tell him about a new case for both of them. A bribe for Brett's mother. Cigarettes were Foggy's thing, and although Matt didn't agree with giving cigarettes to an older woman, he couldn't deny that when he heard your name while Foggy was reading the case, his heart started racing.
You were alive, you were in Hell's Kitchen, and you needed a lawyer.
Months ago, you returned to Hell's Kitchen after several years away. You'd always stayed in New York; it was your place. But you'd stayed away from your hometown until a friend called you because she needed your help. You're a good friend, so you went without hesitation. You could help; you weren't the teenage girl you used to be. You were an adult with more resources than anyone could imagine.
Things went wrong. You were only supposed to be taking a walk around the apartment, familiarizing yourself with the area, both inside and out.
There shouldn't have been any dead bodies, but unfortunately, a corpse became part of your promise to help; a bald idiot with too much money but very little self-preservation.
You knew he had a target on his back, and that's what made him perfect, but the dark reality of Hell's Kitchen had ensnared you again. It was a trap, not for you, but for your friend. Yet, you were the one who went to the apartment where a dead man lay, a man whose death was now being blamed on you.
Now you find yourself sitting in an interrogation room, your wrists cuffed to the table, surrounded by two police officers who clearly wanted to frame you, even though you weren't the one they were trying to arrest.
You didn't expect two men claiming to be your lawyers to walk through the door, much less one who, despite the years, you easily recognized as your ex-boyfriend.
Red-tinted glasses rest on his face, obscuring his handsome brown eyes. You suppress the urge to smile at the sight.
You couldn't smile; you had to pretend to be a damsel in distress being wrongly accused—and in part, it was true; you hadn't killed anyone. And it genuinely frightened you, despite your reluctance to admit it, to be involved in something that had a dead body as its welcoming symbol, but it was amusing to see that Matt had followed your advice after all these years.
Shortly after, your wrists were freed thanks to Foggy Nelson, the other lawyer, the one who wasn't your ex-boyfriend.
As they take the opportunity to sit across from you, you rub your wrists while trying not to look at your teenage crush.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” your voice comes out a little shaky. It wasn’t on purpose, but you can’t help feeling them.
Even though you're someone who generally tries to be in control of your feelings, the fact that someone had died and that it involved you was something that turned your stomach. This went beyond your usual comfort zone.
“When I entered the apartment, he was already dead,” you murmur, swallowing hard as your eyes search for Foggy’s.
“Miss…” Matt says; he uses your full name to get your attention, and you give it to him.
He's handsome, he always has been. You could perfectly remember the first time you saw him in the school hallways; a nun was talking to him, smiling slightly as he took her arm and they walked. He caught your eye the moment you saw him. You couldn't tell if it was his defined yet youthful face, his seemingly silky, warm brown hair, or the affected air he carried. You knew something about him wasn't what it seemed.
You needed to know what it was. He wasn't just a blind boy facing life (even though that was partly true). There was something more to Matt Murdock, so you made it your mission to find him as many times as necessary until he started looking for you himself.
You still remembered the warmth of his lips when you first kissed. How flushed he looked because you two weren't supposed to be kissing there; or how scandalized he was when you hungrily kissed him in his room at the orphanage where he lived.
That time, it didn't take much for Matt to get permission for you to go to his humble room at the orphanage. He was a model student, and it was supposed to be just for studying. That wasn't your plan, but Matt made it clear that you could only kiss once more, and that was it.
Nonsense, of course. You kissed him as many times as you wanted, even if he was quietly apologizing to God for disrespecting Him and the nuns.
Matt's voice interrupts your small stream of thoughts and you return to the present.
“Oh, yes, excuse me,” you say, licking your lips. “What did you say?” you ask Matt directly.
Your eyes scan his face; his jawline is defined, there's a stubble that accentuates the inner features of his face, and his always-pink lips look more appealing to you.
Oh, how you loved to bite his lower lip and make him whimper in embarrassment…
“As we understand it, the victim was found with a knife lodged in his back,” Matt says.
You know he isn't looking at you—he can't—but you've known him long enough to recognize that deceptively relaxed posture. He's studying you. You don't know how, but every movement, every shift in your breathing, has his attention.
“And when you arrived at the scene, you were wearing a pair of gloves,” he continues evenly. “Those gloves were later collected as evidence after investigators found traces of the victim's blood on them.”
Bingo.
“I… yes,” you blurt out after a shaky breath. “I… I went in and I-I saw him on the floor…” You use your genuine nerves with your deceptive skills to begin your act. “He… there was a lot of blood and I just wanted to help…”
That was true. The moment you saw the bald man on the floor, your first instincts were to try to help, to try to apply pressure to the wound around the murder weapon. That was your mistake. The first thing you should have done was disappear from the scene, but something inside you stopped you.
And the gloves? You wore them on purpose. You didn't want to leave fingerprints when you investigated the area and the apartment, but luckily they helped your case because your fingerprints weren't on the knife.
As you spoke, you started moving your right leg up and down; a well-known sign of anxiety, and in these situations, it suited you to appear as someone who wasn't in control of certain parts of their body.
“I know I shouldn’t have been there…” you say, swallowing hard, tears welling in your eyes. “But my friend, Stacy, asked me to pick something up for her… she didn’t want to see Kevin again,” you say, referring to the dead man. “So I did… but I… I didn’t…” you break down, easily. “I didn’t kill him.”
Mixing truth and lies was easy. You didn't kill anyone, and it was true that you were doing a friend a favor, although Stacy wasn't her name and you weren't a completely innocent damsel in distress; your intentions weren't entirely so.
“I know what it looks like,” you whisper, sniffing. “But I didn’t kill him… and I have no way to pay you back, but… but I need help.” You look at Matt. “Please… I didn’t kill anyone, Matt,” you say, in that pleading tone you always did so well.
You noticed something change in Matt's posture; it was momentary, barely a second, but that was enough for you to notice. It was on purpose; of course, saying his name in that tone was deliberate.
“Don’t worry, we’ll help you,” Matt says, not letting Foggy intervene.
You ignored Foggy's expression and, inwardly, couldn't help but smile at the thought that your little saint was still as good as he had been in the past.
Your two beloved saviors managed to get you released after you spent a night at the police station. You had no criminal record, and it wasn't as if any of the officers had filed charges, so your temporary freedom was guaranteed.
You and Matt didn't speak more than necessary, just a normal greeting with a comment that hinted at nostalgia. He let you go back to your apartment to rest, and you didn't want to talk to him too much either; you would see each other again because the case wasn't over, and part of you wanted to pull on that small thread that existed between you.
But now wasn't the time; you still had something to take care of. For your friend, you promised to help her.
The alleyways, rooftops, and guttering of Hell's Kitchen became your playground with ease. The night was your friend, helping you jump, slip, and run without a trace. You didn't consider yourself a hero; you helped others now and then, specifically the most vulnerable women—perhaps because they reminded you of your mother, your younger self. But you weren't a vigilante, you weren't a hero, and you never would be.
It was easy to move in now that you had the right gear, your suit and the hood that gave you a certain sense of personal security. When they caught you, you were overconfident; you weren't even wearing your suit at the time. You weren't planning to steal anything then, just to scout the place, study the placement of the furniture, the windows. It was stupid, but now you knew you couldn't push your luck again.
You found what you were looking for where your friend had told you it would be; whoever had wanted to kill Kevin (the bald idiot, according to your friend) hadn't found the pretty ring that now lay in your grasp.
It was heavy, the gleam of the gold could blind, but it didn't draw everyone's attention thanks to the precious gem at its center: a diamond, a blood diamond, no less. How many innocent people had died for such a trifle? It wasn't your concern, but it gave you satisfaction to know that someone like you could take it so easily from someone like Kevin.
You put the ring in the inside pocket of your suit, on your chest, so you wouldn't lose it amidst all the jumping, and you left without looking back.
You didn't want to spend another moment in that apartment. The carpet still had a large bloodstain, and there was something heavy in the air, something that made you uneasy. Usually, you were in control of yourself whenever you entered a place like this, but perhaps the murder that occurred changed things.
Jump after jump, you slipped through the bustling night of Hell's Kitchen with what you needed to keep your promise of help.
A feeling of unease lingered even after you landed safely on the rooftop of the apartment building where you lived. You knew soon enough, perhaps through some sixth sense that had developed over the years, that you weren't alone.
“I didn’t know you were a fan of mine now,” you say.
You turn around with a lopsided smile.
The heels of your boots clicked against the concrete roof of the building. They weren't high heels; you weren't stupid. But they were high enough to help you if you were in the middle of a fight (digging your heel in always surprised a thug), and because you liked the extra height they gave you.
“Mr. Devil, isn’t that you?” you say, knowing full well that he’s there. There’s no one else who could be so silent and agile as to follow you and you only noticed it now. “Sorry, Daredevil. Mr. Daredevil,” you correct.
You watch him descend gracefully from the water tank atop the building. His suit is red, perfectly outlining the body beneath.
Just like in the photos circulating online, the only visible part of his body is his mouth and that sharp jawline that evokes familiar feelings, but ones you wouldn't associate with the image of Daredevil.
It wasn't the first time you'd crossed paths with Daredevil, but your encounters were always brief. You never allowed yourself to linger longer than necessary because you knew your place and didn't want to provoke the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
Yes, perhaps you once or twice gave him a little help—a tranquilizer dart to some thug or leaving a door open somewhere he wanted to go—but that didn't mean you were partners.
Several times you managed to escape him the moment he realized you weren't just a vigilante.
You were a thief above all else.
No, you didn't steal from ordinary people, you weren't that kind of person. But rich people? Oh, that was a different story.
“You’re going to tell me what you went to do at Kevin Smith’s apartment,” he says. No, orders.
You smile briefly, then let out a fake sigh of tiredness. "Oh, come on, I don't think the man cares, does he?"
You shouldn't have said that. You didn't even expect such a silly comment to ignite his fury, but it did.
Quickly, before you could react, your body slams against the wall behind you. A gasp escapes your lips at the sudden impact, and your arms are trapped beneath the devil's strong hands.
“There’s a dead man,” Daredevil says, his fingers digging hard into your arms. “And you think you can joke about this? I thought you were smarter.”
You swallow, laughing a little nervously, but laughing nonetheless. “Yes, he’s dead, but I have nothing to do with it, darling, and nobody’s going to care what’s missing in that department. Believe me, it’s got plenty of luxury.”
Daredevil remains silent for a few seconds, you see him tilt his head to the side; that gesture, that tiny gesture, is incredibly familiar. You've seen it before, but years ago, in memories that now only fill you with youthful nostalgia at dusk.
His grip loosened, not enough for you to break free, but enough for you to notice. It's strange, you know it is, and you can't stop your eyes from drifting down to his lips, to his jaw. The stubble that adorns the only skin he reveals, those pink lips…
“Matt?” you whisper before you can change your mind.
He tenses up instantly and that's confirmation enough for you—plus, those seconds of uncertainty that attacked him serve you perfectly.
You drive your knee into his groin, fast and sharp. The strike doesn't do much damage—his suit takes most of it—but it disrupts his footing. It's all the opening you need. Tucking your legs beneath you, you throw your weight forward and manage to take him down with you.
You hit the ground on top of him and immediately pin him there, settling one knee between his legs and pressing down just enough to make your point.
“So the little saint was just a facade, huh?” you say, running your index fingernail along his jaw, or rather, you run a claw over him.
The nail lightly scrapes his skin. You use claws that help you both climb and tear enough to hurt someone.
“You surprise me, Matty,” you murmur, now in a lower tone and gripping his jaw tightly.
Matt's breathing is uneven beneath you, and you could almost swear you can hear the rapid beat of his heart—the same heartbeat you used to send into a frenzy when you were teenagers. The thought alone draws a smile to your lips.
“Bad, Matty, bad,” you whisper and press your knee against his crotch, against the hard fabric covering his balls.
You hear him choke slightly and that only makes your smile bigger.
“It’s wrong to follow someone at night, didn’t your dear nuns teach you that?” you say in a sugary murmur. He grunts at the comment, and you press your knee even harder, a whimper escaping him. Oh, he likes that. It hurts, but he likes it. “Tsk. Who would look at you now, Matty. Dressed like a devil and getting hard on a rooftop. Nuh-uh, bad, bad, very bad.”
You squeeze harder, enjoying watching his lips part slightly and a trembling gasp escape him; part of the protection in his suit prevents you from actually hurting him, but you're using force to elicit this kind of reaction. He can feel the pressure, he can feel your knee pressing against his balls.
At the same time, you dig your nails into the skin of his face so as not to miss a single expression, no matter how small.
You squeeze harder, enjoying watching his lips part slightly and a trembling gasp escape him; part of the protection in his suit prevents you from actually hurting him, but you're using force to elicit this kind of reaction. He can feel the pressure, he can feel your knee pressing against his balls.
You dig your nails into the skin of his face, not wanting to miss a single expression, no matter how small it was.
“I’m sure your dear God is watching us now and wondering: What happened to my dear Matt?” you whispered, your tone feigning prayer. “Oh, look at you now, Matty…” a soft laugh escapes your lips and you push your knee down harder, earning another groan from him. “You’re a bad boy, you disappoint me,” you whisper against his lips.
Your hair falls around his face, caressing the exposed part, and Matt could swear a shiver ran down his spine. Your scent is infused with an expensive perfume, a blend of cedar and something else, something more yours—wild herbs with a hint of cat fur, of course. It was you, it was always you.
The first few times he encountered Black Cat—you—Matt had smelled the strong perfume that clung to your body. It threw him off balance quite a bit, but now he knew it was just a disguise to hide your true scent—intentional or not—; you managed to slip away from him, to conceal who you really were.
If only you hadn't worn that strong perfume, maybe the first time Matt saw you he would have guessed it was you, but you were always the best at slipping through his fingers.
Now here you were, fearlessly squeezing his balls with your knee, causing him pain in his lower spine and a dark, aroused feeling. He liked it, the pain and the way you were practically on top of him, whispering how bad he was; scratching his face and hurting his balls. It was pathetic, truly pathetic.
The moment you moved your face a little closer, probably ready to mock him once more, Matt decided not to hold back: he pressed his lips directly to yours.
Lips against lips, teeth against teeth.
The swift union of his mouth with yours takes you by surprise, just enough to stop the pressure in his balls and allow Matt to seize the winning hand. It was easy for him to change positions: now you lie trapped beneath him, you're the one under Matt now.
“You really always liked pushing my buttons, didn't you?” He grunts and brings one of his hands to your hair, tugging and earning a moan from you. “You always thought you were so clever with your smart-ass comments…”
You smiled despite everything. In your youth, it was hard to break Matt's saintly facade, but now? Now you were facing the devil that had always lived inside him.
“Well, I'm a very smart person, so clearly my comments will be too…” you say and moan as you feel him pull your hair.
“Shut your mouth before I put it to better use,” he orders, and you almost managed to reply.
Almost because he smashed his lips against yours again, in the same way, with the same desperation and search for control that neither of you had anymore, especially him.
His tongue licks your palate as your sharp nails dig into the fabric of his suit, reaching his face again. You lightly scratch the skin there, and he groans into your mouth; he quickly returns the favor, biting your lower lip hard, sending a tingling sensation through your now-aching pussy.
Not even in your wildest dreams did you imagine meeting Matt again, much less kissing him like this and him kissing you back in the same way.
But there you are, using your nimble fingers to remove Daredevil's helmet so you can get a better look. You want to see his brown eyes, you need to, to see that darkness that was smaller in his adolescence and that Matt now lets out.
Matt settles more comfortably over you, straddling your legs, his on either side of yours, before firmly grasping your wrists and pinning them above your head.
Your heart races, filled with a sense of rebellion, freedom, and detachment from everything that's right in that moment.
Those heartbeats resonated strongly in Matt's ears, mingling with your soft gasps as he traced the skin of your neck with his tongue. His stubble tickled you, a sensation that faded as the moisture of his saliva replaced it, sending shivers down your spine beneath him.
“Fuck,” you moan as Matt decides to bite your neck.
It was a slightly rough bite, one you soon forgot when Matt decided to pull at your suit until the zipper snapped under his strength. Your scent and sweat are delicious to Matt; you were unintentionally sending blood rushing straight to his cock.
“You feel so good,” Matt whispers, running his nose along the skin of your neck and inhaling deeply.
You don't complain when he takes off the rest of your suit, nor when he efficiently sheds his suit enough to do what he wants—what you both want.
He's hard for you, hard because of you. Thanks to every action you took with him, intentional or not.
His movements are methodical; he knows what he's doing and how to guide himself. He's nothing like the boy you lost your virginity to; he used to be tender, shy, and awkward, just like you were back then.
The two people on the rooftop bear no resemblance to the teenage memories they both cherish. Now you're an adult, half-naked, under the watchful, methodical gaze of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
When you reach out to touch him, Matt firmly pushes your hand away and spreads your legs, settling between them. His now-ungloved hands roam over your hips, shamelessly tracing the contours of your body, as if memorizing them.
Finally, Matt lifts your legs to his hips, and one of his hands travels to your throat. He doesn't squeeze hard enough to suffocate you, but enough to let you know you're not in control anymore. He's in charge.
“You’re quiet now, kitten,” he mocks, squeezing lightly. “Where did your bravery from a few minutes ago go, huh? You were a different person when you were squeezing my balls without giving a shit,” another squeeze, this time hard, on your throat that easily makes you gag.
With his free hand, he reaches for the fabric of your panties. First, he runs two fingers along the slit where your wetness now hangs, testing the waters; it doesn't take long for him to forcefully tear the fabric, leaving your cunt exposed and your mouth slightly open from a gasp that escaped your lips as you felt him rip the fabric away.
“Those were expensive panties,” you say, panting slightly as you feel Matt begin to rub his cock against your wet folds.
You want to watch, you want to see how the pre-cum-covered tip of his cock slides through your folds, mingling with you, but the hand on your throat prevents you from taking your eyes off him, of his face.
“I hope you bought them and didn’t steal them,” he replies, and you see a lopsided smile appear on his face.
Before you can answer, Matt steals your breath again and plunges his cock completely inside you. Without warning, without any more foreplay, he simply decides to smash his cock deep inside you.
“Is this what you wanted, hm?” he says, licking his lips. “You wanted to be fucked stupid?” Matt murmurs, keeping your body pinned against him and the rooftop floor. “Come on, say something bratty now, bitch, huh. I dare you,” he says in a tone that almost makes you gasp. “Or should I say kitten?”
You arch your back at the sudden sting of being stretched without preparation, but it's not unpleasant; it's a vivid sensation, teetering on the line between pain and pleasure. A line between darkness and light, one you've always enjoyed crossing.
Matt lets out a whimper as he feels the heat of your body mold around his cock. He can hear your ragged breathing, the sound of your pulse hammering against his palms like a trapped bird. Tonight, there was no such thing as a saint; the week's exhaustion and the exasperating perfection of your demeanor had pushed him to the limit. He had truly believed you were innocent, and he knew that, in part, you were.
But you were still you, and you needed to play with life's morality.
Matt wants to drown your cheeky wit with something far more primal. This is revenge for you leaving him years ago, for disappearing like so many others in his life without a word. He needed to delve deep inside you to quell the raging demon within.
As he thrusts into you, the friction is electric, a searing sensation that clouds his senses, leaving only you and his hunger to possess you.
You can't stop the gasps and moans escaping your lips, your breath ragged, and the weight of his hand around your throat keeps you captive to his control, to his movements, to the deep plunge of his cock forcing its way into your now-filled cunt.
“Look at you…” Matt says, growling slightly. “You’re a liar, aren’t you? You love to lie, to lie to me…” He gives you a hard, deliberate thrust.
You arch your hips to find his; what he gives you isn't enough. You want some control, some movement that comes from you, not just him. Your hands roam over his arms until they both rest on the hand that holds your throat. Your fingers dig into the skin there, scratching, tearing, so he can feel the burning and the pleasure at the same time, just like you.
You can't help but let out a breathless laugh. “Little saint, who would have thought you could fuck like this under the watchful eye of your God, huh?” you mock, despite the way your voice trembles, you manage to do it.
Your eyes sparkle with a certain mischievousness characteristic of you, and you throw your head back as Matt thrusts his hips forcefully; a strong thrust, one that you felt deep inside you.
“I always knew there was a brute hidden inside you,” you manage to say between gasps, as your legs tighten around his hips. You pull him deeper, even deeper, your nails digging into his hand and forearm.
Matt's jaw tenses, a mocking smile appears at the corner of his lips.
“A brute? Seriously?” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice becoming a dangerous, husky whisper. “Then let’s see how much of this brute you can take before you start begging God for mercy.”
It doesn't surprise you when Matt increases the pace of his thrusts: stronger, more rhythmic, and brutal. Each one steals your breath, and you can't help but become a bundle of whimpers beneath the hand that tightens around your throat.
The sensation is wonderful, the way his hips slam against yours, the slap of his balls against your skin that makes your toes curl.
Matt shifts position and grabs your wrists, pressing them against the cold rooftop floor. His brown eyes are darker than usual, and you could almost swear they were fixed on you; you knew he was incapable of seeing you, but you remembered enough to know that Matt was looking at you in his own way. Everything about him was focused on you, everything.
And Matt desperately wants to feel the moment your courage finally crumbles, when you stop making shitty comments and surrender completely to the pleasure only he can give you.
So he brings your wrists together, holding them with one hand, and with his free hand, he cups your face the same way you had before, but without digging his nails into your lovely skin. Instead, Matt places his thumb on your lips and forces you to suck on it, the same thumb that, now wet, traces its way down the valley of your breasts, your abdomen, the curls of your pussy, all the way to your clit.
“Matt!” you moan this time without restraint, without smart-ass comments.
The sudden pressure on your clitoris makes you tighten your legs around him and makes your moans more frequent.
“That’s it… let me hear you,” Matt groans, his voice hoarse and authoritative.
The bastard knows he has you right where he wants you. He can feel every fluctuation in your heartbeat, every shiver, every tightening of your body. Matt is reveling in the way your vaginal walls grip his cock tighter and tighter.
He's basking in how your bravado melts into soft moans, uninvited whimpers, and steady gasps.
Matt feels the wetness of your arousal envelop him completely, making it easier for him to thrust. He knows that if he keeps this up, he'll come inside you, and that's not what he wants—he wants to finish inside you, but he doesn't want to do it before you. That would be a sacrilege he couldn't bear.
He fucks you harder, deeper, feeling the rhythmic contractions of your walls tightening more and more. “That’s it… give it to me, beautiful,” he moans into your ear, while his hips have a lethal rhythm and his thumb rubs and pinches your clitoris with the help of his index finger without any problems.
“Fuck…” you whisper between moans, now more needy. “Matt… please…” you beg. You beg for him.
You hear Matt gasp as he feels you getting closer, the wet heat of your pussy contracting in perfect sync with his thrusts. You can hear the wet, rhythmic sound of your bodies colliding; the friction sends shivers down your spine.
Matt doesn't hold back, and you're grateful, because all you want in this moment is to reach orgasm around him.
His cock plunged deep inside you, burying itself against the back of your cunt as he sought to fill every inch of your available space. The scent of your fluids mingling with his rose, an intoxicating cocktail of sweat and musk that fueled the desperate hunger of the man fucking you like there was no tomorrow.
Your breathing became increasingly uncontrolled, your now-free hands going to his arms for support; you didn't care about digging your nails in there, there was no time to analyze anything, you just wanted to pull him closer.
“Matt…” you moan once more, your voice tense and sensual, making his blood boil.
Matt's hands grip your hips as he tries to anchor himself to you, keeping your body exactly where he needs it to be so he can keep fucking your pussy the way you both discovered you liked. He feels the wetness of your clit brushing against him with each thrust, the friction creating unbearable tension.
One of his hands slides down your abdomen to your breasts, his thumb grazing a hardened nipple as he thrusts into you with relentless force.
“I’ve got you,” Matt moans, letting his head fall onto your shoulder, his lips brushing your ear. It’s a delight to be able to hear every gasp, every moan and whimper he lets out just for you.
You felt your muscles tense, the unmistakable sign of the climax you were about to reach, and you knew he was aware of it too. Matt increased the speed of his thrusts, the friction between you creating a hot, sweltering heat.
“Let it go, give it to me, sweetheart,” Matt whispers, panting against your ear. “I know you have it, just for me, right? You’ll stop being a disobedient bitch and give it to me, won’t you?”
That same tone makes you a wreck beneath him, completely letting go of the reins and coming all over Matt's cock.
As you orgasm, Matt lets out a muffled whimper, his own body tensing and trembling. He penetrated you so deeply one last time, his cock throbbing inside your wet heat as his semen spills inside you, filling you with a hot, thick torrent.
Silence doesn't reign between you because your short breaths are the only sounds you hear. Or at least, that's what you hear, because Matt can hear every tiny sound involving you: the rapid beating of your heart, the throbbing of your satisfied cunt, and the squelching sounds of the mingled fluids inside you and around him.
Your legs tremble, and Matt's hands, once rougher, caress your thighs from top to bottom as you loosen your grip around his hips.
You don't make a smart-ass comment like you usually would; you just let your body relax beneath his.
Matt is warm, his body hot against yours, whether from the sex you just had or because, unlike you, he's wearing more of his suit.
That leaves you even more breathless. The intensity of the sex was so intense that you couldn't even process that Daredevil had just fucked you, still partially in his costume, on the rooftop of your apartment building. It was surreal.
You swallow hard as you close your eyes for a moment, just long enough for Matt to cup your jaw in his hand, forcing you to pay attention.
“I know you didn’t kill him,” Matt whispers, his voice still husky. “But you’re still… you, aren’t you? You can’t help getting into trouble, crossing the line. Was it all because of that ring?” he says against your ear. It sends shivers down your spine again, but it’s impossible not to; you’ve got him soft and buried deep inside you.
For a moment you had forgotten the ring, you had forgotten the whole affair that brought you both here, that brought you back to Hell's Kitchen, but soon Matt's voice draws you back to him.
“You disappeared, you left me…” You feel him smile against your ear. “It won’t happen again.”
It's a warning. Matt is letting you know he won't let you slip through his fingers again. And perhaps, this time, you wouldn't try to escape.
notes: here we are! the truth is, this ended up being longer than i expected, but that's because i couldn't figure out how to do the ending right, and… well, i kept going over the same thing. this is a one-shot, not a series, so I decided to stop dwelling on it.
i still have my doubts about writing sex scenes, but i hope at least someone enjoys it.
if anyone reads this, i hope you liked it and enjoyed reading it! i appreciate comments and reblogs. <3
18+ benjamin poindexter is big, needy, and pathetic.
at first you were afraid of what bullseye can do.
you didn’t know benjamin poindexter, but you knew of that other side of him. the blood on his hands that he acted like didn’t exist or just didn’t care to dwell on. how capable he is of destruction that it followed him everywhere he went.
but then he met you.
well, first he followed you. he found your address and place of work. found your parents house and your coworkers husband who stared too long at you when he picked up his wife.
dex watched you walk home from afar because someone should make sure you’re safe, right?
but you’re attentive and when he starts to get closer, you notice him. he’s not hard to miss, all that muscle mass and that deafening stare. you lock eyes with him at the grocery store. then, at your local coffee shop when he lifted his hat and visibly gulped. he finally builds up the courage to talk to you then and buys you a cup of coffee, plus some sweet pastry because he knew you hadn’t eaten yet, even though you didn’t tell him.
though when he slips up that the gym by your house is nice, you just knew.
“did i mention i lived around there?” you blink at him.
his smile reaches his eyes, crinkling beautifully. “i believe so.”
calling his bluff and inching closer, you press on, “i believe you’ve been following me, Benjamin.”
everything in his face drops and his expression falters. “no… i just—i saw you and i thought,”
“—it’s okay,” you smile, lifting your drink and sipping slowly. eye’s glued to his as they began to soften. “i can learn things too. really interesting things officer.”
he blinks hard, “i didn’t tell you about my job…”
“and yet? you’d be surprised how much information you can find online.”
the words die in his mouth and he’s left dumbfounded and speechless. still, he stays and he asks for number. you give him it. you could ask him to anything and he’ll say yes or soundlessly change the odds so they’re all in your favour. it’s not coercion and it’s almost worse than obsession, but the control is all in your hands. he is at your beck and call willingly.
so when he you’re mad at him, he doesn’t know what to do. he just falls apart.
“please,” he begs over the phone, “i’ll be good i swear. i’ll stop fighting just let me come home.”
from his tone you could tell he was just done crying and it just sounded pathetically beautiful.
“this is not your home. this is my house.” you coo as you stir your dinner. “stop calling me dex.”
you hang up without listening to the rest of his pleading. though less than 10 minutes later, he’s at your front door, begging again.
“baby,” eyes red and puffy, “i need you, i can’t breathe without you. please, please, don’t cut me off again, just—” he breathes as he ghosts his arm by your shoulders like he’s asking for permission. “can i please stay?”
you sigh and let him inside the house. he silently walks in, muttering a quiet thank you as he passes you. as soon as you close door and turn, dex is already on his knees.
“what the hell are you doing dex?”
dropping to his knees, his hands caress the backs of your thighs, dropping his head and burying it between them. gripping you tightly like he could bare letting go. “please take me back. nothing is good without you and it’s making me fucking sick, please,” practically blubbering at this point.
he was so strong and his biceps wrapped around you effortlessly. you could feel the strength just radiating off of him always, like an ever glowing essence.
you sigh, hand touching the nape of his neck and travelling up through his hair while he hums in contentment, “please stand up.”
the sound that he makes was teetering the line of desperation and relief. his lips press against the plush of your thigh while his hands rise to cup your ass. with your hand still buried in his hair, you pull him up with a slight tug, trying to get him to stand. though he keeps slowly rising, kissing up your side and dancing over your stomach, the fabric rising with every movement. a soft gasp escapes your lips and his touch slides up your spine, a shiver running through you. he stops just by your neck when you tug his hair harder and he hisses your name though one would argue it was a moan. you shove him gently and tell him to sit down, though you knew he could’ve stopped you.
you tend to his wounds and wipe his face and he watches you the whole time with puppy eyes. you share your dinner with him but you don’t touch again then, he only steals glances between bites.
within the span of an hour he’s inching closer to you on the couch and he’s watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. no one really cares about the news playing on the television as it repeats something about the AVTF.
his heavy hand rests just under your chest as he pulls you in and buries his nose in your hair, taking a long deep breath in. memorizing your scent like it gave him life.
by the end of night dex is situated between your legs, groaning like it hurts to part from you. he whispers soft thank you’s like he’s grateful for this meal you’ve provided. pushing your legs up higher over his head while you pant and squirm. but dex takes more control then, ignoring your pleas to slow down and dragging you closer to his mouth. maw slack and relentless as he laps and teases. his strong arms wrap and hook around your thighs. tongue teasing the sensitive bud for what felt like eternity. you’ll push his head away to no avail, weakly spent as you attempt it.
“dex, enough. i can’t,” you pant, voice bordering on barely concealed exhaustion and blissful satisfaction.
he shakes his head against you and that only makes you gasp again, throwing your head back.
“not until you promise hmm?” he says between his drunken moans, “you can’t leave me.”
crying out from overstimulating pleasure you nod, “okay, fuck— i won’t. you can stay.”
looking up at you through his hooded eyes, he smiles with them before kissing your inner thigh. he leaves gentle kisses to let you cool off, letting the feeling subside for barely a minute before diving right back into his ministrations. he lets you squeeze yours legs around his head and writhe as you say his name.
“now really try to suffocate me with these,” he says as he squeezes your thighs harder around his neck, turning his head to bite the plush of your thighs.
you know you’ll let him in again. you’ll always let him come back. maybe one day you’ll tell him how you follow him too.
can you tell i just rewatched the whole show again?
18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol
summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)
a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…
“No fucking way.”
It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his.
And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that.
Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred.
The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.
Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him.
Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him.
Not like you.
So, rash girl that you are, you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.
“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”
His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”
Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.”
Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping.
“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”
“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”
Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully.
“Well, then, enlighten me.”
Enlighten me.
You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”
You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.
Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”
One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.
“Yeah,” you manage.
“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”
“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.
“Well—yes?”
“Okay. Yes.”
“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”
As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”
It takes you a second.
To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips…
Oh.
“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”
Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.
“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.
“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”
He’s grinning wide. “Because?”
“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..”
Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!
“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”
“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!”
You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan.
“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”
“Worse? How is that worse?”
“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.”
Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.
A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.
Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are. In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”
His head tilts fractionally.
“Sorry?”
“It’s all fiction.”
“Being good at oral is fiction?”
“Yes.”
“As in, not real?”
“Yes.”
Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.
There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful.
“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”
“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”
A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!
“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.
“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.
“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.
“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”
You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.
“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”
“Oh God.”
“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”
“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”
Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.
“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”
“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”
“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.
So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage:
“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”
Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.
“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”
You blink. Fuck.
He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just…
A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?
“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”
But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.
He’s… crying.
That made him cry?
No way. You’ve never seen him cry before.
No, no. He’s wheezing.
From laughter.
“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”
“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”
“You walked into that one again.”
“That’s not funny!”
.
Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though.
Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it?
That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.
Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.
An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.
But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest.
The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants.
Which is clearly how you see him.
So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much.
Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to.
Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect.
He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard.
Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.
Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.
“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”
Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak.
“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”
“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”
He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”
“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch.
“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”
He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.
Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”
But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”
Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?
Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate.
He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.
No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.
Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.
“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”
Matt tilts his head.
“I’m a virgin too.”
Oh?
That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it.
He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.
“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”
You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you.
“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”
“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”
“Dick.”
He smiles.
You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”
Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”
You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.
“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”
“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”
You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.
“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”
Right.
Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.
He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.
“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”
“Just do it once—then it’s over.”
“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully.
“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.
“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.
The issue, of course, is that he’s hard.
Hard and sweating and stuck.
If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now.
Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.
You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.
“You okay?” you murmur.
He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”
“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”
“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”
Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.
Christ, Matt. This how you do it?
He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking.
But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.
His thumb strokes your side.
“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”
You nod before your brain can even catch up.
“…Okay.”
For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.
And then his mouth is on yours.
The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.
There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful.
Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—
It jerks, slipping sideways.
You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.
“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure.
It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.
“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.
“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”
You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment.
Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below.
Jesus.
But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.
“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.
Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help.
Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.
“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.
He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”
“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”
A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.
“Yeah?” you breathe.
“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”
“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.
Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated.
His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.
“Wait. Wait—”
He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”
“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”
It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—
“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”
You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”
His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now.
“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.
Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.
You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”
His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”
Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching.
You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.
It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.
“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”
For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.
That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”
At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely.
“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”
And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.
Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”
“Not really.”
“They expensive?”
“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”
“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply.
RRRIP—!
Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum.
“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”
“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”
His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”
“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”
Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop.
But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?
The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.
He should stop.
“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”
Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.
“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts.
You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.
And Matt’s losing it.
He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.
His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.
You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”
His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.
And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him.
You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.
It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough.
“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”
“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”
As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.
Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.
“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”
And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.
The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.
The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.
Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor.
Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.
“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”
And if your hand causes you to sin…
“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you.
Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.
“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”
You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.
Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”
“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience.
He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.
Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.
But how can he refuse you?
“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”
You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.
You do no such thing.
“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”
Need you, Matt.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”
You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief.
God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven.
No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…
Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.
Then he’s pushing forward.
Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.
“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”
You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.
“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”
Hurts.
Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.
If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—
But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.
The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.
As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.
Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.
“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.
“What’s unfair?”
Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.
“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”
Christ.
Matt swallows.
This girl is gonna be the death of me.
“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles.
“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.
“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”
Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.
“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”
The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.
“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—”
But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.
The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.
“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.
“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”
“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”
But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.
He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.
You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.
“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—”
Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.
His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.
You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.
“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”
Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.
And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.
Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.
Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…
Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good.
“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.
It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.
“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.
He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.
And then he does it again.
And again.
And again.
Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.
“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”
As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.
“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”
Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.
One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.
“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.
The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.
“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.
He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.
Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.
By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—
He can’t.
He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.
And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.
…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor…
It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.
…not in the passion of lust.
Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?
He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.
As long as he doesn’t come inside you.
That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.
But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther?
He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.
“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”
But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”
And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.
“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.
It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.
And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.
Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.
Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.
Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.
Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely.
His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.
The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.
“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.
“Yeah.”
Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”
The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”
Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters.
“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”
“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling.
Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”
“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”
“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”
There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck.
A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”
“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.
“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”
You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.
“We should probably get back to studying.”
“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”
“You’re the one who made me more behind!”
His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”
You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.
For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.
The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.
“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly.
“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”
Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”
“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”
There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.
“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”
“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”
summary// you ended up realizing that making clark your lab rat would simultaneously be the best and worst decision of your relationship.
content warning// conditioning, mating press, doggy style, nasty filthy sex, creampie, clark is feral, clark has an alien dick, clark swears, improper use of x-ray vision, kryptonian breeding kink, squirting, clark is pathetic
2k words whew
with clark kent fucking you like that, you don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
.
on monday, on the evening, you decided that you could begin your sick little experiment of conditioning on clark. after reading an article about it online, you wanted your alien boyfriend to be your lab-rat for it, and saw no apparent downsides to the experiment, so you went on with it.
starting with the trigger, you decided for it to be a duck emoji. weird enough for clark to be confused, not too weird for it to have him worrying like the sweetheart he is. ten minutes before you arrived home after work, you had sent him a singular duck emoji with no context or follow-up to it, which, as expected, had your poor clarkie as confused as ever. you smiled when he immediately texted back with ‘???’—success. as soon as you arrived home, you barely let him finish his questioning before pouncing on him, interrupting his sentence with a kiss he welcomed with open arms.
that night, you rode the man to the moon and back—gave him such mind-numbing pleasure that he couldn’t even bother to remember his previous confusion about the duck emoji.
and so, with the first day being a success, you repeated the process.
every day following that one, you would do the same thing—no texts or news all day, a duck emoji ten minutes before coming home, mind-blowing sex.
after a few days of repeating the process, you began to space out these encounters, opting to send the duck emoji every two to three days—a great way to keep the man on his toes, anticipating, waiting for the next time you'd send him that emoji.
then came the most awaited experiment—your greatest mistake.
it was on a friday night that you had decided tonight was the night. you had sent clark the usual duck emoji, smirking as he had immediately seen the text. however, when you arrived home, it wasn't like usual. usually, upon sending the emoji, you'd pounce on him and drag him to the bedroom. tonight, however? radio silence. well, not quite, but that's it felt to clark. you didn't give him those bedroom eyes you usually did on nights you were feeling particularly needy, you insisted on taking a shower all by yourself (he almost crumbled at that) and after dinner, you lounged on the couch to watch a tv show without even asking him to follow you! you just did!
the thing about clark kent is, he's a gentleman through and through. his ma had raised him to be one, and for christ's sake, he was superman! how could he not be a gentleman? but, he sympathizes with himself, you can't spell gentlemna without man, and clark was a man before he was anything else. a very aroused and hopelssly in love man, at that.
he stands awkwardly in the doorway of the living room, staring at you. you noticed, of course, but this wasn't unusual. clark has always had sort of weird quirks—you had always found them endearing. "is something the matter, honey?" your sirupy voice cut through his stream of thought, and suddenly his eyes focus again, gaze meeting yours.
clark has his phone in hand, and he brings it up to look back at the duck emoji you had sent. duck meant sex. you wanted this. he can indulge. you want this.
he knows you do. you sent the text, and he feels like he can almost smell your arousal and it's driving him fucking insane because he just wants to dive in it and taste it and fuck you everywhere so the entire place smells like you and-
in the blink of an eye, his phone is abandonned and he's on you, lips smashed against yours. you barely have the time to react but you do, arms now hanging around his thick neck. his hand latches itself onto your cheeks, fingers pressing into both of them, urging you to open your mouth. as soon as you do, his tongue, which was inhumanely long, snaked into your cavern, exploring its depths. he moaned at the taste of your saliva, almost melting into you as if the flavor of you was his ultimate salvation.
noticing the lack of air filling your lungs, he pulled away, his eyes softening at the sight of you catching your breath. "c-clark... what's... whta's gotten into you?" you licked your lips, face flushed. he looks at you like a puppy begging for its treat. "the emoji... you sent the emoji but you didn't... i thought..." his mind is a rush, moving at a thousand miles per hour as his entire body is begging him to rip your clothes off and take you.
he gives up, his head falling into the crook of your neck. "i just... i really need to fuck you, sweetheart." and as he's confessing this, his hand is gliding towards the waistband of your bottoms, sliding swiftly underneath it.
you think you could ascend.
you bite your lip, rendered mute at the sheer tension of the moment. "i know you want it, baby..." he scoffs, eyes closed. "can smell it."
curse him for being such a dangerously hot and multi-abled alien.
his hand makes its way underneath your panties, finger running through your slit, collecting the slick you've been trying to keep to yourself for the past hour. "ah..." you let out a low sound, almost imperceptible but clark was so hyper-focused on you that the little moan made him shudder.
he uses his forearm to push himself upwards, his hand escaping your bottoms to rush up to his mouth, and when you look at him, you gasp, feeling your walls clench.
because clark has never looked this feral.
his eyes were half-lidded and impossibly dark, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows your juices, eyes nearly rolling back at the taste. he moans, his cock twitching and growing inside his sweatpants.
"you're gonna give it t'me, right sweetie?" he asks in that low, sultry voice that he only allows himself to use when he'd rather die than not touch you.
the eager nod you gave him marked the moment you knew you were done for.
.
how long has it been? you don't know. you don't know anything, actually. your brain is fogged with how clark was pounding you into the fuzzy carpet, your eyes crossing when the buds running along his dick grazed against the ridges of your walls, the added sensation making you spasm. "f-ffuck-! clark- oh my god, ohmygod—" you can barely form a sentence, let alone link two words together when he knocks at your cervix, your tits bouncing in rhythm with every thrust.
and clark isn't even listening to you, his eyes laser-focused on the sight of his cock splitting you open repeatedly, a vein bulging on his forehead at his intense use of his x-ray vision. "look at that, b-baby... look..." and you don't even bother, too lost in the ecstasy. he sees it all though, the strings of your arousal clinging to his tip every time he pulls away, the ridged of your pussy hooking onto his buds, the contractions of your muscles.
he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the sight, only to be met with the even prettier, albeit messier sight of your fucked out face. tears and drool glossed your skin, your eyes rolled back nearly to the back of your skull, throwing your head back when clark's hips stutter against yours, a white-hot wave washing over him over the sight.
he stilled when his buds hardened and hooked onto your walls, pulling him impossibly deep as he shoots buckets worth of cum deep into your womb. "a-ah! holy sh- hmm, fffuck, baby- i- fuck!" he sobs, jerking down towards you and you moan at the feeling of him filling you up once more, droplets of his sweat dripping onto your buzzing skin.
despite his orgasm, he doesn't stop, "n-need m-moree- needa fill you up-! ah, fuck!" his voice jumps up an octave when his buds finally relax again, allowing him to keep pistoning into you. "d-don't stop, clark! please dont- oh-!" he suddenly grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders before beeending down, succesfully folding you in half. his face is now slotted right in front of yours, and the eye contact is so intense you almost feel shy under his gaze.
a mating press. clark kent had you in a fucking mating press.
you get lost in his ocean blue eyes, barely able to keep the eye conatct when he fucks you almost like he hated you, digging in your pussy. "you're... you're so beautiful, honey... so fucking pretty- all f'me, yeah? all f'me?" you nod, hands pressing against the back of his head to bring him impossiby closer to you, "all for you, clarkie," you confirmed being hastily pressing his against you, imprisoning him in a feverish kiss. clark moans into your mouth, eyes closing. you jolt slightly when you feel a tear drip down on your cheek, peeling your eyes open to see clark crying.
he pulls away, gasping for air as his throat restricts. "i l-love you, love you s'much— need you so, ngh, so bad... wanna breed ya'..." he sobs, whimpering for you. seeing clark become such a slave to his love for you had an inescapable effect on you, and your orgasm was almost immediate. you came with a gasp, the pleasure being so heavy that your eyes had given up on their function, unfocusing and leaving you with the blurry image of clark's flushed expression. your back arched as cream dribbled out of your hole, creating a white ring around clark's base.
in the midst of your orgasm, he pulls out, making you whine for the few seconds your face isn't smushed against the carpet because in a matter of moments, your world tilted before you found yourself face down ass up for your boyfriend. he pressed a hand on your back, urging a deeper arch. "m'sorry baby, m'so sorry..." he apologizes for the his unceremonial behavior but his apologies fall on deaf ears as you couldn't be happier.
your hands clutch the fluff of the carpet when he slams back into you, kneading the flesh of your ass. "just... just need this. s'your fault for making me wait... so long.. to have you- ngh, gosh..." he's hypnotized by the rippling of your ass, and the way your back bends impossibly for a second each time he rams back inside you, pressing you further into the carpet.
with clark kent fucking you like that, you really don’t think you’re making it out alive.
well, your fault for trying to experiment on a poor, farm-grown kryptonian.
your moans are rhythmic, matching the pace of his hips. leaning in, he wraps an arm around you to squeeze your tits, massaging them and rubbing your hardened nipples. "so obedient..." his comment makes your walls flutter around his fat cock. he begins to roll his hips, not quite thrusting. he presses against you, making you drool. "nghhh... fffuuuck... love you... so much.. c-clark-!" you slurred, going crazy at the sensation of his buds hardening slowly again, hooking onto your insides.
"w-want your cum-! want you to b-breed me!" you egged him on, "yeah? y'want it, baby? oh gosh, i'm cumming, m'cummingm'cumming-" he gritted, spilling into you once more. "oh my god! oh god, sweetheart!" he whined, your name escaping him as his hips bucked again, releasing rope upon rope inside you. his orgasm triggered yours, drops of your release trickled down onto the carpet before his hand snaked down to your clit, rubbing furiously and suddenly an intense stream released itself onto the now soaked carpet, the intensity of both of your orgasms making the two of you collaspe in a heap.
he layed on top of you, both of you catching your breaths. "i feel so... sticky." he remarked, "shit... i ruined the carpet." you groaned, knitting your eyebrows together.
a silence settled in, before you broke it. "i'm glad my experiment worked." a beat passes before he reacts, "experiment?"
"i tried conditioning you into associating sex with the duck emoji. it worked."
clarks hums, choosing not to react any further.
a few days later, minutes after the end of your shift, you receive a text from clark.
⋆˚࿔ fucking you slow after overstimulating you ⋆˚࿔
ִֶָ🪽་༘ p in v, yes slow, deep penetration, creampie, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dex pinning you down with his body weight yayyy
dex’s got you crushed under him with his whole body heavy and hot, pinning you so deep into the mattress you can barely breathe right. his cock’s still buried so deep inside you, and when he starts moving it’s this slow, nasty drag that makes you feel every ridge, every swollen vein, the way he’s already so thick from wrecking you three times before this.
he pulls out until it’s just the fat head stretching your entrance. everything was leaking out, your slick and his cum sliding hot down your thighs in a sticky mess. then he sinks back in, inch by inch, shoving all that length right back inside you. your gasp punches out when he hits that spot again, the one that makes your toes curl and your nails dig hard into his biceps without you even realizing. dex stays right there, grinding his hips so his pelvis rubs your oversensitive clit, and the noise that rips out of you is broken, needy, almost embarrassing.
his mouth’s all over your neck, open and sloppy, sucking bruises you’ll definitely feel tomorrow. his grip on your hips is bruising, fingers trembling like he’s fighting the urge to just pound you senseless again. so before he fully loses control, he gives you another one of those slow, devastating thrusts that makes you clench around him like you’re trying to keep him there.
“come on,” he growls low against your ear, voice rough and strained, “just take a little more for me, yeah?”
he keeps going like that. slow, deep, deliberate. all you can focus on is the way his cock drags against every sensitive inch inside you. every thrust pushes more of that sticky mess deeper, fills you until you’re overflowing and the sheets are ruined beneath you.
when he finally comes again it’s with this low, guttural groan muffled against your shoulder as his cock pulsed hard while he pumps another thick load deep inside. yet, he doesn’t stop moving. just keeps fucking it back in, slow and deep, like he’s got all night to make sure every drop stays right where it belongs. and well... you know that he is not stopping anytime soon. poor you.
༊ — STEP-BROTHER. roman was desperate for the one girl he shouldn't want—his step-sister—but when has roman ever cared about doing something he shouldn't?
༊ — cw .ᐟ 18+. 1.6k words. smut. dead dove. non-con. step-cest. dacryphilia. somnophilia. porn with no plot. slapping. unprotected p in v. spitting. creampie.
༊ — notes .ᐟ please refer to this post before getting angry in my inbox about this one. <3
you were forbidden fruit, and roman was fucking hungry.
you had to know—not like roman was ever subtle. trapping you against the kitchen counter whenever you walked too close, peeping on you in the shower whenever you forgot to lock the door. you must have noticed the amount of panties you'd lost since moving in to the godfrey estate.
you had to be teasing him on purpose, there was no way in hell you weren't. the bite of your soft lips, the begging him to stop when he grabbed a fistful of your ass, the tears forming in your eyes when he told you all the disgusting things he wanted to do girls, just never mentioning it was you he was talking about.
roman owned everything inside the estate, and in his mind that included you—his sinful looking step-sister.
and your stupid fucking father was too busy eating up every lie olivia told him to ever notice the perverted ways of his step-son. all alone in the estate, with no one but yourself to protect you from the corrupt hand of your step-brother.
roman didn't care—if anything, the nature of your relationship turned him on more. he was sick, twisted in his thoughts of you. and roman wasn't willing to stop before he got a taste of his sweet little sister.
the house was empty, not that anything or anyone would have stopped his plan once he was in motion. roman had spent the last twenty minutes palming himself through his boxers at just the idea.
his feet were soft against the wooden floor as he walked, his steps quiet as he approached your room. the morning sun peeked through the windows as the door of your room opens.
you barely stir, eyes still closed as the brunette pads across your room. roman stands at the foot of your bed, eyes darkening as surveys your sleeping frame.
blanket barely covering your body, tiny sleep shorts and sheer shirt covering perky nipples that have roman's cock twitching in his boxers.
he's slow as he moves, body climbing over yours. knees either side of your hips, bed shifting under his weight. but you don't wake.
his big hand wraps around your wrist, bringing your hand to his mouth—lips wrapping around your digits, before dragging your hand down his bare chest.
roman's eyes are nearly falling back into his skull, at just the sight of you like this. so soft, so vulnerable—so his. his hand still wrapped around yours guides you over his boxers, biting back moans as the sweet little hand of his sister palms him.
and you hum. in your sleep, a soft pout forming on your sleeping lips and roman nearly loses it. you're enjoying it. even unconscious, you're just as desperate for him as he is you.
he drops your hand, letting it fall to the bed without worry as his own trail up under your shirt. pushing the fabric up to pool around your neck, lip between his teeth as his hands start to grope and grab at your chest.
squeezing your nipples harshly between his thumb and fingers as your brows furrow, and eyes slowly starting to flutter open. roman couldn't give a fuck that you were waking up, in fact he wanted you to. needed to watch you give in to his perverted desires.
"roman, what are—please—"
you struggle, but his hands are quick to pin your hands down either side of your head.
"stop—roman—stop—" you continue, hips pushing up in a desperate need to get him away from your body. but the action only causes a smirk to form on his lips.
"knew you wanted me just as much as i wanted you." he taunts, holding your wrists together with one of his hands—the other returning to your exposed breasts.
spit and drool drip from his mouth, coating your chest. his hands sliding over you, groping at your body as mumbles of complaint continue to fall freely from your lips.
his hand trails down your body, dipping below your shorts. fingers sliding between your folds, wicked smile on his face as he feels your wetness.
"you can protest as much as you want," roman sneers, fingers rubbing harsh circles around your clit—eliciting moans from you that can't help but fall. "but you're fucking soaked."
dark blush washes over your cheeks, attempting to hide your face from his view. the act almost impossible as roman stays pinning you down to the bed.
"tell me you want me," he demands, fingers not letting up in speed. eyes almost black with lust, as he pushes your wrists further into the mattress. "tell me how badly you want your step-brother to fuck you."
"roman, please—" you beg, tears welling up in your eyes—from your embarrassment, your shyness, not your lack of want. almost the opposite.
"tell me." he interrupts, as his fingers below your shorts push two digits into you. your back arching up at his touch, jaw slack—unable to stop the moans of pleasure escaping you.
"please, romey—need," you whisper, that sickly nickname dripping from your tongue that makes roman twitch behind the small amount of fabric covering him.
"need, what?" he pushes, watching as your face contorts. hips bucking up to meet his fingers, angling the digits deeper within your walls.
he's winning, and he's all too fucking smug about it. can feel it in the way you clench around him, brows furrow in pure want—how you're not fighting him anymore.
"you," you whimper, head falling back—neck exposed, and shy. "need you."
it's mere seconds before his hands are ripped from your body, discarding the clothes from your body before removing the boxers on his own. your arms move over your face, soft sobs of defeat fall into the empty space.
"don't cry, princess," he taunts, big hands spreading your legs as he positions himself between them. "big brothers gonna look after you."
roman pulls your arms away from your face, forcing your eyes to his. hand wrapping around his member, slapping his length against your clit. that evil grin unmoving from his face.
your cheeks tear stained and eyes puffy, pleading—but this time for him. for him to continue, to never let up until he'd had enough. to keep you trapped here until he was finished with you.
roman pushes himself in, bottoming out. he's big—bigger than you'd ever felt. the stretch aches, bottom lip trembling at the pure pain of it.
"take it," roman speaks, through gritted teeth. arms landing either side of your head, legs hooked over his knees planted against the mattress. "fucking take it."
roman fucks you at raw speed, skin slapping against yours in a way that was sure to leave bruises. you can't help the way your arms snake around his body, hands desperately grabbing at his back. clinging to him even in this moment.
nails dig into his skin, angry red scratches left in their wake—only spurring him on. his eyes can't decide where to look, watching himself disappear in and out of your body. flicking up to your face—admiring the way you're falling apart under him.
"wanted this little pussy for fucking years," he grunts, emphasising his words with each thrust. "been dying to ruin you."
your bottom lip puffs out, pouting up to him above you. tears still forming on your waterline, roman could bust at the sight of it. the tight clench around him, your soft hands pulling him closer to you.
"s'too big, romey—" you whimper, sharp nails digging into the flesh of his back.
"stop fucking whining." he spits, with a sharp slap against your cheek.
the skin stings—growing red and raw almost immediately, lip between your teeth as you hold back pained sobs. god, he wants to keep you here like this forever.
your bedroom door still open, moans and screams of pleasure and pain echoing around the house. unable to consider the pure shame that would follow if anyone dared walk into the estate.
"such a good girl," roman almost coos, and your face softens. oh. you liked that more than you were able to let on, but he could tell. "taking me so good."
"yeah?" you murmur, all doe eyed and needy.
"hmm," he hums, nodding his head as one of his hands dips between your bodies. rubbing rough circles around your bundle of nerves, body growing slick with the speed he hasn't let up.
"taking your big brothers cock so well," roman speaks, voice rough and breathing growing heavy. his vulgar words make you clench—in a way that makes you blush. pouting at him every time that reminder comes.
your chest is heaving, breath coming out in short pants and roman can tell you're close. his hips somehow moving quicker, harsher as he chases your orgasm. desperate to be the one to get you there, to see you unravel below him.
your back arches, moans echoing around the room as he feels the tight clench around his length. fucking you through your orgasm, and he knows he's never letting anyone see you like this ever again.
this sight is reserved for him, and him only.
his body collapses onto yours, arms tight around your waist as he chases his own edge. face nuzzled into your neck, wet open mouthed kisses tickle your skin. hips jackrabbiting into you, groans muffled against your skin.
"fuck me—" he groans, loud and pure animalistic as he forces his come inside you. holding himself there, bodies slick and sweaty as he lays on top of you.
"romey," you whisper, after a few minutes of silence, voice still soft and scared.
he finally slides out from you, leaving behind his orgasm within you. smirking as he stands, watching himself slowly drip down onto your perfectly pink sheets.
"don't tell your dad," he threatens. "or do, i don't care. gonna keep fucking you anyway." and you can tell my the look on his face, he fucking means it.
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